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Post by Gordis on Jun 14, 2008 21:26:00 GMT
Chapter 21. Losses and Gains
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Fortress of Carn Dum, Kingdom of Angmar. Early morning, November 6, 1347
Written by Angmar
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During the previous night, Alassar's sleep had been interrupted by disturbing dreams. Several times he awakened to find himself trembling and drenched with sweat. When the feeble light of the winter dawn peered through his window, he was wide awake. Alassar, foremost of the King of Angmar's counselors and a gifted sorcerer, was not a man who was frightened easily, but these dreams had puzzled and alarmed him.
While many dreams were to be discounted as of little consequence, some were fraught with signs which, when analyzed by an adept, could shed light upon the future. While nothing terrible in themselves, when taken with other signs which he had observed in the entrails of the sacrifice of the day before, his dreams were harbingers of dire events.
"What do these dreams presage?" he asked himself as a servant helped him dress. "Nothing good, surely." In his most vivid dream, he had stood upon a high, lofty mountain above a plain where grew a crop of ripening wheat which had swayed as the wind blew across the stalks. He saw a lone falcon, a female, soaring unchallenged high above the earth. He had watched her graceful flight and marveled at the beauty of the bird. A small speck appeared in the northern sky and began to grow steadily larger until it became a cloud which filled the heavens. As it grew closer, Alassar recognized the vast number of dark shapes for what they were - ravens. The black cloud of birds drew closer to the falcon, screaming out their harsh cries.
As his dream unfolded, the mass of ravens engulfed the tercel in their midst, obliterating his view of the scene. As thunder crashed and boomed, great bolts of lightning cut through a sky streaked with red. When the vision finally cleared, the ravens had vanished and the tercel flew away unharmed. As the sun came out from behind the clouds and shown upon the field, a stag ambled into the field and began to graze upon the wheat. Then, rearing up in the midst of the wheat field, a gigantic red bear growled and roared, frightening the deer away into the forest. Alassar could see that the beast grasped a loaf of bread in one paw as he tore off chunks and ate them.
Puzzled and unable to comprehend the meaning of the dream, Alassar barely listened to the trivial conversation of his valet. Before he had finished dressing, the counselor received a summons from His Majesty to go immediately to his private chambers. When Alassar arrived, His Majesty did not wait for the usual civilities, but went directly to the point.
"Alassar, you know already, do you not?"
"Know what, Your Majesty?" The counselor was startled at the question, for even though he had been with the King for years, he was always awed by his amazing displays of foreknowledge. "I know nothing with any degree of certainty. I can base assumptions and calculate possible outcomes based upon my observations from the auguries of yesterday evening. That, along with certain vague premonitions which can neither confirmed nor denied, is about all that I know." He looked up as a servant set a goblet of wine before him.
"You are far too modest, Alassar... you had a dream, did you not?" The King sounded mildly amused.
From the moment that the counselor entered the room, he had sensed that the King's mind sought entry into the depths of his thoughts. At first, the mental probing was no more than a gentle nudge, requesting admittance. Then as his brain had yielded information, the probing grew stronger. As the King attained total access, it seemed to Alassar that his mind was an open door through which information was freely exchanged. The counselor had no desire, of course, to deny His Majesty the sanctity of his mind, for all who had sought a high position with the King were expected to yield their total being, and that included their every secret. The honor and privilege of His Majesty's favor far outweighed the loss of privacy. Consequently, the granting of even a shred of his arcane knowledge was beyond the value of the greatest treasure. Alassar enjoyed his high position.
"Aye, Your Majesty, a strange dream which puzzles me," Alassar admitted as he looked to where His Majesty sat across the table. "Shall I tell you?"
"I already know," the King chuckled.
Suddenly uncomfortable, the counselor shifted his position in his seat and clutched the stem of his wine goblet. Alassar coughed nervously. "Then, Your Majesty, can you tell me the meaning, for I am perplexed?"
"The meaning is quite simple, Lord Alassar. The tercel represents the Princess, while the ravens represent the company which was sent to capture her. The field of wheat is Rhudaur, the stag is King Tarendur, and the bear stands for Broggha and the Hillmen."
"But, Your Majesty, what does it mean?" Alassar leaned forward eagerly.
"Princess Gimilbeth has escaped our net, and her kidnappers have mostly perished in the attempt. The King is weak and ineffectual, and his resolve will crumble with this new attack upon his authority. The only one who will gain any advantage will be Broggha, who is clever and wily. He and his Hillmen will use this turmoil in the Kingdom to further their own ends." The King lifted his own goblet and sipped at it sparingly.
"But, Your Majesty, I am still confused. Does this dream portend good or ill for us?"
"Great good." A slow smile crept over the King's face, and the thrill of victory tinted his eyes a rosy hue.
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At the site of the ambush, morning of November 6, 1347
Written by Gordis
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Exhausted as she was, Gimilbeth still slept little this night. The autumn wind howled outside her tent and it seemed to her that hundreds of orc voices joined in the hellish choir. The scratch on her neck ached, although it looked like there was no poison in it.
Unable to sleep, Gimilbeth rose well before first daylight and washed her face and rinsed out her mouth yet again. Yesterday she had what amounted to a full bath, but somehow she felt that no amount of washing could ever cleanse her of the lingering orc reek.
Her thoughts wandered back to Cameth Brin. Many there would feel only joy and relief upon learning of her death, certainly the Queen and all her brood, as well as the lords of the Private council... Only her father the King would mourn her, and Gimilbeth's heart filled with warmth for the old man. On an impulse, she found a piece of parchment and her writing implements and sat down on a low stool under the oil lamp suspended from the pole of her tent to write a note to Tarnendur.
My dear Father,
I decided to send you this short note to assure you that I am alive and well, and safe for now.
Yestereve we have been attacked by a large company of orcs. They have been repelled - but our losses are dire. It pains me to tell you that both our kinsmen, Gwindor and Elvegil, have fallen like heroes, defending me from the orcs to their last breath. We have also lost Guramir, Maldor from Aglardin and my poor page Lammir. Please, send my condolences to their families, and to Lammir's parents in especial. Tell them that Merendil will be bringing their bodies back to Cameth Brin for burial.
Please inform Edelbar's parents that their son remains unscathed. All the survivors praise his courage.
As for other losses, Merendil will give you the full report upon his return. As far as I know, we lost about 30 guards and both wagon drivers, one of them dead, another wounded. Merendil sends 40 men with me to Amon Sul, although now, when we are within direct sight of the Palantir, orcs are unlikely to repeat their assault. I hope to reach Amon Sul safely.
Your loving daughter,
Gimilbeth
Having sealed the letter, Gimilbeth stepped out of the tent into the blowing storm. The heavy clouds overhead were rushing to the south, faintly illuminated by the first pale shadow of daylight. The campfires hissed and smoked trailing sparkles in the wind. Near the biggest campfire Gimilbeth spotted the large figure of Merendil - the Captain was already up. Gimilbeth approached and hailed him.
"I need a messenger sent to the King," she said coldly, showing him her letter. "After your last dispatch he must be in a great worry that I wish to assuage as soon as possible."
"But, My Lady," Merendil replied, "the men are exhausted and the horses even more so. I will return to Cameth Brin quite soon myself and I will report to the King."
"Nonsense" Gimilbeth countered sharply. "Just pick the best rider among Brochenridge men and give him one of the surviving horses of my escort. We have been going at a leisurely pace, so the horses are still fresh. The rider will be back to Brochenridge this evening and there Lord Ormendur will send another man to Cameth Brin. In three days the King will get the message, while you and your men are bound to be on your way a whole week, burdened as you are with the bodies."
Merendil grumbled for some time, but Gimilbeth remained adamant. Finally the Captain sighted and ordered Dimloss to send the swiftest rider to Brockenridge with Gimilbeth's letter.
Gimilbeth thanked the Captain and turned to leave, then suddenly stopped.
"Merendil," she said, "I just remembered something... Has anybody seen my ..." she trailed off.
"Seen what, your Highness?" Merendil prompted
"Never mind" Gimilbeth sighed in exasperation. "I better ask Barund."
Merendil explained where the Brochenridge scouts were camped. Gimilbeth found Barund near a campfire, sound asleep. She had to shake the man twice, before he finally sat up and looked at her.
"Barund," she said, hoping that the dim light would hide her flush. "Has anyone seen my skirt - the one that the orcs tore away and discarded?"
Barund blinked. "No, my Lady, I don't think they have. But I can go ask them, if it is important."
"Please do! You know, I have had some ... valuables in the pocket. Jewelry, to be precise."
"I understand, Lady. I will be back shortly." Barund got out of his bedroll and disappeared in the gloom.
When he returned, he only shook his head sadly. A small party of scouts was sent to the mire where Gimilbeth had been rescued, but, well after the sunrise, they have returned - empty-handed.
Gimilbeth sighed. Elessya, the wondrous green necklace, the most precious heirloom of the house of Dauremir was irretrievably lost.
After a meager breakfast - Merendil's men had little food with them - the camp was broken and the company divided. Dimloss was left on the spot of the ambush with orders to bury the dead, guard the corpses of the nobles destined to be taken back to Cameth Brin, and search the surrounding area for remaining orcs. Gimilbeth's depleted party started the short travel to Iantbarad by the Last Bridge. Merendil decided to accompany Gimilbeth as far as the Last Bridge with all the Cameth Brin men and Barund's men. After having nearly lost the Princess, he was still worried about her safety. Moreover, at Iantbarad, he planned to find wagons to transport the bodies back to Cameth Brin and to order simple sturdy coffins. Some of the corpses were literally hacked to pieces, many decapitated, and Merendil wished to return the bodies to the grieving relatives in a seemly fashion.
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Old Orc camp at Pennath Toreg, Trollshaws, night of November 8, 1347
Written by Angmar
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The march back to the old camp in Pennath Toreg had been accomplished in good time with the five men making 50 miles in two days. On the way there, all the men had been edgy, fearing that the Rhudaurians were so angry and vengeful that they might follow them. When they reached their camp, all of them were breathing easier. After Corporal Boshok put the men to work setting up camp, he checked the cache of supplies that they had stored when they first arrived in the Trollshaws. Nothing had been disturbed. At least they would not have to worry about what they would have to eat. The men would have plenty of dried food and orc draught, along with extra weapons which would more than take care of them on the journey back to Carn Dum.
The corporal allowed the men to build a campfire, for the air was raw with the nip of winter. They could rest here for a day or two and wait for any stragglers to catch up with them. Corporal Boshok would feel a great deal more comfortable if he had more than four men with him. The trail back to the fortress was a long one, and though he doubted it, there was always the possibility that they might meet a Rhuduarian patrol.
A thick wool cloak wrapped around his shoulders and a leather cap lined with fur on his head, Private Saakaf was at last warm for the first time in days. As he sat on a log and warmed his hands at the campfire, he looked around at the other soldiers. Not one of them, not even Corporal Boshok, had a cloak as fine as his. Two years before, he had come upon the camp of a Rhuduarian dispatch rider. He waited until the man had gone to sleep for the night, and then he had stolen into his camp, slit his throat, and rifled his body. It was then that he had come into possession of the prized cloak. An orc had to be able to think and learn to live by his wits if he wanted to survive in this harsh world.
Under the cloak was a thick woolen shawl, woven of orange and red with shades of green, trimmed with long red tassels at the edges. It had belonged to a Rhuduarian woman whom he had surprised one evening at her small farm when her husband was away looking for a stray cow. He had raped her, taken her jewelry - which consisted of only a wedding ring and a locket with a miniature of her husband inside - and all the food that he could carry. He always thought of her with a sense of longing, for she had been a very lovely lady. He could not bear to kill her and so he had left her alive, crying on the bed that she shared with her husband. As he had looked down upon her, an emotion approaching guilt came over him. This alien sensation did not last long, and he quickly dispatched the feeling into the dark recesses of his mind. Still he could not help feeling something resembling pity for her, and before he had left, he covered her with a blanket. He always kept the shawl with him, for he fancied that even after all this time, it still retained her scent.
Saakaf looked up to see the Corporal staring down at him. "Get some sleep, Saakaf. Private Bidroi has first watch; you have second. While I don't think that there's anyone on our trail, keep a watchful eye just the same. We don't want to let our guard down and find ourselves surprised."
After Boshok had left him, Saakaf found a place to sleep within the radius of the fire's comfortable warmth and spread his oilskin on the ground. He covered himself with his cloak and the shawl. The addition of the green woolen blanket would keep him warm until it was his turn of picket duty. He had taken this fine blanket from a traveling peddler whom he had beaten and robbed a year ago on a lonely Rhudaurian path. Saakaf knew how to provide for himself, and provide well.
As he lay under his thick coverings, he took a neatly folded section of fine material from his pouch and unwrapped it. The ornate cloth would have been a treasure enough itself, for it had been the ripped skirt of Princess Gimilbeth and was perfumed with her scent. He remembered the night that he had found the scrap abandoned along the trail. He had concealed it in his pouch, later thoroughly inspecting the cloth when he was alone. Then when he had unfolded the material, he discovered inside it a rich treasure concealed within a secret pocket. He held it up before his face and saw a wondrous green necklace that sparkled when he held it to the firelight.
Waiting for his turn at guard duty, Saakaf kept the necklace concealed under his covers as he rubbed his fingers over the stones. He marveled at the the skilled work of the jeweler who had cut the gems, the fine craftsmanship of the setting, and the artistry that had turned out a masterpiece of rare and costly worth. "I must never let these dogs know that I possess this treasure! Boshok is a boot licker, always trying to curry favor with the higher ups. He would take this necklace away from me in a moment, and upon a return to Carn Dum, he would present it to His Majesty, hopeful of a grand reward. He will never get it!"
Saakaf clenched the necklace in his hairy paw. "I will show all of them! I will bury it somewhere along the trail, and then when I find my chance, I will come back and dig it up. Then I will make tracks to my clan in the Misty Mountains, where I will be safe among my own kind!"
Saakaf had barely fallen asleep when he was awakened by the picket's shout, "Who goes there?" Quickly, he thrust the necklace inside his tunic. When he learned that the disturbance was caused by the arrival of eight members of the company who had limped back to the camp from the ambush, he turned over on his side and fell asleep. He would find out more about them when it came his time for picket duty.
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Post by Gordis on Jun 14, 2008 21:27:25 GMT
Chapter 22. The Magick Blade
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Fortress of Morkai, kingdom of Angmar. Morning of November 6, 1347.
Written by Gordis
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The small town of Morkai was bustling with activity this morning. A crowd of curious onlookers gathered in the courtyard of the fortress and in the neighboring streets to have a look at the mysterious prisoner that the Captain Hyarion of Shedun was bringing to Carn Dum.
Most uncanny rumors had spread over the town last evening after the procession of weary travelers had filed into Morkai and stopped for the night in the New Fortress. Some said that the pale straw-head prisoner was a spy sent to murder their good King at Carn-Dum. Some even went as far as to call him an Elvish spy, though everyone knew that Elves never really existed, but were just a tale for small children. The list of weapons found on the assassin had much grown in the telling and one drunken trooper had told a story of the magic harp that killed anyone foolish enough to touch its strings. Whether the Morkai citizens believed the story or not, they enjoyed the thrill it provided at the beginning of yet another long dull winter.
Their patience was soon rewarded. A tall man in heavy chains was led into the court and helped onto a horse. The hood of the spy’s grey cloak hung low, hiding his face, to the disappointment of the people who hoped for a glimpse of the monster. The crowd edged nearer.
One small boy in dirty tattered clothes threw a rotten turnip - it hit Agannalo in the back causing him to wince and to look up in disbelief. The crowd whistled and jeered. ”Kill the spy!” someone roared. A shower of missiles followed: more rotten turnips and carrots, even some stones.
Agannalo gritted his teeth and felt his patience melt away as snow under the cruel sun of Harad. Not that he ever possessed much patience... Knowing full well that he would regret it later, Agannalo hissed words of command in the High Tongue.
“Gaakh Bûrzum Motsham norkulûk!”
The pale grey morning light vanished faster than it had come. The colorless pall of clouds that was covering the sky suddenly seemed to descend - dark and ominous. Cries of fright went up as the people stared about them in befuddlement, not comprehending what was happening. Then a searing lightning illuminated the scene, followed by a great blast of thunder right overhead.
A great confusion followed with horses bolting and rearing and people running madly for their lives. In a matter of minutes the court was empty, but for the guards that crouched low to the ground covering their heads. Agannalo laughed - a harsh, cruel sound.
“Captain...Where is the Captain?” someone wailed.
__________
Translation: “Gaakh Bûrzum Motsham norkulûk!” - “Let The Ancient Darkness take them all!”
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Fortress of Morkai, kingdom of Angmar. Morning of November 6, 1347.
Written by Angmar
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Lieutenant Hyarion had spent an uneventful night in the chambers which had been assigned to him in the Morkai Fortress. He had half expected some new uproar from the strange prisoner, Silmadan, but from the reports which he had received, the scoundrel had caused no trouble. "'Jewel of Mankind,' he calls himself," Hyarion snorted. "He is nothing more than a thief and a would-be assassin! When he arrives in Carn Dum, he will find out the rich sport that His Majesty deals out to those who would kill him!" The thought of seeing the arrogant knave sufffering under the agonizing pain of the hot tongs made Hyarion chuckle gleefully.
After a leisurely breakfast with the fortress commander, the Umbarian officer returned to his room. He had not been able to take his mind off the peculiar glowing dagger which had been taken from the prisoner. Although the entourage would soon be leaving to resume the Northern march, there was still time for him to spare a brief look at the mysterious weapon. Walking over to his pack, he retrieved the knife and unsheathed it. He ran his fingers over the hilt and felt his hand grow cold. He remembered the vision which he had recently had when gazing at the blade. The patterns which had formed in his mind had been a dire warning of death. Though they were disturbing, he had concluded that they were merely warnings to the uninitiated. To one as knowledgeable in the craft as he was, the blade would be harmless.
He held the knife up and studied its luminous glow. "A sorcerer's blade," he smiled. "What strange powers does it possess? There must be some magic word, that once spoken, would unleash the powers." He needed only to discover that word, and the blade would be his to command. He began with a few simple spells in Black Speech, but other than growing a little brighter, the blade remained quiescent. He probed his mind for spells in Sindarin and Quenya, and even Adunaic, but there was no effect upon the blade. He would go to the language of the South, his mother's people, the wise ancient ones. Their sorcerers possessed great knowledge of the esoteric. He softly intoned the powerful spell. Still the blade was unresponsive.
"Blood!" he exclaimed. "These objects of great magic often require a small sacrifice to unleash their power!" He laid the blade down and drew his own dagger from his sheath. Quickly slicing across his left forefinger, he watched as crimson drops of blood fell towards the glowing dagger. As the drops hit the blade, they did not splatter upon the icy surface, but rather disappeared entirely. "It is as though the dagger is drinking it," Lieutenant Hyarion thought. He began to chant, "A shum dara ningak!" over and over again.
The glowing dagger had been warded by its owner with magic which Hyarion could never begin to understand. The magic surrounding the blade retaliated. He heard a crash of thunder and found himself being hurled head over heel through the air and then slammed against the far wall. Behind his eyelids he saw spinning stars and colliding planets arrayed across the heavens in a celestial display. Then the world went black. When he awoke, he discovered with shock that the slight wound on his finger was bleeding profusely. The price to pay for the hidden knowledge was well worth it.
"By the eternal Darkness," he moaned, "the spell was successful in freeing the potency of the blade! Now if only I can learn to control its magic!"
When he went to the courtyard below, he found his men cringing upon the cobblestone pavement. The sergeant of cavalry rushed up to him, gibbering some incoherent rubbish about "an evil storm... the prisoner..." Hyarion smiled enigmatically. Only he knew the source of the storm, and it was surely not the prisoner! He looked over to Silmadan, who was sitting quietly upon his horse and smirking.
"There will be order here!" Captain Hyarion barked out a sharp command. Shouting and cursing, his officers soon had the terrified men on their horses, and they were on their way to their next stop - the Bridge over Angsuul.
The small settlement around the bridge boasted a tavern, The King's Arms. The inn's cellar would provide a strong cell to contain the prisoner. Hyarion expected no trouble from him that night. After the usual nightly discussion and round of drinks with his officers, Hyarion looked forward to further experimentation with the blade. Perhaps tonight he would finally unlock all its hidden secrets.
--- "A shum dara ningak" - Empower blood magic, Sumerian
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At the Bridge of Angsuul, Kingdom of Angmar, night of November 6, 1347
Written by Gordis
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It was late evening when Hyarion’s tired company finally reached the King`s Arms Inn at the Bridge of Angsuul. The troopers filed into the common room, happy to be out of cold and snow, and the Lieutenant was given the best rooms in the Inn. He retired for the night, giving express orders to lock the prisoner in the cellar and to guard him well. Agannalo was led down a flight of stairs to the freezing basement.
”Still not eating, strawhead?” inquired the scarred one-eyed soldier assigned to guard Agannalo. “And not drinking either?” The guard shook his head disapprovingly and grinned, showing crooked yellow teeth, “Watch out, or there will be nothing but a wraith left of you when we reach Carn-Dum.”
The last statement made Agannalo smirk despite his bad mood. The captivity was taking its toll on the nazgul and the absence of subsistence caused this queer hollow feeling inside – not exactly hunger or thirst, but some vague dissatisfaction, some persistent yearning. Unfortunately, Agannalo was well aware that nothing that the guard could offer him could slacken his thirst. The ringwraith’s nostrils quivered catching the scent of the guard’s blood – both alluring and revolting... but mixed with the male’s scent more revolting than alluring – yet...
Something in Aganalo’s intent gaze must have unsettled the guard, for the man broke the eye-contact and roughly pushed the prisoner towards the low door of the cellar assigned for him.
“I wish you a cheerful night, weird one” the soldier jeered. “I reckon it is a tad cold in the cellar, but I am sorry to say we have no wenches to warm your bed.”
The mention of food and wenches made Agannalo hiss in frustration and clench his hands into fists as the heavy door clanged shut behind him and the key turned in the lock. It has been a long time since he last had a wench and drank warm red blood. Two weeks or more have passed since he killed this plump fool of a servant near Penmorva. He had so looked forward to reaching Shedun, promising himself a girl there, but one mistake brought his plans to naught. Here he was now - cold and hungry and weaponless - locked in a icy stone cellar of a roadside inn.
When would he be able to feed again? In Carn-Dum – maybe- if the Captain would deign to grant one of his female subjects to an old comrade. Or, perhaps he would be able to buy himself a slave girl, like he did so many times back in the East? But did they practice slavery in Angmar? Agannalo was uncertain.
Ever since the cursed Ring he received from Annatar had perverted his senses, Agannalo killed for blood - again and again. He was wary at first, taking infinite precautions to cover his tracks, but then, with time, he grew careless. The disappearance of a number of maidens in Numenor couldn’t have passed unnoticed. Soon the authorities became suspicious of the noble Lord Silmatan, and though the King’s cousin could not be accused publicly, Silmatan soon learned that the King’s patience had its limits. One fine day he got an order to leave Numenor for the colonies and never come back.
And so he complied, settling at first in Umbar and then moving further and further south, away from the accusing stares of his compatriots. There in idleness and debauchery he spent his long mortal life, until one dark and stormy night he simply disappeared without trace, leaving his palace filled with priceless objects of art and his many slaves behind. It was a fitting end to a sinful life - as everyone agreed, so King’s relative or not, nobody really looked for him in earnest. The invisible Silmatan made his way to Barad-Dur and the Dark Lord had got yet another of his nazgul.
Agannalo sighed, remembering the cozy South, where maidens were so easily acquired and men so easily fooled. Oblivious to the cold, he stretched on a bare stone bench and stared at the frosted ceiling preparing to spend yet another long night of his eternal life.
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Lieutenant Hyarion's rooms, King's Arms Inn Near the Bridge of Angsuul, Kingdom of Angmar, night of November 6, 1347
Written by Angmar and Gordis
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Lieutenant Hyarion had been well satisfied with his rooms at The King's Arms, which were, after all, the best lodgings in the entire inn. Even though the journey had had a less than auspicious beginning, there had been no serious problems since. Eager to share a few drinks and some conversation, the lieutenant had called his officers to his apartments to join him for supper.
The meal, served in generous portions, had been adequate but lacking in appeal. There were several soups - both asparagus and yellow split pea soup - both lacking in any flavor. The inn featured a number of vegetables cooked in various ways - red and green cabbage, beets, cauliflower, spinach, turnips and onions - all of which were overcooked and bland. The bread - both rye and white - was excellent, and there were cheeses, pickles and jelly and various condiments to add flavor, but the lieutenant was not one to be satisfied with bread and cheese.
Then when the servants carried in the main course on a great platter, Lieutenant Hyarion frowned. As the serving boy lifted the covering, Hyarion's eyebrows arched high. There before him was a boiled sheep's stomach stuffed with the animal's heart, liver and lungs, as well as onion, oatmeal, suet and spices. The smell was pungent. "The accursed cuisine of the North," he muttered.
"This is food for the lowly peasant's table, not the table of a lord and his officers! How dare you serve us tripe! Take this disgusting effrontery out of my sight!" He scowled at the lad who waited to serve him.
"Certainly, sir, immediately," the boy stammered as he nodded to the other serving boys to remove the platter. "There are several excellent main courses on tonight's menu. Please choose from any of them. The cook has prepared black pudding, which, as you know, is made from blood; there is some of that left. Then there is roast duck served with baked apples and prunes, liver cooked with onions; ham and sausage. For dessert, there is oat porridge, delicately flavored with nutmeg, cinnamon and honey, or you could choose this autumn's apples and pears."
"The duck, you will bring us the duck, boy, and for dessert, we will have the oat porridge," Lieutenant Hyarion grumbled.
After the boy had scurried away, the lieutenant, his face flushed, his tawny flesh reddened with his anger, turned to his officers. "This is what we have to expect here, so far from the south! Unimaginative, poorly flavored cooking! These clods misuse even the most delicate of spices, indiscriminately adding them to dishes which are too foul to be consumed by man. These rustics have no concept of what constitutes good cooking! When we reach Carn Dum, you will see a world of difference!"
After the officers had gone, the lieutenant, still disgruntled, considered retiring early with a bottle of the house's best Dorwinion wine to bring him some solace. He knew better than to request one of the inn's serving girls to keep him company, for they were as bland as the food. With a mutter, he actually lay down in the bed, propped his head back against the headboard, slowly sipping his wine as he looked at the flames glowing in the fireplace on the other side of the room. He was restless, though, and sleep evaded him. He turned back the cover, and climbed out of bed.
Sheathed, the magic dagger lay on a stool near his bed. He remembered the last time he had experimented with the strange blade. When a drop of his blood had landed upon the blade, the blood had disappeared. He had been convinced that that this event had sparked a fierce blast of thunder which had rocked the Morkai fortress, and so he was hesitant about further testing. He decided, though, to perform another experiment. He went to his baggage and took out a small, round piece of glittering crystal and walked back to the blade. This stone was one he used in his magic rituals.
Unsheathing the strange gleaming weapon, he touched the crystal talisman to the blade. Since he had just taken it out of storage, the crystal had been cool to the touch, but instead of warming to his hand, it grew gradually colder. Icy condensate gathered where the blade touched the stone, like frost upon a window. A pale mist rose up around the crystal as the mystic blade caused its surface to sublimate. Gasping in fear, Hyarion dropped the prism, and it fell to the floor, shattering into tiny pieces like a slab of ice dropped upon a stone.
The lieutenant was both frightened and mystified. "Blood touched to the blade disappears - the magic talisman breaks as it sends up clouds of mist. Yet I can draw no conclusions. Perhaps I should conduct one last test to conclude the series of three, the magic number. Perhaps that third test would unlock the secrets of this blade!" He knew that he was becoming obsessed with this blade. He found he was thinking about it more and more all the time - when he was riding with his troops, when he talked with his officers, when he ate, and when he slept, he had even begun to dream about it.
Holding the blade up to the light, his dilated eyes gleaming, his heart hammering in his chest, Hyarion watched the pale light undulating in luminosity, darkening and lightening as the light reflected off its surface. He must have the answer to its secret! He would summon the prisoner and see what information he could glean from that scoundrel. The knave probably knew nothing about the powers of the blade, for Hyarion was convinced that the arrogant thief had stolen it from some sorcerer. Still, perhaps under threats, he could intimidate him into telling the name of the sorcerer from whom he had stolen it.
A command to the guard stationed at his door soon had the prisoner brought before him. "You are not needed. You will be called when you are," Hyarion told the amazed one-eyed man who been guarding Agannalo. After the man left, the lieutenant turned to the prisoner. "Take a seat, Silmadan; I believe that was the name you called yourself. I have some further questions for you."
A smirk on his face, Agannalo nonchalantly sat down on one of the chairs and looked at the lieutenant. "I thought I had answered all of your questions before, lieutenant."
"You answered nothing, or nothing I would believe! You allege that you are the nephew of the king of Angmar, a story which I do not believe for one instant. When you get to Carn Dum, His Majesty will be able to separate the truth from the lies." He walked over to the stool where he had placed the unusual blade. Unsheathing it, he walked back to Agannalo. "Where did you steal this, you lying dog? I want the name of the wizard who owns it! Start talking, and tell me the truth, or I will promise you I will cut off your nose if you do not!"
Much amused, Agannalo reflexively touched the tip of his nose and narrowed his eyes at the gleaming Morgul blade in the Southron’s hand. Now that was going to be interesting! Hyarion’s curiosity provided an unlooked-for and welcome distraction from the sad musings that had assailed the nazgul down in the cellar. A slow smile crept over Agannalo’s face.
“So, you did not believe me when I said this blade was a present from my uncle?” he drawled, rearranging the folds of his cloak around his tall frame to make them fall down in an elegant cascade.
The Southron only snorted loudly in reply, his face gradually turning redder.
Agannalo sighed and shook his head disapprovingly –indeed the other never believed him when he happened to tell the truth! Well, now was the time to see whether Hyarion would believe lies more readily. Now was the time for the cat to play with the mouse…
“Well… tell me first, what do you already know about the blade? Have you been … ahem… experimenting with it?” Agannalo asked mildly.
“I know it is magical, you, knave!” the Southron shouted. “I know it gleams with its own light, I know it shatters magical stones, causes blasts of thunder and absorbs blood without a trace! The only thing I don’t know is how it is supposed to work!”
Agannalo’s left brow arched at the mention of thunder. Hmm… that was new. He managed to wipe the smirk off his face and nodded sagely at Hyarion’s words.
“I can’t say I know all about the blade myself…” he drawled. ”But listen to me -I will tell you the blade’s story.”
Hyarion was all ears. Agannalo’s voice acquired a sing-song quality, common for wandering minstrels.
“Far-far to the East in a dark stone castle on a hill there lived a wizard. The tribes around, both the Balkots, the nomadic barbarians, and the horse-lords of Rhovanion held the wizard in awe and in great esteem, for he helped them out sometimes, when it suited himself. The magician was hundreds of years old, it was said, and wizened by years, yet he had managed to retain the vigor of a young man, especially when it came to women. I heard his appetites were insatiable and his prowess in bed remarkable.
“Years in the Wide World passed, but not for the old man. Every full moon the nomadic barbarians brought a young comely maiden in tribute to him– never to be seen again. And every time a maiden disappeared, the old wizard seemingly got even stronger as if he fed on her life-force.
“About five years ago I happened to pass through these lands and I grew most interested in the old wizard’s secret. It so happened that at this time, the old man became enamored of a young maiden, the daughter of a Rhovanion noble, but the maid despised the wizard and had declined his advances. Now, unlike Balkotes, the men of Rhovanion do not sell their women, however high the offered price might be. The wizard tried everything: sweet promises, money, threats and blackmail, but still the woman he desired remained unreachable.
“Here was the opportunity I was waiting for. I went to see the wizard and we made a deal, profitable for both sides. I offered to abduct and bring the maid to him. In return he promised to teach me his spell.”
Hyarion leaned forward in his chair and drank in the nazgul’s words as the desert absorbs water. “And so, did you manage to kidnap the woman?” he prompted with gleaming eyes.
“Oh, that was not really necessary,” Agannalo replied nonchalantly. “I had only to smile and wink to her once and she became all too willing to elope with me. That’s how I have brought her to the wizard.” He laughed softly.
“Now the wizard was obliged to stick to his part of the bargain and to reveal his secret spell – but then again he had never planned to let me out alive to tell the tale…” Agannalo paused for dramatic effect. Hyarion was forgetting to breathe.
“He undressed the screaming maid and tied her to the bed. Then the wizard produced this very knife. Slowly and very carefully, as not to damage the blade, for it was quite fragile, he said, the wizard cut the maid’s neck and opened the blood flow. He poured the blood into a silver cup, stirred it with the knife and, chanting spells, drained it. Then, while the maid’s body was still warm and struggling, the magician occupied himself to defile her.
"Disgusted by such vileness, I managed to cut off the magician’s head while he was thus distracted, and took his knife as a memento.”
“And what about the spell?” Hyarion asked breathlessly.
“I have memorized it, of course,” Agannalo replied dryly. "But it is a powerfull spell - it won't do to utter it in vain."
The nazgul slowly rose and leaned over the Southron looking him directly in the face.
"So, Hyarion, will you find a maid to make a demonstration?"
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Post by Gordis on Jun 14, 2008 21:28:16 GMT
Chapter 23. A Maid for the Magick Experiment
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Lieutenant Hyarion's rooms, King's Arms Inn Near the Bridge of Angsuul, Kingdom of Angmar, night of November 6, 1347
Written by Angmar and Gordis
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Uncertain whether he believed the prisoner's tale or not, still Lieutenant Hyarion had listened to his bizarre story. Now the wretch was staring at him right in the face. "You mean sacrifice an innocent virgin to unlock the power of the blade?"
"Precisely." A slow smile uncurled itself on Agannalo's face.
"You are asking me to sanction murder!" Although he had absolutely no compunctions against murder, the repercussions of kidnapping a maid and killing her could be great. If her kinsmen had any suspicion that he was involved, Lieutenant Hyarion was quite certain they would hunt him down and kill him some hideous way.
"You wish to know the secret of the blade, do you not?" Agannalo taunted.
"Yes, yes," Hyarion said through gritted teeth. "But at the expense of some girl's life?"
"It is the only way the spell will work, but if you are not interested," Agannalo shrugged his shoulders.
"It is too risky," Hyarion grumbled.
"Then I suggest you call the guards so I may return to my cell." Agannalo started to turn.
"No, wait! I need more time to think before giving you my final decision."
"When do you think you might be able to make up your mind?" Agannalo asked sarcastically. It had been far too long since he had drunk human blood, and he was weak from thirst, almost overcome with cravings. He glanced at Hyarion's neck, but put the thought out of his mind.
"Before we reach Angoul, which should be in one day's time." Nervous at the inspection that Agannalo was giving him, he looked at him questioningly. "Why are you staring at me like that?" he asked nervously.
"No reason," Agannalo smiled. "I just think that we might be able to come to an understanding."
"Perhaps," Hyarion evaded. "But now you are going back to your cell. Guards!" he shouted. "Remove this man!"
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By the Angsuul river, morning of November 7, 1347
Written by Gordis
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Musing upon his choices Lieutenant Hyarion had little sleep over the night. The next day, prompted by the angry commander, the party set off early – before the first light. They had traveled a long way when at last the pale dawn came, revealing a dull white plain beneath the low pall of dark clouds heavy with unshed snow.
The road ran along the bank of the frozen Angsuul - all the way to the town of Angoul which they planned to reach in the evening. From there, the road would leave the river and start its winding climb into the foothills of the mountains of Angmar, where Carn Dum stood.
Agannalo tossed his head to readjust the hood of his cloak - a difficult task to do with hands chained behind him. With the hood more out of the way, he looked around. He squinted his eyes in puzzlement when he detected a movement on the glimmering surface of the river – some sort of vehicles were coming downriver, but he couldn’t make out what they were...
“Njamo’s muzzle! It must be the Lossoth!” one of the soldiers exclaimed. “Look like their sleighs glide on the ice! They go much faster on them bones than we do on horse hooves.”
Agannalo watched open mouthed as the Lossoth Party drew level with them. He saw the laden sleighs drawn by strong grey dogs - or were they wolves? A group of short squat brown-skinned people clad in embroidered skins followed. All of them had long flat bones of a whale attached to their feet and glided over the glistening ice with incredible speed and easiness. In all his long years Agannalo had never seen the Lossoth, only heard tales about them told in the South - and he discarded those tales as pure invention. In a matter of minutes, the Lossoth party left the mounted Angmarian guards behind.
“But what are they doing here?” another soldier inquired. “I thought they lived along the shores of the Ice Bay far to the west.”
Agannalo’s one-eyed guard, who happened to be native from Angmar, explained importantly to the others “The Lossoth never sit long in one place. In summer they go north, in winter they go south, and sometimes they come upriver – to the towns along the Angsuul to sell their wares – fish, skins, bones and fat of sea monsters, and often fancy leather garments and shoes their women make –all decorated with seashells they are. They buy things they need - wood mostly, but especially they value iron. ‘Tis very profitable to trade with the Lossoth for they are simple people. You can get quite a lot out of them for a steel knife – a heap of skins, or a couple of those dogs, maybe, or even a woman.”
Agannalo, who watched Hyarion closely during this short conversation, noticed that at the mention of a woman Hyarion suddenly grew very still. Then the Southron shook himself and barked the order to move faster - in the same direction as the Lossoth party had gone.
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By the Angsuul river, morning of November 7, 1347
Written by Angmar
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Their horses pressed to keep up with the swift-moving Lossoth on the river, Lieutenant Hyarion's party whipped their mounts to a faster pace until finally they drew abreast with them. A shout of "Hail!" brought the Lossoth to a halt, curious as to why a military patrol would have any business with them. Perhaps trade, they concluded. Their bodies covered with foamy sweat, their nostrils snorting steam with each breath, the horses were almost enveloped in a misty vapor of condensation, giving the scene a feeling of unreality.
Lieutenant Hyarion motioned for a corporal to ride up beside him. Aware that the man knew several of the native dialects, Hyarion enlisted his services as an interpreter.
"Sir, what do you wish for me to say?"
"Ask for their headman," he replied tersely.
A rapid exchange of words transpired between the corporal and the Lossoth until finally a man taller than the rest stepped forward. This man was wearing a more ostentatiously embroidered tunic of skins than the others, and around his neck was an elaborate necklace of seashells held together with leather.
"What did the savages say?" Hyarion asked, his nose wrinkling in contempt as he looked down at the Lossoth leader.
"Sir, as you directed, I asked to speak with the leader. His name is Arnaldr; he is the taller one in that fancy embroidered tunic and the fur cape. He understands Common, though, and said he would rather deal with someone besides an underling like me. A rather arrogant chap, I would say," the corporal muttered in Haradric.
"All right, at least he can speak Common. That is more than I can say for some of these barbarians." Hyarion frowned. He had always considered himself far above these backward people who drove whalebone sleds pulled by dogs and earned their livelihood by fishing and hunting. "Introduce him to me, corporal, and tell him that I have brought him a gift.. That always impresses them."
After the corporal had completed the formalities of introduction, the lieutenant directed an aide to go to the packhorse. There, the man fetched several beaded necklaces wrapped in brightly woven wool and presented them to the chief, who seemed delighted to receive them.
"Lieutenant, by the generosity of your gift, you have established that you wish to be friends with my people," the elder's wizened face beamed in a broad smile. "Have you brought things you wish to trade with us? We have pelts, furs, dried fish and meat, and the fat from the great creatures that swim in the sea. What do you need?"
"A woman." Hyarion looked the chief in the eye without the flickering of a lash. "I have brought valuable goods to trade."
"Oh, yes, yes," the chief bobbed his head up and down. "I understand. The nights are long, cold and lonely and you need someone to share your furs. That can be arranged."
Hyarion nodded.
"Is it important that the girl be very beautiful, or are you not particular?" Chief Arnaldr looked at him appraisingly.
"What is important," Hyarion's voice was cold, "is that she must be a virgin."
"That, too, can be arranged. My youngest daughter is a pure, innocent girl. I have had a number of offers for her, but no man of my people has enough to pay me. She is very beautiful, you know." Hyarion noticed that the old man's expression was sly, and he did not quite trust him. With so little time remaining ere they reached Carn Dum, he would be forced to accept whatever the old man was asking.
"Chief, I offer you a fine steel knife and another bundle of glass beads." Hyarion was not a man to be overly generous with money. He would try to get the girl for as low a price as he could, but he was sure that the old chief would rob him if he could, charging him an exorbitant fee.
Arnaldr shook his head. "Not enough."
"Two knives." Hyarion's voice was firm.
"No." The old man took off one of his fur-lined mittens and held it in his teeth. Taking out his knife, he cleaned his fingernails and ignored Hyarion and his party as though they were not there.
"Is there not some other maiden that I can get for a lower price?"
"You should have said that in the first place, Lieutenant." Chief Arnaldr wiped the blade off on his leather pants. "Yes, there is a girl, an orphan, who lives with my family. Her father was killed last winter when he fell through the ice. She is not so beautiful as my daughter. Pretty," he shrugged his shoulders, "just not beautiful."
"How much will you take for her?" Hyarion was annoyed. Whenever he looked at Agannalo, he thought the man was sneering at him. "The sarcastic devil," Hyarion thought. "He is enjoying my difficulties in obtaining a woman for him. If this blood ceremony does not give me the power to use the pale blue blade, I just might see that Silmadan has an unfortunate accident and never reaches Carn Dum. A little poison in his wine will soon end his problems."
The chief by this time had ordered the girl brought away from the sleds to stand beside him. Hyarion's breath caught in his throat. She was beautiful! Her face was not so brown as the men of her people, but rather a dark tan, almost the same shade as his own. She was short, aye, but petite, graceful and well-made. Hyarion resisted the urge to gape at her, but his eyes did travel the whole of her body.
"Three steel daggers and five bundles of beads - nothing less. If you are not interested, this discussion is at a conclusion." The chief put his glove back on and folded his arms across his chest.
"That is outrageous!" Hyarion wondered what the other girl who was reported to be beautiful would have cost.
The chief turned to go.
"No, wait, I will pay it!" Hyarion shouted angrily at him. Agannalo smiled knowingly.
The price was paid, the girl was placed upon a spare horse, and the entourage was soon trotting away towards Angoul. The maiden, who had never ridden a horse before in her life, clutched at the pommel and tried to stay on the animal's back. Looking over her shoulder, she watched as the chief cracked his whip over his dogs' backs, sending them bounding forward across the ice. Up ahead of her she could see the back of the grim man who had purchased her from her guardian. He was frightening enough, but she did not fear him so much as she feared the pale man who kept staring at her. That man had an evil air about him. Shuddering, she wondered what fate held in store for her.
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By the Angsuul river, late morning of November 7, 1347
Written by Gordis
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Agannalo witnessed Hyarion’s deal with the Lossoth chief with growing contempt. The nazgul never understood how anyone could be content with second best. He himself certainly couldn’t - ever. And now the Southron bought him a plain fish-smelling flea-infested diminutive morsel of a girl instead of the chief’s beautiful daughter!
Agannalo snorted and shook his head. He was lucky indeed that Halflings didn’t live in this land, or Hyarion, because of his avarice, would have bought him a virgin of that species - with hardly two pints of blood inside!
The thought of blood made Agannalo nostrils quiver. He caught a whiff of the girl’s smell - mostly fish oil and unwashed flesh, but mixed with those unsavory odors were the sweet feminine smell and the heady, intoxicating aroma of warm blood. Agannalo’s mouth watered and he unconsciously urged his horse forward, trying not to loose the elusive smell.
Surrounded by guards, the girl was riding in the middle of the party, a short way in front of the nazgul. Feeling the increasing pressure of Agannalo’s knees, his buckskin gelding drew level with the grey mare the Lossoth girl rode. Unfortunately, both the girl and the mare felt the nazgul’s presence at once. The girl turned her head and gaped at him, her pretty features contorted in fright. As for the gray mare, it suddenly stumbled, glanced sidelong at Agannalo, and then neighed and reared. The girl’s grip on the pommel slipped and she was thrown head over heels into the deep snow by the roadside.
Hearing the commotion behind, Hyarion barked “Halt!” and harried to the fallen girl. He dismounted and lifted the small figure out of the snow. Agannalo watched how he wiped the maid’s face muttering reassuring words in Haradic. “Are you hurt?” he asked over and over, first in the Southern tongue, then in Westron. The girl must have understood the latter, for she shook her head.
“No, no hurt” she replied and shyly, tentatively tried to smile. The smile, however, froze on her lips when she noticed Agannalo looking down at her with that strange, that horrible expression... as if he wanted to eat her, or worse...
Hyarion turned to the smirking Agannalo. “Do not come near her, you rascal!” he lieutenant shouted. “Guards, make sure the strawhead rides at the back of the troop. And the girl will ride by my side”.
Hyarion lifted the girl back into the saddle. “You will be safe, my beauty,” he reassured her. Agannalo rolled his eyes.
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Tavern on the road leading to Carn Dum, early evening of November 7, 1347
Written by Angmar and Elfhild
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After leaving the Lossoth that morning, the military escort had ridden east along the bank of the frozen Angsuul. The lieutenant had commanded them to travel at a far slower pace than what was normal for them, for the girl could not ride well. Agannalo, riding at the rear of the column, had bristled at this nonsense, as he considered it. He was thirsty, the need having grown now to an uncomfortable ache. What would it matter if the girl fell off the horse a few times if she still arrived alive at the next town?
As dusk settled over the land, Lieutenant Hyarion ordered a halt at a small, modest inn still several miles short of the town of Angoul they were striving to reach. Without even bothering to look at Agannalo, he had ordered his guards to imprison him in the inn's root cellar, where he had remained ever since in a cool, damp, musty chamber filled with bins of parsnips and turnips, and crocks of pickled vegetables. "How long will he keep me here?" Agannalo fumed to himself. He heard his one-eyed guard and others engaged in a lively conversation outside the root cellar. Agannalo knew what that meant. The guard and some of the other men were enjoying flagons of ale while they threw the bones.
"If he tries to break the agreement..." Agannalo's face contorted in a scowl.
Since taking occupancy of his lodgings in the inn that evening, Hyarion had lounged in a comfortable chair, watching an almost constant procession of the inn's servants pass through his sitting room. First it had been two stout lads who had carried a leather tub and buckets of hot, steaming water. "My lord," they had asked, bowing in awe at him, "where do you wish the tub to be placed?"
"Back in my bed chambers," he waved them dismissively into the room with the stem of his narghile. Next to ask admittance to his rooms was the innkeeper's wife, a large, buxom middle-aged matron with every hair in place and a cap atop her head. Following her were three attractive young chambermaids who carried trays laden with jars of soap, herbal fragrances, towels and cloths. As he lazily looked over their willowy forms, they dropped their eyes, blushed and giggled nervously as they saw the way his eyes gleamed.
"My lord," the matron curtsied and the three girls followed suit, "where is the young lady whom we are to bathe?"
"In there, mistress," he motioned with the narghile stem, and as they all passed, his dark eyes followed the movement of the women's hips, which seemed to sway even more appealingly under the influence of the floral scented smoke.
"I am finished with my smoking for the time. Take the pipe away, boy," he ordered his pipe-bearer. Hyarion knew that if he continued inhaling the narghile's smoke, he would become far too relaxed and could drift off to sleep. He had considered doing that, for ever since the girl had come into his possession, he had been beset with feelings of guilt, an emotion almost alien to him. If he allowed his mind to slip into a state of peace and complacency, he would be almost immune to her screams when Silmadan performed his dark ritual. He did not dare risk the chance that the prisoner would kill her... or perhaps even him if his mind was too hazy. Though the pipe had made him feel calm and relaxed, still his mind was clear. He did not trust Silmadan. Perhaps the scoundrel was telling the truth that if he provided a virgin, he would indeed show him the secret of the blade. Maybe he was lying and did not know the secret either. Perhaps he was nothing more than a madman with a bizarre tale.
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Post by Gordis on Jun 14, 2008 21:29:43 GMT
Chapter 24. The Spell on the Blood
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Tavern on the road leading to Carn Dum, early evening of November 7, 1347
Written by Angmar and Elfhild
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Inside Hyarion's bed chamber, a small drama was taking place. Elína, the Lossoth girl, held a stick of firewood clutched firmly in her small hand. When any of the other women approached her, she would lunge forward, threatening them with the weapon, coming uncomfortably close to two of the chambermaids' faces on several occasions.
"My dear, why are you so frightened?" asked Muinadaneth, the inn-keeper's wife, as she looked at her kindly. "No one is going to hurt you. All we want to do is help you take a bath. Would you not like that? A nice, warm bath?"
"No!" the girl wailed, answering back in Westron. "Too cold to take bath in winter!"
"But, my dear, Lord Hyarion, your new own-- new guardian, insists that you have a bath. Look at all the soap and fragrances he has provided. He is thinking of your welfare." Muinadaneth was trying to spare the girl's feelings by not telling her that everyone thought that she stank. Muinadaneth herself could hardly stand to be in the same room with her, and only by smelling the lavender-scented handkerchief that she kept in her bosom could she tolerate the stench.
"I care not how much soap there be! No take bath!" With a wild look in her eyes, she moved forward a step and shook the log at Muinadaneth.
"Well, I do not know what to do," Muinadaneth sighed in resignation. "I suppose that we will just have to ask for Lord Hyarion to come in here and reason with you."
One of the servant girls leaned over and whispered into Muinadaneth's ear loud enough for Elína to hear, "Maybe m'lord Hyarion will give her a bath if she will not allow us. I wonder how she would like that?"
The Lossoth maid's frightened eyes darted between Muinadaneth and the servant girl. "No!" the girl shouted. Dropping the piece of wood, she began to tug off her fur and leather clothing and drop it in the floor.
"Here, dear, let us help you with that," Muinadaneth said solicitously.
"No! Tark woman, stay away from Elína!" the now nude girl wailed as she jumped into the tub, sending water splashing over the four women and the room. Elína began to rub water wildly over her face and hair. "There, I done!"
"No, my dear." Muinadaneth's motherly heart had opened to this poor, lost waif. "Girls, show her how," she said kindly as she stepped back from the tub. The three girls soon were lathering the protesting girl's long, lustrous black hair as she screamed and cried. A bucket of rinsing water over her head had her crying even more frantically. Efficiently, the girls worked on with determination, and soon, even though the dresses of all of them were soaked to the skin, Elína's hair and skin were glowing.
"What about these, mistress?" One of the girls held her thumb and finger over her nose as she pointed to the pile of furs and leather garments which reeked of fish oil and sweat.
"Slip a stick under the bunch of them, take them out to the courtyard and burn them," Muinadaneth replied. "Ewww!" she wrinkled her nose. "They do smell!"
"But what Elína to wear?" The tears were pouring down Elína's cheeks and she gasped and choked upon them.
"Why, dear, don't think anything about it," answered Muinadaneth. "My youngest daughter has some dresses which she has outgrown. I have brought them along. I think you will find some which suit you. Now let me see," she stood back and surveyed her. "What can we do with your hair?"
Elína looked up at her uncertainly as the older woman began combing and brushing her wet tresses. Within an hour after the four women had entered Hyarion's chambers, Elína was gowned in a dark blue dress, her hair braided and wrapped around either side of her head in twin buns. The girl smiled as the others complimented her.
"Beautiful," Muinadaneth sighed as she took her by the hand and led her into the sitting room, where she seated her at the end of the table across from Lieutenant Hyarion. "Exquisite, is she not, my lord?" she asked, pleased with the transformation she had effected in the girl's appearance.
"Yes, delightful," he replied, looking boldly at the girl. Reaching over to a small ebony box on the table, he took out a purse and put it in Muinadaneth's hands. "A little something for your efforts."
She weighed the purse in her hand. "My lord is most generous."
Excusing herself quietly, Muinadaneth left to help the chambermaids in ordering the Southron's room. Soon the four of them took their leave, departing into the hall where they passed the servants bearing Lord Hyarion's supper.
Too frightened and upset to do more than stare at her food, Elína waited until the servants finished setting the plates and platters down before looking over at him. What she saw was the Southron staring intently at her, his chin resting upon his hands.
"Eat, my dear," his voice was deep and heavily accented. "The beef is very good.
"Yes, my lord," she stammered, grabbing a handful of meat from a platter and tearing it into pieces, stuffing several pieces into her mouth at one time .
"No, no, my dear! That is not the way it is at all! You must learn proper table manners." He shook his head. "Let me help you." Rising to his feet, he made his way over to her, took her knife and showed her how to slice the meat into pieces and then spear them with the point. Moving the knife tip to his mouth, he slid a piece into his mouth. "See how it is done, my dear?" He put his arm around her shoulder. "Now you try it."
A knock at the door interrupted Hyarion's pleasant interlude. A cavalryman, his dark face ruddy from the cold, stepped into the room, closed the door and bowed. "My lord, a word with you... in private, please." The trooper looked over to the girl.
"Speak in our own language," Hyarion hissed to the man.
"Yes, my lord, yes," he nodded humbly.
"What news?"
"My lord, Sergeant Tishur and two troopers you sent to find another girl have returned...empty-handed and in a sorry state, teeth missing, ribs broken. It seems the girl they chose to kidnap had four brothers - native Angmarians and stout fellows. They beat our men almost senseless so they hardly made it back. There might be more trouble if the girl's relatives followed their trail here."
"They will present no problems. Our contingent outnumbers any we would meet in this remote place. But is it possible to find another girl?"
"I don't think so, my Lieutenant. News travel fast. All the neighbourhood must be on the alert by now, men armed and waiting for robbers."
Hyarion sighed. Much as he wanted to find another virgin to spare Elina, his attempts came to naught. He turned to the trooper. "Now you are excused. Go down to the cellar and inform the prisoner's guard that he is to bring him here in an hour. I am inviting him for a late supper," Hyarion chuckled grimly as the soldier saluted and departed from the room. He then turned back to Elína, who looked up at him with frightened eyes and poured her some strong Dorwinion wine. "Try this, my little Elina" he offered. "The vintage is quite good."
The girl took the goblet, sniffed at the red wine and sipped it hesitantly. "No drink wine" she explained. "First time now." She swollowed more, finding the sweet fruity taste pleasant. Soon the goblet was empty and Hyarion poured her more.
"Well," Hyarion thought, "I hope she gets drunk as not to feel too frightened. But Silmadan is just going to have to be satisfied with carrying out only part of the ritual. I do not intend to let him take it to full course and drain her of every last drop of blood. Seldom have I seen such a comely maid in the north, and I have developed a fancy for her. I have devised other plans for her... very pleasant plans." Hyarion felt his blood growing hot at such thoughts. The girl must not die! If there were no secret of the blade, or if Silmadan balked and refused to tell him, Hyarion would have him tortured. Fifty lashes on his back could be very persuasive.
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Tavern on the road leading to Carn Dum, night of November 7, 1347
Written by Gordis, the Black Speech spell by Angmar.
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Meanwhile, down in the cellar, Agannalo was awaiting Hyarion’s summons. Mad from impatience and thirst, the nazgul started pacing back and fourth like a caged animal, his mood turning to outright murderous. Like a cloud of darkness his feelings must have reached beyond the heavy door, as the guards stopped their merry game and huddled near the fire, silent and uneasy.
It was well past midnight when at last Agannalo heard footsteps on the narrow stair and a rusty key turning in the cellar’s lock. Four heavily armed guards entered, manacled the prisoner’s wrists behind his back, and took him upstairs to Hyarion’s rooms on the first floor.
Hyarion seemed grim and preoccupied. He paid no heed to Agannalo’s murderous stare and without a word of greeting ordered the guards to free the prisoner’s hands and to leave them alone together.
“Are you sure, my Lieutenant?” one of the guards ventured hesitantly. “He is quite dangerous and with his hands free, he might try to escape.”
Hyarion shook his head. “There is no escape here. The shutters on the windows are barred and locked for the night. The only door is this one, and you four will be guarding it. Stay here and wait till I call you. I don’t want to be disturbed whatever happens.”
The guards saluted and remained at the landing. Hyarion closed the door and locked it carefully from inside.
Smirking at such precautions, Agannalo walked nonchalantly to the table. There were two half-empty plates with meat and an almost empty flagon of wine.
“Do you want a drink, Silmadan?” Hyarion asked, cold hatred plain in his voice.
“Thank you for the offer, o illustrious Lieutenant.” Agannalo replied with a mock bow. “So very generous of you to think about my needs... at last. But I humbly have to decline. If you are finally done cuddling the Lossoth girl, I would like to start the ritual straight away. Where is she?”
“She is in the bedroom, this way,” Hyarion made for the door to the adjoining room but then stopped abruptly at the threshold, turned and gripped Agannalo’s shoulder.
“Look here, you, rascal” Hyarion hissed looking up into Agannalo’s face. “I will go along with your plan, but only as long as the girl is safe. I will not let you kill her!”
Agannalo stared at him incredulously. The stupidity of this mortal was really unfathomable! “But why wouldn’t you kill her? You have bought the girl just for this, didn’t you? What has changed since?”
But Hyarion was not in the mood to give any explanations to this weird cold-blooded killer. “You will do as I say, Silmadan. I will cut not her throat, but her wrist, and pour only a little blood – just enough for the spell, no more. And then I will quench the blood flow and the girl will soon recover.”
Agannalo threw back his head and laughed. Melkor forbid, the silly mortal became enamored of the filthy little wench! “And you think the spell would work?” he asked the Southron sarcastically. “I think not. One life should be taken to prolong another – that is the whole point, as I see it.”
“You should pray that the spell works, Silmadan”, Hyarion replied stubbornly, his hands clenching into fists, “for if it doesn’t , I will order you lashed until there is no skin left on your back. I would love to see you smirking after that!”
Agannalo inhaled the air deeply and slowly let it out to calm down. He could smell the girl’s blood – so very near - just beyond the door. Now her scent was mixed not with fish oil, but with the sweet flagrance of exotic flowers. The want for blood almost made him faint. “Well, Hyarion” he said at last. I agree to your terms. Lead me to the girl.”
“That is not all,” the Southron pressed his advantage. “Once you have chanted the incantation and I have drunk the blood, you should leave. I don’t want you to witness how I… complete the spell.”
“I perfectly understand.” Agannalo couldn’t resist smirking again.
Hyarion briefly nodded and led the way into the other room. There stood a large four-poster bed and on it the girl lay, small and dainty in her thin white chemise. She turned her head to look at the men, but her eyes were unfocussed, uncomprehending.
“Drugged, or simply drunk?” Agannalo asked Hyarion, much like a physician inquires about the health of a patient.
“Both”, replied Hyarion grimly. “I did give her some hashish as a dessert, but I think I should better tie her to the bed, in case she returns to consciousness.”
The mention of hashish made Agannalo’s mouth water. Barring blood, it was a thing he enjoyed most. He crossed his arms at his chest.
“So you have hashish…” he drawled. “I won’t do anything before you give me at least a few ounces. It will make my nights in various cold cellars so much more enjoyable.”
Cursing in Haradic, Hyarion strode to a wall cabinet, took a small mahogany box inlaid with ivory and threw it to Agannalo. “Take it, blasted scoundrel! I am in no mood to haggle with you!” Agannalo pocketed the box without argument.
Hyarion meanwhile sat on the edge of the bed and was whispering something soothing to the girl, something not meant for Agannalo’s ears. The nazgul, however, had no difficulty to catch most of his words.
“It is our marriage custom” Hyarion was explaining to a befuddled girl. “Do not be afraid. In my homeland the groom drinks a few drops of the bride’s blood during the ceremony and then the marriage is completed.” The girl muttered something unintelligible and moaned softly.
“Now, Silmadan, come here and hold this silver chalice.” Hyarion ordered with more assurance than he actually felt. He unsheathed the Morgul knife and put the girl’s limp arm on his knees.
“So small a vial?” asked Agannalo petulantly. “Half of the blood will be lost on the floor.”
Hyarion shot him a murderous glance and slowly, hesitantly started to cut the girl’s wrist.
The pain instantly brought the girl out of her stupor. She jerked her arm away from Hyarion and wailed in fright. The nervous Southron dropped the pale blade, nearly hitting his own foot.
“Take care, you fool!” Agannalo growled and scooped the knife from the carpet in one fluid motion. Quick as lightning, he caught the girl’s flailing arm in an iron grip and deftly made a deep cut across her wrist. The blood poured out in torrent, right into the silver chalice that Agannalo held.
“What are you doing?” screamed the Southron. “I told you not to hurt her! Stop it, you, monster!” He managed to push Agannalo away, but not before the nazgul filled the silver vial. Hyarion reached frantically for dressing materials he had prepared beforehand, put a tourniquet above the girl’s elbow, and dressed her wounded wrist.
Agannalo stood observing the Southron sarcastically, the vial of blood in one hand, the Morgul knife in the other. “I will leave you soon, Hyarion” he said “and this I must tell you before our ways part. I didn’t enjoy your company one bit. You are a dull chicken-hearted scoundrel. You will never rise higher than a commander of a remote fortress, be it in Angmar or elsewhere.”
“What?” asked Hyarion, not believing his ears. Now the knave was offending him!
“I am tired of you, Hyarion. Are you still interested in the spell or did the wench steal all your reason? Now listen to me - for I will not repeat twice."
The flow of curses and threats that Hyarion was about to utter in reply froze on his lips when he noticed that the magic blade that Agannalo now rose skywards started to glow with its own light. The pale greenish glow intensified and the candles in the room dimmed. Soon the room was full of pulsing evil light that somehow drained the things around of all color – everything now appeared a mixture of stark whites and velvety blacks with gray shades in between. Agannalo’s face seemed white as bone, with dark shadows around the sunken eyes, much like a grinning skull. Hyarion’s skin crawled.
Then Agannalo turned the blade downwards, holding it above the chalice with Elina’s blood. As if drawn by a magnet, the surface of the red viscous liquid stirred and curved, following the circular motion of the blade. Stirring the liquid with the knife, but never touching the surface, Agannalo started to chant the spell. Its words, in the High Tongue of ancient Mordor, were comprehensible to the learned Southron who listened open-mouthed, striving to memorize every word.
Pardahûn-zan ronku-ob ghaashug, muzûrz ghaamp-ob,
Burzum-zan ukû -- gothûrzûk, levûk --
Gaakh matum skaat nar akral-u grish-ob za!
Gaakh ash amirz akr grish pash slaiug ukû,
Durbûrz ukû, agh gothûrzukû!
Bugd-izgu Lat, Ai Melkor, Goth-ob Pardahûnûk!
In Westron that meant:
In the name of the power of the hot, burning depths of the earth,
By the everlasting darkness - all powerful, all encompassing -
May death not come to the drinker of this blood.
Let the one who drinks the blood be forever living,
Forever strong and forever powerful.
We beseech thee, O Melkor, Master of all Power!
“It seems that Silmadan’s tale about the wizard was true, after all,” Hyarion thought, much impressed. “It is impossible that the knave could invent such a spell himself, especially considering that it is composed in the Sacred language. The powers of the blade became unlocked. The spell clearly works!”
At the invocation of the Dark God’s name, the blade’s glow became unbearably bright. Hyarion averted his eyes in awe and looked back only when the glow gradually vanished. Agannalo stood looking down at the now smooth surface of the blood.
“And so be it!” he smiled at Hyarion. “Let the one who drinks the blood be forever living. But that will be I, not you.”
With that he lifted the chalice and took one long swallow.
For a moment Hyarion was speechless. He struggled to his feet and walked on unsteady feet to his treacherous accomplice. With a placid smile on his blood-smeared lips Agannalo proffered him the now empty vial. Hyarion looked down at the last drops of Elina’s blood obtained with such pains. It seemed to him that these drops grew to fill all his vision. He saw red.
With a wordless animal growl, ready to tear the accursed strawhead to pieces with his bare hands, Hyarion rushed forward...
And stopped dead. Silmadan, who just a moment ago stood facing him, has disappeared. Hyarion looked wildly around. The room was well lit, but the weird strawhead was nowhere to be seen. Then the Southron thought he heard a low chuckle. Yes, he was not mistaken. The quiet laugher was coming seemingly from all sides at once – or was it only in his own mind? The volume of the sound grew, and soon Hyarion’s head resonated with the horrible diabolical laugher. He clutched his head and sank to the floor, feeling more frightened than ever in his life.
At this moment beyond the drawn curtains and locked shutters, in the backyard of the inn, an old rooster flew to the top of the fence, tossed his red crest and started his morning chant. The clear sound cut through the shadowy nets of wizardry like a knife through butter. The laugher abruptly stopped and Hyarion slowly regained his wits. He told himself “I am an officer of Angmarian Army, His Majesty’s Lieutenant, I will not cower on the floor like a beaten slave.” Dwimmercraft or not, he had to find the prisoner.
“Guards, to me! The prisoner has escaped!” he cried, forgetting that he had locked the door on the inside. The soldiers hearing the urgency in the Lieutenant’s call, made short work of the door and rushed in. “Search the room”, Hyarion ordered. He himself went to check the windows. All were duly locked.
For some time the guards occupied themselves looking under the tables and behind the sofas. The area around the bed had been searched most thoroughly, as the men enjoyed the occasion to gawk at the half-naked unconscious Elins, before Hyarion had remembered to cover the girl.
Suddenly they heard frantic cries from the court and the sound of galloping hooves. Hyarion, knowing already in his heart what to expect went out to investigate.
“So, the strawhead has stolen his horse, didn’t he?” he asked a soldier with a measure of resignation.
“It is much worse, my Lord”, the soldier replied. “All the horses bolted as if Njamo himself was after them. Broken their stalls and bolted away, they did. Not a single one left. We are stranded”.
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LITERAL TRANSLATION OF THE BLACK SPEECH SPELL
Power-innameof depthsof burninghot earthof,
Darkness-bythe eternal -- powerfulall, surroundingall --
May death come not drinkerto bloodof this!
May one who drink blood beabletobe living eternal,
Strong eternal, and powerful eternal!
Call-we You, O Melkor, Master-of Powerall!
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Post by Gordis on Jun 14, 2008 21:30:40 GMT
Chapter 25. The King's Nephew
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On the road to Carn-Dum, November 8, 1347.
Written by Gordis
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Agannalo negotiated another steep climb among jutted, broken red rocks and stopped his lathered horse. On the left the sun was setting, blood-red amidst the dark clouds. It had been snowing all day long, but now, towards the evening, the cold northern wind blew the heavy clouds away, so right ahead Agannalo was able to see the looming line of the mountains of Angmar outlined against the darkening sky. Straining his eyes, the nazgul followed the mountain chain to its west end and there he discerned a darker shadow, too regular in shape to be part of the mountainside - the fortress of Carn-Dum, his destination. Agannalo looked back surveying the winding road he had traveled all the way from the now distant Angsuul. The town of Angoul he had passed last night now seemed a black dot on the nearest bank of the gleaming frozen river.
The ride through Angoul was the most difficult part of his journey. First Agannalo thought to give the town a wide berth, but he hadn’t reckoned with the realities of the northern winter. The snow in the fields proved to be too deep for the horse, so the beaten road remained the only possible way. He was indeed lucky that Angoul was not a fortress, but just a small merchant town with only a wooden fence around. At night, the gates of Angoul were naturally locked, so he had to knock on the gates first with his fists, then with the hilt of the Morgul dagger to attract the gatekeeper’s attention. When, after much cursing, the sleepy gatekeeper finally emerged from his lodge and opened the gate, he was much surprised to see only a lone saddled buckskin horse facing him. Suddenly the horse neighed, rolled its wild bloodshot eyes, and rushed forward. The gatekeeper landed on his backside near the road, narrowly avoiding the flying hooves. He shook for hours afterwards and no amount of booze could warm his blood.
Another gatekeeper -of the West gate - only had to report that the gate suddenly opened all by itself to let out a riderless pale horse. He was much puzzled and not a little bit frightened, but decided not to investigate the matter. Some mysteries were better left unsolved…
Agannalo smirked at the memory, then laughed outright remembering Hyarion and the girl… Pity he had so little time with her. When washed and perfumed, she proved to be a dainty little thing, an exotic fruit ripe for plucking. And her blood had tasted so good…
Agannalo sighed and spurred the trembling horse again. By now, the buckskin was quite exhausted and hungry, but the nazgul cared little for the gelding. He urged him on relentlessly, striving to reach Carn-Dum before the nightfall. He doubted he would be able to enter easily into THAT place after the gate was shut.
And indeed, Agannalo was the last person to enter before the drawbridge was raised and the heavy iron gates of Angmar’s capital clanged shut. Agannalo had caught up with a long procession of laden wagons that were bringing supplies to Carn-Dum, so he managed to avoid questions at the city gate. He knew he wouldn’t be so lucky at the fortress, though.
“I hope I won’t meet another Hyarion eager to put a King’s nephew in chains” he thought.
Bathed in moonlight, the fortress stood on the mountain shoulder, its many battlements looming over the city. The high tower perched on the rock seemed to float in the twilight sky, graceful and weightless. To Agannalo’s eyes it seemed faintly luminous, beckoning to all his senses, like a light of a harbor warms the heart of a returning mariner. Feeling homesick and weary of travels, Agannalo ardently hoped that the King would welcome him, would permit him to stay – at least for some time, a few centuries maybe…
He rode to the Gates and announced to the bewildered guards. “My name is Silmadan. I am come to see my uncle, His Majesty the King of Angmar.”
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Carn-Dum, Angmar, evening of November 8, 1347.
Written by Angmar
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The supper hour had long since passed when Alassar, the King's Steward, made his way from his apartments up the long, winding stairs to the top of a tower which the king had assigned for his use long ago. Arriving at the landing, Galon, his young apprentice, unhooked the latch and opened the door for his master. A sharp, bitter wind struck them in the face, billowing out their cloaks.
A handsome boy, tall and bearing the distinctive look of one of Numenorean ancestry, Galon considered the important work which he would do that night. The boy occupied a coveted place in Carn Dum, and was envied by the other boys of his social class. The son of a prominent lord of Umbar who had come north in the service of the King, the lad had been only eight years old when Lord Alassar had chosen him to be his apprentice. After that, he had dedicated most of his time to his studies and the tasks which Lord Alassar set him. He was determined to learn the secret arts and become an accomplished sorcerer. In the six years that he had been an apprentice, the boy had made impressive progress.
Galon stood back at a respectful distance and held up the lantern. When he was not studying and helping the sorcerer, the boy had another important task - to assist the Master of Ravens in the rookery, which was located in a large building in the main courtyard. Galon took a special pride in this second high position. He was charged with taking the birds from the rookery to the tower when the lord demanded them. The birds had learned to accept him over the years, and sometimes Galon thought he could understand their speech.
Leaning his elbows on the parapet, his long fur-lined sleeves dangling over the sides, Lord Alassar was silent for a long time. Though he concentrated and tried to exercise control over his body, Galon could not help shivering, for nights were cold here in the north. Not so cold as they had been in other years, the boy observed, for the weather in Carn Dum had been surprisingly balmy this winter. Instead of the howling blizzards and raging storms that he had known ever since he had been in the north, snowfall had not been far less than in other years.
The boy looked down over the great fortress which had been cut into the red rocks of the Mountains of Angmar. He had heard that a vast labyrinth lay beneath those mountains, but though he was curious about them, his master had never sent him there. He could only guess what might lie inside those halls and corridors, but when he thought about it, he was not sure if he wanted to find out. There had been stories...
His eyes were drawn to the great, tall tower where glimmered only a few lights. It was said that His Majesty worked his spells of magic there, but this, too, the boy had never seen with his own eyes. His gaze roamed over the great fortress below which was made up a huge complex of auxiliary towers and other pertinent buildings. Then his eyes dropped lower to the village which had grown up below the fortress. The almost full moon striking the snow covering added amazing clarity to everything.
At last Lord Alassar spoke. "Do you see that, boy, off over there beyond the village?" He motioned with his hand to a dark speck in the distance which was approaching ever closer at a rapid pace.
His words took Galon by surprise and the boy jumped. He had been thinking about a girl whom he had met recently down in the village, a comely lass, a little younger than himself. He should not be thinking of her at all, for she was far below his social station, but she was pretty...
"No, my lord, I am sorry," he stammered. "I did not see anything until you pointed it out to me, but, yes, I can see a rider coming at a furious speed. I wonder who it could be?"
"Whoever he is, he won't be getting inside the walls tonight, for the great gate is barred," Alassar commented dryly.
"My lord," the boy added, "he will have a cold night then."
"Galon, whoever he is, the stranger is of no interest to me." He turned back to look at Galon. "Ready the required items."
"Aye, my lord." The boy's hands trembled as he opened the ebony box with arcane symbols inlaid in silver. He carefully lifted out a dagger of curious workmanship which was encased in an ornate jewel-encrusted sheath. "Here, my lord."The boy placed the weapon in Alassar's outstretched hands. Galon heard the swish of metal as Alassar unsheathed the dagger. His hands still trembling, Galon closed his eyes and held his breath. He knew what his master was about to do, and it always frightened him.
The dagger held upon his open palms, Alassar lifted up his arms in the ancient pose of supplication. In a loud voice, he began intoning,
"Budg-izg Shakhu-ir gothûrz Bûrzum-ob, Melekô durbûrz shum agh Zigûr brogbuz-Tab, bhûl thrâk-izub agh larg-izish gothûrz!"
Galon's knees shook at the mention of the two great lords, and he bowed his head. There was a long pause as the wizard communed with the powers of darkness before his attention returned to the young man. "Galon, the vessel." Galon held the goblet up and inwardly winced as he watched Alassar slice the dagger across his arm. There was no cry of pain, not so much as a sigh from Alassar as the knife did its work and his red blood dripped into the chalice. Galon wondered if he would ever have the powers of concentration and strength that were required to draw his own blood.
This phase of the ritual now complete, Alassar bound up his wounds and cleaned the ceremonial dagger. With the boy leading the way, the two made their way down the stairs to Alassar's apartments. There Alassar left the boy, took the vessel holding his blood to an antechamber and closed the door behind him.
The wizard had just returned from the chamber when a knock sounded on the door. "Enter!" commanded Alassar as he sat down on a chair and waited for the lad to pour him a goblet of mulled wine.
"My lord Alassar, forgive this disturbance!" exclaimed the red-faced, excited guard who nervously entered the room.
"Approach," came Alassar's disinterested reply. "Approach and state why the tranquility of the night has been disturbed."
The guard walked to the front of his superior's chair and bowed. "There is a strange man outside who claims to be the King's nephew. He was making a great stir at the gatehouse, demanding entry into the city as though he were some sort of royalty. Not knowing what else to do, the guards at the gatehouse arrested him. What would you have us do with him? Throw him in the dungeon or take him to the king?"
"The king is deliberating pressing matters and cannot be disturbed with such nonsense. Clearly the man is mad. Throw him in the dungeon." Alassar waved his hand dismissively. "When morning comes, have him whipped soundly and sent on his way. Flagellation is oft times beneficial in these cases." He hid the smirk on his face as he looked soberly at the guard. He suspected that he knew what "pressing matters" that the king was deliberating. He was probably right now with his current favorite, the lovely Lady Gelireth, or one of his other equally charming companions.
"But, my lord," the guard interjected, "this prisoner does not seem like a common vagrant. His bearing is regal, his speech cultured and dignified... perhaps his claims are true." The guard looked worried.
"Oh, all right," Alassar stifled a yawn, "bring him up and I will talk with him. This might be amusing." He turned to Galon. "My goblet is empty, lad. Refill it."
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TRANSLATIONS
I call on the powerful lords of darkness, Melkor the very strong and Sauron His favored, accept my gift and make me powerful. Call-I Lords-on powerful darkness-of, Melkor strong very and Sauron favored-His, accept gift-my and make-me powerful
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Carn-Dum, evening of November 8, 1347.
Written by Gordis and Angmar
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In the guardhouse by the Gate Agannalo waited, outwardly calm, but boiling inside. The wait seemed endless and still no one came to greet him. Agannalo deliberately let some of his power leak out, to keep the guards suitably intimidated and to make his presence more evident to the Captain. Still no one…
Agannalo himself felt the King’s presence strongly – somewhere high in the main tower – and he knew that the Captain’s abilities to feel the presence of beings of his own kind far surpassed his own. “He should know by now that I am here!” thought Agannalo irritably. “What in Ungoliant is he doing at the moment that dulls his senses so much?!”
He remembered that when a couple of decades ago he had visited Gothmog the Third in his solitary fortress in southeastern Harad, the nazgul was the first to meet him beyond the gate. He greeted Agannalo and …misbegotten toad! sent him on his way as speedily as it was socially acceptable. The Sublime Al-Khamul the Blessed, Shakh of Khand, did the same… blast the ruttish doghearted scoundrel... Would the Captain prove as churlish?
Minutes passed, long as hours. Finally the guard sent with the report returned and Agannalo was led towards the main tower. They entered the huge doors, went up a few flights of steps and stopped in front of the double doors richly inlaid with silver arcane symbols. The guard opened the door and let Agannalo through with a bow – which he took as a good sign. However, instead of his Captain, he saw a young richly clad Numenorean, from Umbar by the looks of him, who was sitting at a writing table and was looking bored.
“Now…what do we have here?” asked the man, stifling a yawn. “I am the King’s Steward. State your name and business, stranger.”
“I want to see the King, not his Steward, ” replied Agannalo coldly. “I will be much obliged if you go and warn my uncle. Hurry up, my good fellow, I can’t wait here all night.”
Alassar frowned and narrowed his eyes. Much as the stranger’s attitude infuriated him, he was no fool and noticed several things that the others had missed. The stranger was clearly no “strawhead” as the guards had described him, but a Numenorean, though with unusual coloring. He spoke old-fashioned Westron, close to the ancient Adunaic, much as the King himself did, and had the same distinguished, articulate manner of speaking and the same unusual, chilling accent. Moreover…there was this strange quality in him as well, something that rose goose bumps on Alassar’s flesh and made him shiver as if he were cold…And his eyes… Alassar only looked into their cold blue depths once and had to withdraw his gaze, swallowing hard to hide his fear.
What if this Silmadan was indeed what he claimed to be? The nephew of a heirless King was not someone to be taken lightly. And who knows how high he could rise if the king acknowledged him?
Alassar swallowed again and rose to his feet. “Do you have proof that you are indeed the King’s relative?” he asked at last.
Without a word, Silmadan lifted his right hand …and there on his forefinger was a Ring … a great ring wrought in gold with a clear cold-blue gem. Alassar’s breath caught in his throat. How many times he had admired the King’s Ring, his gaze being drawn to it every time he saw it, his heart pounding like a hammer in his excitement! The stranger’s ring was clearly of the same workmanship. Alassar bowed low to the newcomer.
“My lord”, he stammered, “I am afraid the King is currently occupied with grave matters of State, but certainly tomorrow…”
Alassar felt a slight movement behind and a chill ran down his spine. He sharply turned his head, and there, by the wall, he saw the familiar tall dark figure wrapped in royal mantle. “But how did he get here?” the steward thought in amazement. “Perhaps he has entered by one of the secret passages concealed in the walls, one known only to the Lord of Carn Dum?” Till now, Alassar had no idea that one led to his own rooms.
Agannalo went down on one knee and bowed his head low, in the same fashion as the courtiers in Armenelos had greeted the King of Numenor so very long ago.
“My Lord”, he intoned, “your stray nephew Silmadan is here begging hospitality and shelter”.
Taken by surprise at the king's sudden and unusual appearance, Lord Alassar rose to his feet and bowed low. "Your Majesty, I was not expecting you!" Alassar hoped that the king would not note the look of discomfiture that he was certain must be apparent upon his face. Though he was curious, Alassar thought better than to inquire about the location of the heretofore unknown secret passage. If one were wise, he learned very quickly after coming to the fortress of Carn Dum not to ask too many questions.
"Obviously," the king remarked coolly, a note of amusement in his voice at Alassar's uneasiness. "Ah, I see that my nephew has already introduced himself to you. He often has a way of making himself known when you are not expecting him. It is a habit of his to which every one of his acquaintance must become accustomed. He is also fond of making grand entrances, quite magnificent appearances, actually. People are always impressed by them," he chuckled, a faint twinkling glow in his eyes. Lord Alassar's eyebrows arched questioningly at what he considered criticism by the king of his nephew.
"Your Majesty, the value of grand appearances depends upon the occasion, and I am sure from what you say, your nephew must be the master of it. I will keep that in mind," Lord Alassar chuckled good naturedly, but Agannalo sensed the sarcasm in the man's remark.
Turning to Agannalo, the King surveyed him disinterestedly before speaking. "Rise, nephew. I had been expecting you to arrive for some time, but I note you are late. Perhaps you have had some unfortunate delays on the journey. I trust you came through your adventures well. I am sure you will have much to tell me later."
“Your Majesty," Agannalo replied most humbly (as feigned humility had always been the best course of action, when dealing with the Captain). “Thank you for acknowledging me. My heart is glad to behold you again, dearest Uncle!” Agannalo sniffed and swept away a non-existing tear. The King watched him silently, not impressed.
Having mastered his emotions, Agannalo continued. “It was most difficult to reach Carn Dum and to get to see your Majesty, as your country is guarded well. The Lieutenant of Shedun fortress, this arrogant fool Hyarion, never believed my claims to be your relative. He has treated me in the most outrageous, humiliating fashion, and stole the priceless weapons I carried and the harp, most dear to my heart, a parting present from my late mother…” Agannalo sniffed again, this time more for the Steward’s sake than the King’s. “I beg you to make the thieving knave return my possessions!”
At the mention of “weapons” the King frowned. If Agannalo’s Morgul knife had fallen into mortal hands, it was definitely not good. The King turned to Alassar. “Summon the Lieutenant of Shedun here!” he ordered.
The Steward bowed. “It shall be done right away, your Majesty.”
The King nodded to the Steward. "Lord Alassar, now if you will excuse us, this young rascal and I have many things to discuss and many reminiscences to share."
"Certainly, sire." Lord Alassar moved to open the door for the pair. The thought struck him that perhaps that was not necessary, and the king and his nephew could go back by the way the king made his appearance into the room. Discretion told him otherwise, but he promised himself that when they were gone, he would take soundings of the walls to see where lay the hidden door or doors. This would be purely for his own information. One should know where one might find secret escape routes. In any event, he was sure that the king would never be aware of whatever he discovered.
"Oh, yes, Lord Alassar, see that this young fellow is put up in our best... guest room. See to his comfort. Ah! But I forgot something. The fine young fellow will not have need of company to warm his bed. You see, he is a deeply spiritual man, and he has taken a vow of chastity to... keep his.... soul pure and spotless. He devotes all of his time to purely philosophical and intellectual studies. He is to have free reign of my library, to satiate his deeper needs."
Alassar nodded politely. "Aye, Your Majesty, all will be as you have ordered."
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Post by Gordis on Jun 14, 2008 21:31:57 GMT
Chapter 26. The Morgul Wound
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Lieutenant Hyarion's rooms, morning of November 8, 1347
Written by Angmar.
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Held down by Hyarion, the physician's assistant, the innkeeper's wife and Mudoleth, one of the chambermaids, Elina awoke to screaming agony which was mercifully cut short when the girl fainted. Blanching, the innkeeper's wife closed her eyes and coughed sharply, attempting to calm the uneasiness in her stomach. The chambermaid, pale, her face drawn and pinched, bit her lower lip, only relaxing her grip on the girl when she saw that she had fainted.
"Lieutenant Hyarion, I have done my best," explained the physician, Pizdur Abzu, a grim-faced, dark-bearded man, as he closed off the ends of the severed blood vessels and tied them with silk thread. "She lost a great deal of blood." He turned to his assistant, a gloomy-faced young man in his late twenties. "Infection - we must be on our guard for that, Corporal. Now apply the healing salve and bind the wound."
"Aye, physician," his assistant mumbled as he opened a glass vial and began smearing an unpleasant smelling brown salve on the wound.
The physician rose to his feet, put his hand on the small of his arched back and groaned. "This damned weather is killing my bones," he grumbled.
"Come, Captain, share a glass of wine with me," Hyarion motioned to the small table with its accompanying two benches.
"So she tried to kill herself?" the doctor asked as he inhaled the fragrance of the goblet of Dorwinion wine.
"Aye, unfortunately," Hyarion nodded.
"What can you expect, Lieutenant? A young girl like that taken away from her people and all she had known. She does not half understand Common! I am surprised at you this time for buying this ignorant peasant girl. Do you not have enough women back at the fortress to satisfy your appetites without taking yet another?"
"Only two wives and three concubines," Hyarion shrugged. "You of all people should know that is a modest number in Harad. Why did I buy her? I had an itch for the girl; it is that simple."
"You always have an itch, Lieutenant! You brought at least five slave girls with you when you came from the South. Who knows how many more you have added since then? I suppose they do not count." Abzu swallowed the mouthful of pungent wine. "Now this girl... why did she try to kill herself? Were you that rough on her the first time, eh?" he chortled lewdly. "Perhaps I should have examined her..." He leaned forward across the table, his eyes gleaming.
"You rogue! I know what you really mean! No one touches my women in that way except for my eunuchs and me! What do you think I am, some barbarian swine? I was not the one who hurt her!"
The physician raised an eyebrow. "Then who did?"
"The prisoner who escaped last night!" Hyarion's eyes flashed in anger. "I thought he might have valuable information that he had not yet divulged. Attempting to gain his confidence, I had him brought to my room, ordered him unshackled from his chains, and allowed him to eat the scraps from my supper. I thought the dog would be grateful, but instead in a mad fit of rage, he overpowered me, rendering me unconscious with a blow to the back of my head. Then he rushed into the room with Elina, tied her to the bed, and had his way with her! When I returned to consciousness, I staggered into the room to find that the rogue had escaped. I later learned from the guards that the prisoner next went to the stables, took his mount and freed the rest of the beasts!"
The entire tale was a fabrication, of course, devised by Hyarion in the interval since Silmadan had fled. The girl had never been raped and was still a virgin in fact, but the story provided a plausible reason for Elina's attempted "suicide" and the prisoner's escape. The physician would believe what Hyarion told him, though.
The physician shook his head gravely. "A terrible thing!"
"Aye, indeed it was," Hyarion said sadly. "By the time I had arrived in the room, the girl had taken a dagger and sliced her wrist open. She was bleeding like a butchered ox! When I realized the situation, I sent one of the guards to fetch you, and you know the rest of the story." Hyarion looked searchingly into the doctor's eyes. "Do you think the poor maiden will be all right?" His black eyes filled with sorrow and regret, he drummed his fingertips nervously upon the table.
"My lord, the girl is very weak. She has lost quite a good deal of blood, and she needs rest and care. Then there is always the risk of infection, but if she has not worsened within three days, there is a good chance she will survive. I strongly advise you against moving her, though. She should stay here under the care and supervision of the innkeeper's wife or some other responsible person."
"I cannot do that!" Hyarion bristled. "I must be in Carn-dum as soon as possible! I have an appointment with His Majesty and he will not be kept waiting! Do not fear for the girl, though. She will ride in comfort. I have one of my men out now searching for a team of horses and a sleigh that I can rent. Then as soon as the cavalry horses are found, the cavalcade will be moving out!"
"Even with a sleigh, you still might kill her," Pizdur Abzu's voice was stern with warning.
"Then I must take that chance!"
The physician regarded him coldly for a few moments. "My lord lieutenant, just remember that allowing her to go on this journey is against my advice. Now if you no longer need my services, I must be going, but I shall return tonight. If the girl develops a fever, send for me immediately. Good day." Downing the remainder of his wine, the physician stood up. With a sign to his assistant, the two men bowed to the lieutenant and backed their way to the door and departed.
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Lieutenant Hyarion's rooms, King's Arms Inn, Kingdom of Angmar, morning of November 8, 1347
Written by Elfhild
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Awakening from her faint, Elina looked up into the kind plump face of the innkeeper's wife. Her head ached; the light streaming in through the window burnt her eyes like sun reflecting off snow. She closed her eyes tightly to ward away the blinding light. The taste of stale wine made her troubled stomach churn even more, and she wondered why she could no longer feel her right arm.
"You poor dear," the motherly-looking woman murmured as she sponged dried blood off the girl's body with a warm cloth. The soothing warmth of the towel was blotted over her chest, down her stomach, and then to her thighs. Though her vision was blurred as though a mist lay between her and the innkeeper's wife, Elina could see that the woman's face was strained with worry as she cleansed her gently as a mother would a tiny baby.
"Oh, you poor dear, how terrifying it must have been for you when that cruel brute attacked you," the innkeeper's wife murmured sympathetically.
Elina did not recall anything like that happening, and wondered what the woman was talking about. What she could remember was a dinner of overcooked, tasteless beef accompanied by malodorous onions, fiery turnips and sulfuric cabbage, and then a desert of oat cakes and apples. Whilst they ate, the handsome officer plied her with many sweet words, promising her marriage. Then after the dinner, he turned his honeyed lips to kissing her own... his tongue lathed down her neck, stopping at the hollow of her throat as his hands explored her body. She had felt strange, as though she were floating on the clouds, and the floor was no longer made of wood, but somewhere between a liquid and a solid.
Vaguely she remembered Hyarion sweeping her up in his arms and carrying her into his bedroom. He had slowly taken off her blue dress, kissing her face, her lips, her cheeks, her throat, awakening feelings in her which she had never known before. His breath had tasted so pleasant, tinged with refreshing mint, sweeter than that which grew wild. Soon she was left in only the snowy white chemise. She wondered why she did not feel at all uncomfortable at the lack of clothing, but somehow it did not seem to matter.
Her vision darkening, she fell forward, down into balmy clouds of euphoric desire and opiated rapture. He caught her as she started to slump to the floor. She felt so very warm and cozy and blissfully happy, and sleepy, yes, very sleepy... When the hazy mists of languid somnolence had parted, she found herself looking up into the canopy of a large bed, each of her limbs tied to one of the posts with silken cords... scarlet, she remembered idly.
"My dear," he had whispered as he leaned over her, "you must understand that the wedding customs are different in my land. The... er... priest... will be here soon to perform the ceremony, and then you will be my... wife."
Though she did not know it at the time, that was a falsehood, for she would be nothing more than another of his slave maids. Perhaps if she managed to satisfy him, someday he would free her and make her another one of his concubines. Since she was a poor orphan from a far land and had seen little of the world, in her innocence, she wanted to trust him.
The innkeeper's wife pushed a lock of raven black hair from Elina's forehead and peered down into her face. "Now we need to get a gown on you and change this stained bedding." Turning to the chambermaid, she told her, "Mudoleth, help me with this, please... and be careful of her wrist."
The two women soon had Elina dressed in a clean white nightgown, an old one of the innkeeper's wife and at least two sizes too big for her. The sheets were changed and fresh ones smelling of lavender were spread over the bed.
The door opened and Hyarion strode into the room, and taking in the scene, a smile spread over his full lips.
"Does she not look lovely, my lord?" the innkeeper's wife beamed as she fluffed up the pillow behind Elina's back.
"Like a blushing bride," he winked at her. "Now you women may leave us, and thank you for all your help."
"My lord, we were glad we could be of use. If you should need anything, just ring the bell. We hope you have a pleasant afternoon and best wishes for your life together." The two women blushed, curtsied and then left.
When Elina saw the gleam in Hyarion's eyes as he approached the bed, a goblet of wine in his hand, she felt a sudden pang of intuitive dread. "My wrist... Please... do not..." she whimpered as she put her good hand out to push him away.
"Drink this, my dear, and everything will be fine," he murmured huskily.
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Lieutenant Hyarion's rooms,evening of November 8, 1347
Written by Elfhild
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Some time later, Elina awoke to find herself nestled in the arms of the Southron. The lazy lassitude caused by the drugged draught had passed for the time, leaving in its wake a crystal-clear sense of clarity. She ached in places she had never ached before, but the full intensity of the pain was still dulled. Remminiscing upon memories so newly made, she tried to destract herself from the pain of chastity's sudden death with memories of bliss.
Shifting her body so that she lay upon her back - carefully, as not to wake Hyarion - she turned her head and surveyed her new husband in the dim light of the room. His eyes, shaded by thick, dark brows which almost met in the middle, were closed, deep in slumber, and now and then the corners of his lips would twitch into a smile. His long black hair was unkempt, tousled from the rigors of the afternoon and lay softly curling about his neck. The coverlet rested about his waist, and Elina felt at peace as she saw his bare chest rise and fall with his steady breathing. She reached a finger out and furtively touched the dark mat of hair on his broad chest. He stirred in his sleep, and her breath caught in her throat, but he did not wake.
Elina looked to the window, which was partially draped. She judged by the errant light which creeped into the room that it was now evening. They had spent the afternoon lost in heated passion, and this hot-blooded man from the South had taken her soaring to the stars. Though he had been ardent, demanding at times, he had taken care not to bring any pain to her injured wrist.
She was still confused about the manner of her injury. She had a vague recollection... something about a wedding ceremony, and a priest. Apparently, the priest had gone beserk and tried to kill her, but her brave, heroic new husband had saved her from this dire fate. She still did not know why the man had wished her dead, but suddenly plunged into this strange new culture, she was too timid to ask Hyarion why. Perhaps her darling Hyarion would answer all of her questions soon. They just needed a chance to talk, but being so recently wed, her husband was more interested in celebrating their union.
How strange it was for Elina, one of the Lossoth, to find herself in the arms of this man from Harad, a land which she had not even known existed until the day before. From his description of it, it sounded the opposite of Forodwaith - instead of snow, there was sand; instead of tundra there were deserts; the summers were blisteringly hot and the winters were cool and rainy. The buildings were made of mudbrick instead of sod or ice, and people travelled long distances on strange animals with giant humps on their backs.
How strange fate was to thrust her into the arms of this passionate man. Did she truly love him, she wondered, or was she just overwhelmed by the spendor of these new and wonderful experiences? Perhaps after she regained her bearings, understanding would come to her. But in the meantime, she had other worries... Though she could not explain it, she felt that a horrible sickness was coursing through her body, some dread plague which was caused by evil spirits... and this dire malady was somehow connected to the grevious cut on her wrist.
She shivered, for a chill had come over her, creeping up her arm from her wrist like the cold winter wind. She moved closer to Hyarion, pressing her back against his torso, seeking the warmth of his body. Yet it brought her little relief, and her delicate form was soon shivering as though she had fallen through an ice-covered pond into frigid water.
Her trembling awoke Hyarion, and he nuzzled the side of her neck. "Are you cold, my little northern flower?" he murmured as his palm slid its seductive way over the length of her arm. "Perhaps I can warm you up..."
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The road to Carn Dum, morning of November 9, 1347
Written by Angmar
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When the cavalcade had set out from the inn that morning, Lord Hyarion had been in a bitter, black humor. Now nearing the town of Angoul, his mood had not improved. There was really little about which to be happy.
Yesterday, after deceiving the Lieutenant of Shedun Fortress and making him appear the fool, the prisoner Silmadan had escaped, but not before setting all the horses in the inn's stables free. His men had spent needless hours searching for the runaway horses, and though they had located most of the mounts, still two of the pack animals had not been found. The loads on the other horses had to be repacked and added to the saddles of the remaining beasts. While the varlet had taken the magic dagger with him, at least he had not been able to ferret out his other confiscated possessions. The priceless emerald sheathed dagger was safe, hidden in its pack, guarded by one of his own men from Harad. Hyarion considered the prisoner's harp as useless, and if it had not been confiscated property for which he was responsible, he would have had his men toss it over some convenient bank. As it was, the men were afraid of it, muttering dark imprecations whenever its name was mentioned, and making the sign against evil behind their backs.
Aye, there were many things to make Lord Hyarion disgruntled that morning. Continuing to mull over the miserable prisoner in his mind would only make him angrier, however, and so he determined to channel his thoughts over to more pleasant matters. He frowned. Even here, there were unpleasantries with which he must deal. His new toy, Elína the Lossoth girl, had proved to be a pleasant surprise. Lovely, young, docile, obedient, and after her introduction to the pleasures of connubial bed, she had been eager for his caresses. He had planned to take the girl back to Shedun Fortress and add her to his harem of two wives, three concubines, and five slave girls. In this damn cold place, a man had little enough to console him through the long, dark nights, and no one could blame him for bringing some of the comforts of home with him.
Nothing had gone quite the way that Hyarion had planned it, however. After the ceremony of the night of the 7th in which he had allowed the prisoner to perform certain rituals using the strange glowing blade, the girl had not seemed the same. Throughout the course of the day yesterday, she had been beset by a bout of chills. While last night she had seemed to rally and be much her old self, the morning found her looking wan with dark circles around her eyes. Even her rosy cheeks and red lips looped pallid. Although they had experienced a night of the warmest love-making, she had awakened in the middle of the night, complaining of terrible dreams. He had managed to soothe the girl, though, and she had fallen off into a peaceful sleep in his arms.
He turned around in the saddle and looked back to the sleigh where Elína rode beside the driver. Since he did not plan to be gone long in Carn Dum, Hyarion had rented a sleigh and team from a local man and would return them after they rode back that way in a few days. Though Elína was wearing a warm woolen dress and a fur-lined cloak and was bundled in furs and blankets, the girl was shivering as she sat in the sleigh. Hyarion smiled encouragingly at her and she managed a weak little smile. He looked beyond her at the pack horse, where the emerald dagger and Silmadan's other possessions were hidden in a pack saddle. He thought to himself how impressed the king of Angmar would be when he presented it to him as a gift. Perhaps that would do much towards mollifying the king when the Lieutenant reported that the prisoner - who was suspected of being an assassin - had escaped. If Elína had not been ailing, he had even considered giving her as a trinket to His Majesty. There was no possible way he could do that now.
Though there were deep layers of snow in high banks along the sides of the road, the roadbed itself was clear. That was one thing for which he had always been grateful in this miserable cold northern country - after a storm, the road crews were out as soon as possible, clearing the trail. Things were run efficiently in the kingdom.
Riding beside the sleigh, Lord Hyarion opened one of the wine flasks which he carried on a hook on the cantle of his saddle. "Drink, my little northern flower," he encouraged her in his deep, richly accented Southern voice. "This will put some color back into your cheeks."
Smiling at him from under long, dark eyelashes, the girl took the flask and brought it daintily up to her lips and drank. "Thank you, my lord. Feel much better."
He studied her eyes and knew that she was lying. If anything, she looked even worse, but at least she was not shivering.
"My dear, look how clear are the skies today. No storms are expected, and if we continue the pace that I have set, we should be in the capital of Angmar, Carn Dum, by nightfall."
She extended the wineskin back to him with a "Thank you" and a little nod of her head.
"No, dear," he smiled as he stoppered the vessel and handed it back to her, "you may keep it to warm you as needed." He winked at her. "There are plenty more packed in the pack saddles."
"My lord, this place we go..." her brows knitted together as she tried to think of the unfamiliar Common Speech words, "what it look like? Big?"
"Little Elína," a smile came over his face, "'big' is not the word. Immense would be a more accurate way to describe it. There is a mighty fortress with a great wall and a high tower... garrisons, storehouses, blacksmiths' shops, armories, stables... and the town that has grown up around it... the fortress will be like nothing you have ever seen!"
"My lord," she frowned and stammered as she attempted to form the difficult words, "is there a.... what you call it? Chieftain?"
"No, my dear," Hyarion chuckled, "in Angmar there rules a great king, a mighty king, whose like has never been known in Middle-earth. My soothsayer back at Shedun Fortress predicts that he will be like a spectacular star which blazes across the heavens, that he will a great conqueror and destroyer of kingdoms, and that his fame will endure until the end of the world!" The girl looked puzzled, and he was not certain how much she understood.
"Oh, I see!" A look of comprehension came over her face. "A big chieftain with many furs, sleds and dogs!"
"I suppose you could say that," Hyarion grinned. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. As he was straightening back in the saddle, Hyarion detected a flicker of movement far ahead. Squinting, he made out the shape of a horsemen far in the distance and heading their way at a rapid pace. The column halted until the massager drew up, and after saluting the lieutenant, the young man, resplendent in the red and black Angmarian livery, handed him a sealed scroll. Opening the missive, the lieutenant read,
"Lord Hyarion, Lieutenant of Shedun Fortress, you are hereby ordered to report immediately to Carn Dum and present yourself before Lord Alassar, Steward to His Majesty. You are to bring all the possessions and property which you wrongfully confiscated from Lord Silmadan, His Majesty's nephew."
Blinking, Hyarion looked up from the message. "Silmadan!" he thought. "So that impudent young pup was the King's nephew? So it was true after all!" A sharp pang struck his abdomen, and he felt a brief wave of nausea rush over him. He was not yet prepared to consider the full possibilities of what this startling revelation might mean for his career... or even his life.
"Sir," the massager asked in a clipped voice, "do you have a message for me to take back in return?"
"Aye," Hyarion replied, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice. It would never do to let this Carn Dum man think that he had any hesitancy whatsoever.
"Sir, do you wish to write it?"
"No, you can take this oral message... tell the steward that all the requested objects are in my possession, and that my escort and I should be arriving in Carn Dum by nightfall."
As Hyarion watched the massager ride away, he felt himself breaking out in a sweat even though the day was cold. The day had started out most unpleasantly and he had little hope now that it would improve.
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Post by Gordis on Jun 14, 2008 21:33:56 GMT
Chapter 27. The Mystery of Mirkwood
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Carn-Dum, late evening of November 8, 1347.
Written by Gordis and Angmar
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As the King of Angmar strode regally from the room with Agannalo following behind, his mind closed like the lid on a steel box. "This scoundrel will not have access to my women! I will summon a host of the Silent Ones to guard them. Even though he is utterly debauched, he will not dare challenge my special guard. And should he be that foolish, I will handle him myself!"
When the two had arrived at the king's chambers, the King of Angmar rounded on the lesser nazgul. "What do you want here?" he demanded, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his eyes glowing threateningly. "State your business, "nephew"! What is your excuse for coming here? I will not put up with any of your nonsense!"
Agannalo was genuinely distressed and his voice shook from suppressed emotion when he replied. “So here is your welcome, my Captain? I hoped against all odds that you might be pleased to see me again after all those years… For, good or bad, I am still your closest kinsman left in Middle Earth… But no… I must have been mistaken to come here. Nobody likes Agannalo – I have long known that. But, my Lord, it is not my fault that I am the way I am! Yes, I need human blood – what of it? You can’t change it anymore than you can make Khamul enjoy swimming in the Anduin!”
“I have told you many times, Agannalo, discipline your mind. You won’t die without blood – and you know it full well,” the King replied, softening somewhat.
“You don’t want me here – then I shall go…” the other continued dejectedly. “You grudge a mortal female for a kinsman and an old companion – well, I understand… Agannalo shall return to his wanderings… I shall pick up my old horse at Shedun and go as far as the old nag bears me. When it dies, I shall walk – away from here. I have nothing to lose, you see, as I have already lost everything I possessed. And I have nearly lost my life there in Greenwood when trying to get here. It was a close call, you know…”
The King frowned. Agannalo’s pleading was slowly getting on his nerves, but the last piece of information and the mention of Greenwood sent cold shivers along his spine. He raised his hand. “Stop this whining, 'nephew.' Sit down and pour yourself some wine from this flagon. It will soothe your nerves and clear your murky brain. Now tell me what has happened to you in Greenwood.”
Agannalo stole a glance at the Captain. It seemed that his Lord’s anger had abated – he only looked preoccupied. Agannalo had a very good guess why. Glad of the Captain’s invitation, Agannalo walked towards the table and let his tired body sink into the ample cushions of a big armchair. He poured two goblets of wine, noticing that it was not some weak brew of mortals, but the old wine of the Nazgul, green with cold vapors rising from the surface. He downed his goblet and almost purred in satisfaction feeling the liquid fire spread through his body. “Ah, I really needed it!” he smiled.
The King sat facing him, eyes glinting and his back ramrod straight, as if he was sitting on a throne in his Hall and not in a soft armchair. He picked up his goblet but made not a single sip. “Speak up!” he urged.
“Well… I don’t know where to begin…” Agannalo started uncertainly. “I don’t think you are now much interested in my life in the South. I will tell you the story sometime later, when you are in the mood to enjoy a funny tale. Anyway, thirty years ago my peaceful and pleasant life ended in a major catastrophe. I decided to go North, first visiting Khamul, than Gothmog, then coming up to your new dwelling in Angmar.
“Was it Khamul who told you that I was to be found here?” asked the King.
“Khamul?” Agannalo exclaimed bitterly. “Nay, the blasted scoundrel never deigned to give me an audience. Al-Khamul, the Sublime Lord of Khand, the Pillar of Firmament, the Defender of the People et cetera et cetera was always so busy with matters of State (or, more likely, with his harem) that he had no time to spare for vagabonds like me. He kindly sent me a new horse (a good one, I must grant him that) and a small coffer of gifts and kicked my butt out of his realm. Nay, it was Gothmog who told me where to find you – mostly because he didn’t wish to put me up himself.”
“I see…” the King commented, unsurprised. ”At least you should be grateful that Khamul has not seized the opportunity to wring your neck once you came unprotected into his realm. Time must have made ol’ Khamul soft – or forgetful.”
“I have always been a good comrade to him” countered Agannalo. “I tried to better him, civilize him, enlighten him - but he wouldn’t listen. Coarse barbarian!”
The King chuckled. This discussion reminded him of good old times. To say that Agannalo had been unpopular among his comrades was an understatement. Khamul, in particular, hated his very guts – because Agannalo never bothered to hide his deep conviction that only Numenoreans were worthy to be called Men, while all the others, Khandians included, were hardly better than animals.
“Now, enough of this nonsense!” prompted the King. “What road did you take to get here? Were you traveling along the east bank of the Anduin?”
“I have wandered a bit here and there, searching for the others… Rhun… Rhovanion… Then I went West skirting the Southern edges of Greenwood – do you know that people turned to calling it “Mirkwood” now?”
At the nod from the King, Agannalo continued “There is a good reason for it. The forest seems weird. And what horrible tales are told in the villages nearby! Spiders… wargs… orcs…and some darker creatures with no name. Of course, being what I am, I had hardly listened, secure in my power. And I was wrong! I, Agannalo, have been overconfident – and paid for it!”
He paused for emphasis. The King shifted impatiently: the pompous brat Agannalo could never tell a tale without embellishments and lots of dramatic effects! But the King wisely chose not to interrupt his underling to avoid more diversions.
“Well, my Lord,” Agannalo continued, “as I said, I rode skirting the southern edge of the forest following a well trodden path – almost a road. It went in and out of the trees and the Sun was on my left. Then the path turned deeper into the forest. I thought nothing about it at first, but deeper and deeper into the forest it went, until the overlapping branches hid the sun. The path became less and less perceptible until I had to pick my way among the trees as best as I could. After a while I realized I had no idea anymore where the West was. I had gotten lost – the first time in my life - can you but imagine that?”
The King snorted sarcastically. “As far as I remember, you did get lost quite a few times,” he commented.
Agannalo choked on his wine in indignation. “But this last time in Harad I was all but stoned by hashish! And that other time in Rhun, it was Khamul who lost the path: blind as a bat in daylight he was, but still he insisted on leading the way!”
The King waved these explanations aside. “Oh, leave that alone and go back to your tale, “nephew”! I have not got all the night to listen to you.”
Agannalo felt frustrated, wondering what other duties were so pressing as to leave little time for the talk with an old companion. He continued somewhat morosely. “Soon I decided to turn back, but the trees that I have just passed seemed to form a solid wall behind my back – the way that I had just taken became shut! I thought of those Huorns, you know, and grew very uneasy. We have little power at best over the walking trees. So on I rode or often walked leading my horse, led deeper and deeper into the forest. The ground was steadily rising. The path became better – as if in response to my going in the desired direction. My Gray even managed a canter, when suddenly something struck me across the chest and I fell down. My horse bolted. At the same moment a rain of boulders fell from above on my unprotected head. I had ridden into an ambush!
“Were I an ordinary man, I would have been killed on the spot. As it was, I was stunned for some time, before realizing that I had hit a wire stretched across the path and had upset another rope - thus upturning a platform piled with stones that was cunningly placed between the branches above me. By the time I understood what had hit me, my assailants were upon me. Trolls! Bigger and uglier that I have ever seen, and walking in daylight!”
Agannalo looked at the King – his face was grim, but he didn’t seem to doubt Agannalo’s words this time.
“Some trolls were armed with heavy clubs and the others were bearing torches. I had a nasty feeling they knew exactly what sort of being they were hunting. I rolled away to avoid the leading Troll’s swing and commanded my Ring to turn me invisible. They seemed not in the least surprised when I had disappeared into thin air. Shouting to each other, they formed a circle around the place where they thought I was and started battering the ground with their clubs. Before they closed on me, I picked the place where the trolls were most widely spaced and ran one through its stomach with my sword. It roared in pain but didn’t fall. Desperate, I whipped out the Elven dagger I had with me at this time and plunged it into the brute’s crotch. The troll screamed and fell, and I screamed with it - from pain in my hand caused by the enchanted weapon. My scream had little effect on them, though. I decided it was time to run – and run I did, as swiftly as I were able.
“For some time I heard their heavy feet behind me, but after a while I turned sharply left and managed to dupe them. They thundered past. Still invisible, I stopped to get my bearings – and felt IT.” Aganallo shivered and gulped down another goblet.
“Describe it!” the King prompted sternly.
Agannalo shook his head. “It was just a feeling… of something … somebody… that was trying to reach me, to draw me to It. It called to me, maybe wordlessly, maybe singing softly and seductively, promising me riches, power, rivers of blood, if only I heeded Its call, came to It. I felt Its hunger and Its longing…”
Agannalo’s troubled blue eyes looked directly into the King’s silver ones. “It wanted my Ring, Captain”.
The King’s eyes blazed, suddenly turning bright red. For some time they sat in silence. Then Agannalo nodded in reply to an unspoken question.
“Aye, It felt familiar,” he said brokenly. "Very familiar – but much weaker. Oh, Captain, what shall we do?”
"You ask me what we are going to do?" The King sighed. "We are going to do nothing, for there is nothing that we can do."
Agannalo stared at the King in surprise. "My lord," Agannalo's voice was tense, "you mean that you think that the Dark Master has taken up His abode in the forest of Greenwood?"
"Let us not deceive ourselves, Agannalo. There is only one who can exert the kind of power which you felt in Greenwood, and we know who He is. That you escaped your misadventure virtually unscathed proves that He is there somewhere, but too weak to have total power over you now. He desired your Ring to aid Him in regaining His control! You must never go back there! To do so would be the height of folly!"
"But can we be sure?" Agannalo shuddered slightly, his throat contracting in a gulp. "Perhaps you are mistaken?" He certainly hoped that the King was wrong, but he had the feeling that he was not.
"Who else can it be? You say that you saw trolls walking in daylight, far bigger and uglier than any you had ever seen before. Such things as that are unknown. You know they could not bring themselves into being. And the ambush. Who could be the mastermind behind that? There is only one, and we know His name."
While the king had spoken, Agannalo's expression had grown more worried. His hand shook as he bolted down the rest of his drink and then took the liberty of pouring himself yet another drink from the flagon. He waited for the brew to take effect and felt a comforting glow spread through his body as the liquid coursed through his veins. He would be safe here. He had made the right decision to come here. Besides, who else would have him?
"Perhaps you are right, my Captain, and you can be sure I have no plans to go back there." He settled back in his chair, now able to relax somewhat as he sipped his wine. Then the disquieting thought hit him and he felt the tension and worry coming back: since He was able to detect me in Greenwood, how do I know that He cannot find me here?"
"You are certain that you were successful in eluding the trolls? None followed you?" The King looked at him sharply. Agannalo was certain that he had read his mind.
"Aye, my Lord. They ran right past me. You know they are stupid brutes, all power and brawn and possessing nothing of intellect."
"True enough, 'nephew,' but just to make certain they did not, I will double the scouts on the marches. Should He have the slightest suspicions of who we are, He could destroy everything that I have worked to build here." The King's eyes glowed red like flaming brands and seemed to bore into Agannalo's soul. "And then the blame can be laid squarely at your door!"
Agannalo hung his head, and when he looked up, his eyes were filled with remorse and shame. "Then, my Captain, since I have brought such calamity upon you, I will leave now." He pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. "No one wants Agannalo and perhaps they are right in feeling that way! But, Captain," his voice choked, "I never meant to bring trouble to you!"
"But it seems wherever you go, you bring it with you or else create it!" The King added quickly before Agannalo could offer another excuse, "Now sit down and stop your accursed whining! I will tell you what you will do now! You will not leave the walls of this fortress for any reason until I feel it is safe for you to do so."
"My Lord, you mean I can stay?" Agannalo asked eagerly, his eyes lighting up like those of a small child who has been told that he may go to the village fair.
"Aye, I will allow you to stay," the King grumbled, "but only under my terms. You will learn to control yourself and not give into your bloodlust. Your lack of self-discipline has brought you to much woe over the years. You will learn to curb those tendencies of impulse and hot temper. And above everything else, while you are here, you will keep out of trouble and obey my orders implicitly! Do you understand?"
"Aye, Captain, aye!" he exclaimed. "I understand perfectly." Agannalo had guessed what had been the dark force which had called him in the Greenwood, and now the King had verified his fears. That knowledge had terrified him, but perhaps he could be safe here.
"Now, 'nephew,' another thing. I should not have to mention this, but I will. You are to stay away from my women. One indiscretion on your part, and I will drive you into the cold!"
"Aye, my Lord. Your women are safe from me. I will be as impassive as eunuch."
"Impassive?" the King chuckled dryly. "We both know that there has been more than one ‘impassive’ eunuch who has been beheaded for cuckolding his lord."
***
As Agannalo finally made his way out of the King’s rooms, the question that had bothered him during the long interview was unexpectedly answered. For there, in the antechamber, a gorgeous woman clad only in a magnificent ermine coat over a diaphanous pinkish nightdress was impatiently pacing, glaring at the doors to the King’s study. Alassar was following her like a faithful dog and trying to reason with her to have patience. “No wonder the Captain was so eager to end our meeting and be off to bed,” Agannalo thought with a stab of envy.
“Lady, Gelireth, have a little patience, I beg you,” the Steward pleaded, “It won’t do to interrupt the King while he is in conference with his newfound kinsman. Really, you should return to your chambers, lest you catch cold – it is so chilly in here! I am sure the King will join you when he is done …”
Heedless of the advice, the dainty little lady stubbornly tossed her head and abruptly turned away from the chagrined Steward, sending her ermine mantle flying in her wake. She almost collided with Agannalo, who had to abandon his initial intention to slip quietly by. She stopped to look at him with evident curiosity while he pressed his right hand to his breast and bowed to the Lady. Doing so, he couldn’t fail to observe how her thin nightdress enticingly revealed the soft curves of her young body: firm breasts, tiny waist and full hips. He lowered his long lashes, trying to conceal the hungry gleam in his eyes.
Surprisingly for Agannalo, the lady didn’t make the slightest attempt to wrap herself up in her heavy furs. Instead she held her ground scrutinizing him in her turn. It was no good to stare at one of the Captain’s women – unsafe to put it mildly - so, cursing inwardly, he lowered his gaze even further down. Unfortunately, this brought in focus the lady’s delicate feet shod in silver slippers - the small bare feet that were already turning blue from cold – the dainty feet that cried to be warmed. Agannalo felt a new surge of lust and muttered under his breath an ancient Adunaic obscenity, which the lady mistook for a shy greeting.
“Welcome to Carn Dum, Lord Silmadan,” she chimed in her clear silver voice. “Or should I call you Prince?” she laughed softly – Agannalo’s head was still bowed. “I am Lady Gelireth. I hope your journey went well?”
“Yes, my Lady,” Agannalo replied shakily. “It was rather …uneventful. Thank you for your kindness. However, I must ask your leave to retire now, as I am tired after the long journey.”
“You have my leave,” the little lady conceded generously. “But I hope to see you on the morrow so you could regale me with tales of your adventures…”
Wordlessly Agannalo bowed again and quietly turned to leave – only to be stopped by the Steward.
“Here is your dagger, Lord Silmadan. I have retrieved it from the Guardhouse. Please forgive the guards their mistake,” Alassar said somewhat nervously, gingerly offering Agannalo the Morgul knife swathed in several layers of cloth. The nazgul noticed that the Steward also wrapped his hand in his long trailing sleeve to pick up the weapon. It was clear that Alassar knew or at least had a very good guess about the weapon’s dangers.
With a nod to the Steward, Agannalo took the blade and stalked away from the antechamber, feeling Gelireth’s eyes on his back. Impatient to leave before the King saw him talking with his mistress, Agannalo was almost running, but due to his acute hearing he couldn’t help but overhear the rest of the conversation between Alassar and the lady.
“What a charming young man,” Gelireth drawled. “Don’t you think, Alassar, that for one so handsome he is most endearingly shy?”
“Yes, my Lady,” the Steward replied, “The King described him as a scholar totally devoted to his spiritual studies. It seems he shuns women and has made a vow to remain chaste.”
“How very unusual… I hope I will get the opportunity to get to know him better…”
“Blast the stupid woman!” Groaning, Agannalo made his way to the sumptuous guestroom reserved for him. A quiet, obedient servant showed him around: there were heavy drapes on the windows, dark oaken furniture and many stuffed heads of deer, elks, and bears nailed to the walls. It felt homely – Agannalo only wished it were human heads displayed there instead, as was the custom in Far Harad.
Dismissing the servant, Agannalo pulled out of his pocket the small box with hashish he had obtained from Hyarion by not-so-honest means. There he found about a dozen small greenish balls of the viscous substance – a single one capable to send a man on the paths of unearthly dreams for a whole night. Agannalo swallowed all of them at once and stretched contentedly on the bed awaiting the oh-so-rare peace and rest.
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Post by Gordis on Jun 14, 2008 21:34:53 GMT
Chapter 28. The Hands of the King…
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Fortress of Carn-Dum, evening of November 9, 1347.
Written by Angmar
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Lord Hyarion, lieutenant of Shedun Fortress, followed the guard down a long empty corridor. The sound of their footsteps echoing on the stone floor was disconcerting to Lord Hyarion, but the guards seemed oblivious to the noise. Behind them followed two more guards carrying the possessions of Silmadan, nephew of the king. Though the hall was deserted, save for the four of them, Hyarion sensed unseen eyes watching them. That was nothing unusual about that in itself, for every time Hyarion had been to the fortress of Carn Dum, he had sensed that he was being watched. This time, however, he detected there was a greater level of animosity than was common. Whether they were eyes of the living or eyes of another kind, he had never been able to determine, but such matters were not any business of the commander of a remote outpost.
"This way, sir," the brisk young guard told him as he opened the door to a chamber. "Here Lord Alassar will receive you."
Nervously, Hyarion walked through the door and bowed formally to His Majesty's steward, Lord Alassar. The grim-faced man acknowledged him with a brief nod and pointed him to a seat across the table from where he sat.
"Lord Alassar," Hyarion began, "all of Lord," he hesitated, "at least I believe I am correct in referring to him as a lord - Silmadan's possessions are intact and contained in those two packs that I brought up with me from Shedun."
"Aye, Lieutenant, I am certain they are. It is not even necessary that I see the packs opened before me." He turned to the three guards. "Men, deliver the packs to his room, and then return to your stations."
The young guard looked at him questioningly. "Should we wait for verification that all is as it is said to be?"
"Nay," Alassar's expression was unreadable, "he is still resting after the journey, but I am sure if something is not in order, we will be hearing from Lord Silmadan soon enough."
"Aye, sir," the guards bowed and were quickly away out the door.
"Wine?" Alassar looked at Lieutenant Hyarion as he reached for the decanter and filled two goblets.
"Aye, a draught would be appreciated," Hyarion nodded as he accepted the goblet.
"Aye, the aroma is exceptional," Alassar moved the glass under his nostrils and then drank. "And how was your journey up here?"
"My lord, uneventful, I am glad to say." Hyarion wished that the man would just get on with whatever it was that he wanted to say. He felt that the Steward was playing some kind of game with him, a game he did not understand, and he was feeling uncomfortable with it.
"Lieutenant, I understand you brought a girl with you, one of the Lossoth. This is the first time you have ever brought one of your women to the fortress. I am curious as to why." Though his manner was friendly, Hyarion thought he sensed a trace of something unpleasant in his eyes.
"Aye, my lord, I must apologize for that, but I came into possession of her while on the trail. There was no opportunity to have her transported back to the fortress." Hyarion hoped that his explanation would be sufficient.
Alassar's expression never changed, and Hyarion wondered if the man had even been listening to him. "Reports which have come to me state that the woman is ill. Surely you must have taken into consideration that she might have been infected with the plague and could contaminate every last person in this fortress?" Lord Alassar regarded him with a sharply questioning look in his eyes.
"No, nothing like that, my lord." Hyarion was becoming more agitated. I do not think the cause of her malady is physical, but rather of the spirit. You see, the poor girl had a fright - you know how weak females are - and she has not been the same since."
"A fright, you say?" Alassar took another sip from his goblet and then leaned forward, studying Hyarion's face. "What sort of fright?"
"Nothing really, the result of an accident," Hyarion hedged. Although the room was quite cool, Hyarion found himself sweating and took another stout drink of wine to steady his nerves. How much did the steward know about the bizarre ceremony in which Hyarion had participated? He had been a fool to believe Silmadan, who had promised to reveal the secrets of the gleaming blade if Hyarion would but agree to allow him to use Elína in his bizarre ceremony.
"What sort of accident?" Alassar's eyes on him had grown intense.
"The girl was accidentally wounded by Lord Silmadan's dagger." Hyarion looked away and studied the tapestry on the wall. The work was really quite magnificent. The threads had been worked to depict the image of a warrior mounted upon a huge black warhorse. He held a great mace in his hands and had just struck down one of his enemies.
"Wounded by Lord Silmadan's dagger!" Alassar exclaimed, firmly grabbing the edge of the table in his hands and pushing back in his chair. "What kind of dagger?"
"A dagger, just like any other," Hyarion shrugged his shoulders, hoping to minimize the situation so that Lord Alassar would not probe any further.
"Hyarion, you are a soldier and both you and I know that there is no dagger 'just like any other.' All are different, and each possesses its own power. Describe it, man, and do not try to trick me!"
As much as he wanted to devise some cunning lie that would put Alassar off, he knew that he could not deceive him. Perhaps there was some drug which had been added to the wine that made his tongue more eager to speak. By the time the audience was over, he had told him everything. At the conclusion of the meeting, Lord Alassar had no comments, but dispatched guards to take him back to the rooms he shared with Elína. Lieutenant Hyarion knew that they, too, would be added to the many that must now be watching him.
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Fortress of Carn-Dum, night of November 9, 1347.
Written by Angmar
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"Lord Alassar, be seated." The King motioned to the seat across the table from him.
"Thank you, sire." As he sat down at the table, Alassar attempted a polite smile but could manage only a spasmodic upturning of his lips. While he could conceal almost all traces of any emotion from other men, there was no way he could deceive the dark presence who sat before him.
His hand trembled as he brought the goblet of mulled wine to his lips and took a small sip. He wished he could control the tremor that insistently plagued his hand. Such mannerisms reflected weakness. If it had been another - a man like himself - who sat across from him at the small table, Lord Alassar would have given every appearance of a man perfectly in control of himself - calm, cool and detached. However, His Majesty was formidable enough during a normal audience, but under the present circumstances, it was as though Alassar faced some grim spectre who could see through to his very soul.
"Lord Alassar, what business is so urgent that it should take me away from my warm bed?" While the King's voice sounded offended, Alassar thought that he could catch another quality, almost - his mind stumbled to find the precise word that would describe it. The best that he could do was "concern," or was it "pity?" Whatever it was, it did not ease Alassar's distress. On the contrary, it made him feel more alarmed. There was nothing to do but press on and simply tell His Majesty exactly what was bothering him.
"Sire, as you know, Lieutenant Hyarion and his new mistress arrived here this afternoon." Alassar took another drink of the wine - which was quite good, he thought. "I fear that the girl is most unwell." Alassar directed his gaze at the king in the attempt to gauge his reaction to his words, but he could read nothing.
"Lord Alassar, what seems to be the malady which plagues the girl?" The king lifted up his own wine and took a shallow sip.
Alassar rubbed his fingers over his palm and was disconcerted to discover that his hand was just as sweaty as he feared. "I do not have a name for this illness, for it exhibits symptoms that I have never quite seen before. It does not seem to be any plague or disease of which I am familiar, and you know that I am well-versed in medicine."
"My lord steward, describe these symptoms to me." The king's voice now seemed sympathetic.
"Majesty, the girl - whose name is Elína - complains of chills and aches, and a feeling of cold which she says has penetrated deep into her very bone marrow. At night, she is vexed by terrible dreams of dark places and phantoms. Lieutenant Hyarion told me that she fears that she will fall asleep and never awaken. It seems that she thinks that death is waiting for her just beyond the portals of her room." Lord Alassar looked down at the cuff of his sleeve, which was embroidered with vines twining about runes. "Normally, I would attribute her condition merely to a state of nervous agitation and hysteria at being in new circumstances and surroundings. This I would do if were not for the fact that she seems so unnaturally cold, and her pulse is erratic. But the name of this disease?" Alassar shook his head. "I could find it in none of the medical books."
Here, Alassar was lying. He knew the name of the illness, but he was too terrified to tell his master how he knew it. Alassar thought back to that day several years ago when he had been summoned to His Majesty's chambers high in the tower. Just when he had arrived, the king had been called away suddenly. After assuring him that he would be back soon, the king told him that while waiting his return that he should feel free to use the library. Alassar had been overjoyed at this privilege, for he had long hoped for an opportunity to see the extensive collection. While exploring the library, Alassar's attention had been drawn to a door which he had not noticed before.
"Unusual that this escaped my attention," he had thought at the time as he walked over to the door. Noticing that the door was slightly ajar, he felt it would do no harm for him to take a quick look inside. There was a treasure of learning contained in all the many scrolls arranged in their neat holders and he was hungry for the opportunity to examine even one. As he looked over them, he was uncertain which one to view. Finally, a title in neat script caught his eye and he took it to the nearby table
Unrolling the parchment, he held his candle high above the document. There, before him, he saw that the scroll was written in a dialect of Black Speech which was so pure and perfect in form and syntax that at first he could only make a few words. Then he saw the order in the runes, and drawing upon his previous knowledge of the language, he was able to translate a small portion of text. "The high tongue!" he realized, shocked at his discovery.
He had pursued a section of the text when a sense of great danger came upon him, warning him to leave the room quickly. Putting the scroll back in its place, he had fled quickly and returned to the library. He had been relieved to find that His Majesty had not yet come back. Forcing himself to breathe slowly and deeply, he calmed his hammering heart and settled his nerves. He appeared quote nonchalant a few minutes later as he looked over the scrolls and found an innocuous one titled "Fishing Off the Coast of Orrostar."
Yes, he knew the name of the malady which inflicted the girl. Even more importantly, he knew the manner in which she had been stricken. Just thinking of the fate which lay in store for the innocent girl caused a heavy sense of despondency to bear down upon him. "Doomed," he thought. "This lovely child is doomed with no hope of escape." However, Alassar dare not tell His Majesty how he had obtained this information.
"Nay, I have no name for the ailment." Alassar found himself repeating what he said previously. "Strange," he thought. Such a thing was unthinkable to his well ordered mind. He was becoming agitated. He must direct his well-trained mind to make his body relax.
"Lord Alassar, are you sure that is quite true?" His Majesty sounded amused.
His nervousness returned and intensified. Alassar forced himself to look up into the face of his master. "Sire, what do you mean?"
"Alassar, you know full well what I mean. Do not attempt to conceal the truth from me, for I have many ways of knowing things. Always be truthful to me. I value candor in a man."
The king could see through him! It was useless to try to hide anything from His Majesty, and so Alassar confessed that he knew of the existence of the hidden room. He did not feel purged of his guilt until he had revealed everything which he had learned in that scroll. At that moment, realization came to him. He was one of the few living men who had obtained the secret of the most dread of the Nazgul weapons - and what it did. Even more ominous and forbidding than that, though, was the terrifying knowledge of just what His Majesty - and perhaps his nephew really were - undead immortals.
"Now that that matter is out of the way," His Majesty was almost laughing, that cold, sarcastic sound that was part laugh and part hiss, but devoid of all mirth, "perhaps you will tell me how you propose to remedy the situation."
Suddenly feeling extremely weak, Alassar leaned forward and clutched the table with both hands. "Sire, neither of them can leave Carn Dum - ever! When the girl dies or..." Alassar's voice broke in fear, "is... 'transformed,' Hyarion will be very bitter, and bitter men have a tendency to talk too much. He will tell all his colleagues about your nephew, and then, if they do not guess what he is, they will strongly suspect it." Alassar's words sped from his mouth as though he had no control over his tongue.
"Your Majesty, as you are very aware, people will always gossip and spread rumors, and the more extravagant or spectacular the tale, the quicker and farther the stories will travel. Should the kings of the northern and southern kingdoms have any inkling of this - and I do not like to think about the elves in Rivendell - everything you have worked to build here will be in dire jeopardy."
The king was silent, turning the stem of his wine goblet slowly around and around in his fingers. Alassar had the sensation that the king was laughing at him, mocking him. Feeling His Majesty's eyes upon him, as though they were burning a hole through his mind and soul, the steward quaked in horror. Would the dread king slay him for reading the forbidden scroll and then lying about it, or even worse - a shudder of icy cold fear went down Alassar's spine - would he turn one of those Silent Ones after him? Or most horrifyingly of all, use one of those terrible blades upon him?
"Your Majesty, please..." Sweat trickled down Alassar's forehead and his heart throbbed in his chest like the beating of a hillman's drum. The king's form began to shimmer, glowing a silver pale white, and a wave of dizziness swept over the steward. Trembling, unable to see anything except a cloudy image, he rose to his feet and groped along the table to where the king's seat was set. His dry throat began to constrict as though a great hand were tightening around it, and the proud steward began to weep, sobbing like a little boy who had been hurt. Falling to his knees, he gripped the king's robe. "Your Majesty, mercy! Mercy I beg you!"
The king's reply was harsh and cold. "Rise to your feet and return to your seat, Steward! Such fawning and groveling is not worthy of a man!"
Taking his breath in great gasps, Alassar stumbled back and almost collapsed in his seat.
"'Tis true that you have committed a serious breach of trust, but surely you must know that I knew about it all along. Perhaps you feel that the obtaining of such knowledge was not worth the price, and perhaps you are correct. Now that you have it, though, you can never turn back." Alassar was certain that somewhere in the rear of the room, he could hear hollow voices laughing and mocking and sense unseen fingers pointing at him in ridicule. He looked around but saw nothing.
He drew a deep breath and asked the question that was tormenting his mind. "Sire, then you are not--"
The King interrupted him. "No, your existence is safe enough, Lord Alassar. You will not die today." The king was silent for a while after that and then spoke again. "The answer to your other question... the Lieutenant of Shedun fortress and his pretty little slave will remain here forever. Tell him that I have appointed him to a much better position than he had before."
"And the woman?"
The King's voice took on a new tone, one that Alassar recognized as something common to all men. Lust. "Have her brought to my chambers when dawn covers the mountains. There is a... cure... to her sickness... but do not concern yourself with what it might be. You are free to go, my lord Steward."
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The Witch-king's Opulent Bedchamber, Carn Dum. Early morning of November 10, 1347
Written by Elfhild
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Elína awoke to the sound of voices and the sensation of sinking into a delightfully sumptuous cloud. She opened her eyes – it took a great effort to do so, for it seemed that the weight of her eyelashes had increased tenfold – and saw through the mists that clouded her vision dark shapes receding through an arched entryway. Their heads bowed, long liripipes dangling from their hoods like serpents, the sable-clad servants exited as silently as shadows moving upon a wall. Candles were set about the room, misty amber halos surrounding them like orbs of muted light, like the faint beam of a lantern held by a traveler who was unlucky enough to find himself wandering in the deepest fog.
A movement in the room, a stirring, like a breeze through the cotton grass which grew in the tundra. A man looked down at her from eyes of quicksilver set in a handsome, regal face, a luminous being whose pale skin shown with silvery phosphorescence. Mists wrapped around his form like the misty vapor expelled from one's lips whilst breathing in the frigid air of the north. His raven black hair and beard almost had a silvery sheen from the reflection of the soft light which surrounded him. He was dressed in kingly robes, rich blues and cool whites embroidered with thread-of-silver. Power and might seemed to emanate from him, pulsating like the steady beat of a heart.
Elína gasped weakly when the man reached down and picked up her hand, turning it over so that the wrist was exposed. Even though her arm from her wrist to her shoulder was completely numb, somehow she felt his touch, the coolness of his hand, the tiny ridges and whorls which spiraled around his fingers. He brought his other hand up and stroked his fingers across the wound which cut across her wrist like a grim bracelet. Upon his forefinger, there was a golden ring set with a stone which glittered like a shard of ice, the gleam of its faucets reflecting the light of the candles and sparking in shades of amber, yellow, pink and white. The coruscating jewel held the weak, dying girl mesmerized, the glittery sparkles somehow bringing a sense of serenity to her.
Murmuring a few words, the man slowly drew his fingers around in circle above the wound. Elína whimpered as sudden warmth flooded through her frozen arm, making her muscles contract in painful spasms. "Shhh," he whispered, his voice deep and seductive, "the pain lasts for only a little while." He caressed her aching arm slowly, his skillful fingers applying light pressure, the gold of his ring warming her frozen skin with gentle heat.
Gradually warmth and feeling came back to her arm, and Elína looked up at the man in amazement. An enigmatic smile upon his face, he lifted her wrist up to his lips. Elína gasped in surprise as she felt his warm tongue laving her skin. Her wrist began to tingle as he bathed it with his tongue. She whimpered, for it felt as though her skin were being pulled, stretching, uncomfortably, but a murmur from his lips and a series of long, lingering kisses upon her wrist stilled her protests.
When at last the man drew away from her, Elína gasped loudly when she once again saw her wrist in the candlelight. The cut was gone! Her eyes wide and fearful, she looked to the man. Gone was the ethereal light which seemed to radiate from the core of his being; gone were the mists which floated around his form. He was a man like any other, of solid form, of flesh and blood. Somehow the transformation was more terrifying than the initial apparition.
Trembling, Elína licked her lips. "Elína say... t-thank you," she whispered.
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Post by Gordis on Jun 14, 2008 21:35:52 GMT
Chapter 29. The End of the Journey
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In Gimilbeth's entourage, on the road to Amon Sul, November 8, 1347.
Written by Rian
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Alagos, walking next to Callon on the driver's seat of the wagon, was watching him with a concerned expression on his face. Callon's wound had been treated and bandaged well, but it was deep, and it clearly bothered the young man.
"Sure you don't want me to drive, Callon?" The handsome face of the elf, which usually wore such a light-hearted expression, showed the concern he felt.
"No, I'm fine, thanks," answered Callon. "Horses make me feel better, anyway."
Tyaron, sitting on the wagon bench on Callon's other side, smiled briefly, then went back to fine-whetting his dagger, examining it carefully for any remaining damage from the battle.
"What you could do, though, is speak some more in your language. I always liked studying languages, and having the chance to hear the language of Gondolin from a native speaker ..." Callon shook his head in amazement, still not quite used to the idea that these men were as old as all that.
"Certainly! It is always a pleasure to speak in our mother tongue, and a pleasure to come across someone who appreciates it!" Alagos cleared his throat in an exaggerated gesture, and then began to speak slowly, grandly, in a solemn but melodic tone, and with graceful hand gestures.
Callon listened for awhile, enjoying the sounds of the language and listening for similarities and differences to the languages he knew, then asked respectfully, "What is that you're saying? Is it some song of a long-ago love, or the re-telling of a famous battle?"
"No - he's questioning my manhood in the most explicit terms possible," said Tyaron with a grin for Callon and a glare for Alagos.
Callon broke out laughing. "I can see you two are old friends indeed!" he said, as Alagos said something else in Gondolic to Tyaron and ran off merrily to see if the dwarves had anything amusing going on.
"We are indeed," answered Tyaron, smiling. "We have to be, or we would have killed each other long ago!"
Callon smiled, enjoying himself despite the pain. It was so wonderful to be in the company of men, and warriors at that. He didn't have to see his sister's face and be reminded of his failure to protect her. Caelen ...
Tyaron, quick-sighted, saw the change in Callon's expression.
"What saddens you, Callon elf-friend? he asked quietly.
"My sister ... "
Tyaron waited patiently, and eventually Callon sighed and spoke again.
"Do you ... or did you ever have a sister?" he asked Tyaron.
"No," answered Tyaron. "But Alagos did ... "
The two men were silent for a while.
"Do you blame yourself for what happened?" asked Tyaron quietly after a while.
Callon didn't answer.
"You tried to get her to flee, but it was her choice to ride back to you. And after that, six against one - and you injured - are odds that no man - at least in this age - could prevail against," said Tyaron firmly. "And from what I understand, staying home was definitely dangerous. I think you made the right choice among difficult options."
Tyaron sighed, then added solemnly, "To live is to risk danger ... and there are worse things that could have happened ... "
"You must have seen many grievous things over the years," said Callon quietly.
"Yes - many, many tragic things ... and many beautiful things. And the beautiful things are the greater truths." Tyaron paused, and then chanted quietly:
"Though all to ruin fell the world and were dissolved and backward hurled unmade into the old abyss, yet were its making good, for this - the dusk, the dawn, the earth, the sea - that Luthien for a time should be."
Callon nodded. "I see what you're saying."
"And your sister still has you," said Tyaron. "I wish you were not away for so long ... but perhaps it is for the best ... perhaps another might come alongside her now that she is alone ..."
Callon looked quickly over at Tyaron, and then back to the road.
There was silence again for awhile.
"What happened to Alagos' sister?" asked Callon.
"We don't know," answered Tyaron quietly. "We ... we assumed she had died in the city at first, but no one knew for sure. There was so much confusion and grief, and so much need among the refugees - illness and death, and bitter cold - we couldn't leave to try to find out more for many years - our help was needed so desperately. And then one day, a refugee came, speaking of someone who sounded like her, and so we left ..."
Tyaron looked off into the distance and sighed. "It was like chasing a phantom, though. But whenever we would give up, we would always hear something that would eventually make us start searching again. And then more wars, and more rebuilding ..."
He looked at Callon and smiled. "And so I guess we just got into the habit of wandering. Wandering, and discovering the beauty in the world, and fighting against the evil that would destroy it."
"And you're still looking." It wasn't a question.
And Tyaron didn't need to answer.
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On the road to Amon Sul, – eight leagues west of the Last Bridge. November 8, 1347, sunset.
Written by Valandil
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“We camp here for the night!” called Barund, in as authoritative a voice as he could muster. He glanced discretely toward Princess Gimilbeth, trying to gauge whether or not she approved – but he could not tell. He had consulted her on his earlier commands to the caravan, – which had met with a bemused stare. Perhaps he tried too hard to please her, or defer to her, he thought – maybe she would respect him for simply giving the orders as he saw fit. He had never escorted a member of the royal family before and, while he had practically begged Merendil for the duty, he now felt a little uncertain of what was required. He was given to understand that Gwindor and Elvegil had been particular favorites of the Princess. But who knows? Maybe some day he could enjoy that favor himself? Maybe even after this winter at Amon Sul!
He watched as the column advanced forward to the designated spot. There were forty men of Rhudaur – his own twenty from Brochenridge plus ten men from Merendil’s company, the six unscathed men of Gimilbeth’s former escort, and four men from Iant Barad. This last had been difficult to pull off, for the place was only garrisoned with twelve men, all of whom had families there in the village at Iant Methed. But after the attack, both Merendil and Barund wanted a few men along who knew the area well – so Merendil had commanded it. Barund had been west of the Bridge before, but only a couple times, and several years before – never quite as far as Amon Sul.
The rest of the party, besides Barund and the Princess herself, consisted of her maid and remaining page, the painter, the wagon-driver and two Elves who had attached themselves to the latter. They only had one wagon. All that could be spared from Iant Barad were employed in carting the unburied slain back to Brochenridge or beyond. The surviving Dwarves were trailing behind, and should catch up with them to pitch their own camp before the dark overtook them. Shaken up somewhat by the Orc attack, they had settled on continuing to follow Gimilbeth’s escort all the way to Amon Sul, then taking the interior road straight south to Tharbad, rather than taking the trail along the Mitheithel.
The site of their camp was an old abandoned watchtower from the days of Arnor. It had been ruined in the centuries of fighting between Rhudaur and Cardolan, and had no roof or floors, and half the stonework had fallen. For all the day’s journey, since leaving Iant Barad early that morning, they had traveled the border between the two lands, for Rhudaur claimed the land on their right, north of the road, and Cardolan that on their left, to the south. But the fighting had worn down both lands, and neither now had much fight left in them. And the land itself was desolate and empty – for after those years of war, none now lived within many miles of this stretch of road on either side.
With the short days, Barund was glad they had reached the watchtower before dark. In Arnor’s early years, these places had been established every eight leagues along Arnor’s major roads, as way-stations for her soldiers and to provide succor to travelers. If they kept making eight leagues each day, they would be within a day’s journey to Amon Sul when they camped on the 11th. Four steady days march, then one a little shorter at the end, if the maps were right, and they would arrive on November 12th. And they needed a marcher’s pace, for many horses had been lost in the fighting, and many of the rest were needed for the wagons. Only 15 of his men were mounted.
“A way-station, Your Highness,” offered Barund to Gimilbeth as he drew his horse up beside her. “Would you like your own tent set up inside its walls?”
“Of course it’s a way-station!” Gimilbeth began sharply, but continued rather formally, “thank you Sir Barund, I would be pleased to make use of it.”
Barund was off, barking orders at the wagon driver, until he remembered that this was the one wounded man in the company. After all, they were suddenly short on wagon drivers, and this man knew his horses. So, Barund called out to four men nearby, one of whom was unfortunate enough to look up at him at just the wrong time, and ordered them to make ready the Princess’ lodgings for the evening. He then returned to her side, in order that she might not want for companionship.
“It will not be as comfortable as our stay at Iant Barad, my Lady, but it must suffice as we travel in these parts.”
Barund was disappointed to see that she made no response and gave no reaction, but only stared straight ahead while her canvases were brought into their proper order. Barund had hoped that his mention of the place would remind her of the last few days – his rescue of her late in the night of November 5th, their short trip on to Iant Methed – the Last Bridge, and the warm reception they all shared at Iant Barad. Then yesterday, their lone full day of rest, he had been toasted at an impromptu celebration as the hero of her re-capture – and today, they had become traveling companions.
Thoughts of her, and attentions to her when he could make them, occupied him all the rest of the evening, until he settled into bed under his own tent, right near to hers, in case she needed anything, and that he might most suitably protect her. His mind kept going back to his first sight of her, in the moonlight among the trees, heedless of her ruined attire. She was older than he – but clearly not TOO old, and her form had retained a youthful shape. He wondered incessantly… if a royal woman like herself, probably too old to marry now, might draw a younger man like himself into her service. He smiled at the thought. He would be happy to do whatever duties she might demand of him.
He dreamed that night of what the coming Yule might hold.
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On the road to Amon Sul, – eight leagues west of the Last Bridge. November 8, 1347, sunset.
Written by Rian
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Tyaron finished re-wrapping Callon's arm and then sat back with a satisfied expression.
"You'll have an interesting-looking scar to tell stories about, and you'll be stiff for a bit, but you'll be fine. Alagos probably didn't need to have cut so deeply, but for these types of wounds, it's better to be safe than sorry - he definitely saved your life."
A serious expression lighted briefly on the face of the normally-smiling Alagos. "I've seen too many die from those wounds - and it's not a pleasant death. If I had come to you a few minutes later, I would have probably used my dagger on you quite differently ..."
Callon drew a shaky breath as he realized what the Elf was saying. He stood up and bowed. "I thank you again for saving my life. I can't imagine ... my sister ... " He shook his head, overcome with emotion as he pictured his sister receiving news of his death.
"Well, she'll get most of you back!" replied Alagos merrily, the momentary serious expression now replaced with his usual smile. "I wish we could have saved all of you, but at least we saved most of you - 99 parts of 100 isn't too bad, considering the alternative!"
Tyaron grinned and made a remark in Sindarin. Callon looked at Alagos with an inquiring expression on his face, waiting for the translation; the elves had started speaking in the various Elvish tongues around him and then translating, knowing how he enjoyed hearing and learning about languages.
Alagos feigned a shocked expression. "I'm sorry, I must decline to translate," he said to Callon in a serious voice, although he was unable to keep a little grin from starting. "My friend has said something shockingly rude - something that I would NEVER consider saying!" He shook his finger at Tyaron in the universal admonishing gesture.
"He's just mad that he didn't think of it first!" replied Tyaron, laughing, as he put away the herbs he had used on Callon's arm and then stood up to join the other two. Callon smiled; even with his limited Sindarin, he had a good guess at what Tyaron had said.
Callon suddenly remembered what he had been setting out to do before Tyaron had stopped him to check his arm. "I need to check the horses - would you like to come with me?" he asked the elves, still a bit tentative around them despite their joking with him. The thought of how old they were, and what they had lived through and seen, still boggled his mind, and he didn't understand why they seemed to like to be around him instead of the other, more experienced soldiers. But whatever reason they had, he was thoroughly enjoying their company.
"Surely - Anka and I have to finish a very interesting conversation we started earlier today, anyway," said Alagos, and started walking towards the horses. Callon, unsure of whether or not he was joking, followed, with Tyaron at his side.
"Anka?" queried Callon, hoping to get the translation this time.
"Teeth!" replied Tyaron with a grin, and Callon chuckled. Both of them had observed the fiery gelding taking bites out of any man unfortunate enough to come within his range.
"Let me do any heavy work," continued Tyaron. "I don't want you straining your arm and re-opening the wound."
"All right, I will - thanks," replied Callon.
Normally Callon would have warned someone approaching the black gelding to be careful, but he had no worries as he watched Alagos come right up to the horse, put his hands on either side of his face and start talking to him nose-to-nose, while the the 18-hand giant nuzzled the tall elf like they had been best friends from birth. The First-Born definitely had a way with animals, there was no denying that!
"I'll keep his teeth busy - you might want to check his off-hind hoof; he seemed to be favoring it just a bit - but I'm sure you noticed that, anyway," said Alagos to Callon as he walked up.
"Oh yes, you must stop thinking that men are made of delicious oats and honey, you great big oaf, you - they don't appreciate being bitten," murmured the elf to the horse, who blew back at him softly through his nostrils. Alagos reached up and scratched the horse's forelock, and then fixed him with a stern look. "And if I hear of you biting again, I'll have to come back and speak to you sternly, and you won't like that!" he added, and the towering animal reached out and gently lipped Alagos's ear, tickling him with his whiskers.
Tyaron ran his hand down the gelding's right rear leg and picked up the hoof, holding it towards the light for Callon to examine.
Callon pulled out a hoof pick from his equipment pouch and started gently clearning the massive hoof, noting at what spot the gelding seemed to pull back a bit. When he had cleared the mud and debris, he pocketed the pick and ran his finger along the inner spongy area of the hoof and found the problem - a small stone lodged deep into the cleft near the center of the hoof. He gently worked it out while Alagos kept the gelding occupied, thankful to have such helpers with such a horse - it would have been a much harder job to manage alone, especially with his injured arm. Pulling a small jar from the pouch, he rubbed a little of the salve it contained into the sore area.
"Is it warm at all?" inquired Tyaron, holding the hoof firmly while Callon worked on the sore area.
All of a sudden, the comfortable noise of men relaxing by fires after a long journey, telling tales rendered more interesting by drink and camraderie, was rent by a loud voice.
"Barund! Will you PLEASE tell your men to quiet down!" came the angry and haughty voice of Gimilbeth through her tent material.
"You could always have the Ice Princess come by and cool it down," came Alagos's voice from the head of the horse.
Callon grinned and shook his head, then retrieved the hoof pick and cleaned the other three hooves. As the three men left to check over the other horse, the black gelding whickered softly and shook his mane at the backs of the retreating elves.
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On the road to Amon Sul. November 12, 1347, sunset.
Written by Gordis
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The last days of the journey to Amon Sul proved to be dull and uneventful. Gimilbeth was fed up with adventures for the rest of her life, so she was glad of this soothing monotony of riding at an easy pace for eight leagues a day, then stopping for a night at a way-station or camping in the open. The landscape presented no diversion, as the land was flat as a table-top and almost barren. The icy northern wind whistled in pale dry grasses. On the south side of the road there were tangled bushes and small groves of birch-trees, now leafless and forlorn, but northwards nothing sheltered the party from the biting wind.
Away in the distance westward they could see a line of hills, the highest of them on the left of the line and a little separated from the others - Weathertop. On its conical summit there stood a tall white tower, looking unbelievably high and eerie from a distance. Everyone in the party knew that high atop the tower there was a seeing stone, sleeplessly watching over the wild barren plain - the Palantir of Amon Sul.
"You should be comforted, my Lady, as we are now in full view of Amon Sul," ventured Barund, who rode alongside Gimilbeth at the head of the Party. "I am confident that no surprise attack - like the one that has almost proved our undoing - is now possible!"
Gimilbeth nodded, trying to hide her irritation. She hated the way Barund always tried to turn every conversation back to the orc attack. Sure, he had saved the day and rescued the princess from a fate that would be far worse than death, but then again he had gotten his reward, universal praise and profuse thanks. How could he fail to understand that Gimilbeth didn't wish to recall the awful fight, deaths of her nearest companions, and, to top it all, her own humiliating captivity?
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched how Barund shifted uneasily in the saddle and bit his moustache, obviously at a loss for further topics of conversation. The Brochenridge scout was an honorable man and experienced fighter, but he sadly lacked both Gwindor's refinement and Elvegil's heady joviality. Gimilbeth was surprised with herself - cold and practical as she was, she still missed her faithful knights terribly. As compared to the two late Gondorians, Barund was nothing but a rustic...
Gimilbeth turned to smile at Edelbar, who rode just behind her, his face grave and composed. The page had grown a lot in the course of the short journey, not in stature, but in personality - he looked no lad anymore, but a man. Pity Lammir didn't make it as well...
At least they still had the wagon, Gimilbeth thought, looking further back. Despite the fight and fire, very few of Gimilbeth's possessions had been damaged or stolen. Barring Elessya, of course - what a pity she had kept it on her person! Fortunately, Serinde's spell-book was safe in its secret locker of the big trunk with dresses.
The two Elves walked alongside the wagon, their long legs eating mile after mile tirelessly. Feeling Gimilbeth's barely concealed hostility, they stayed away from her and she was glad of their discretion. She noticed Hurgon perched alongside Callon on the driver's seat of the wagon. The painter looked tired and sleepy - or perhaps he was drunk as usual... But Gimilbeth didn't mind. The previous day she went to check on Tarniel's portrait and found the painting all but finished - not a masterpiece this one, but decent enough work all the same. Hurgon could easily put the finishing touches to the portrait when they reached Amon Sul.
At this moment, Barund's voice interrupted her musings. "Your highness, there is a company of horsemen approaching from the west. They bear the standard of Arthedain." Barund barked a command to their own standard-bearers to move to the head of the procession. Edelbar proudly unfurled the royal pennant of the House of Dauremir - an elk's head on the field of maroon, crowned with seven golden stars.
Soon the horsemen came into full view - about 40 of them, tall men clad in blue and black. And sure enough, the blue-and-silver standard of Arthedain was streaming out in the wind, plain to see. Seeing the men of Amon Sul, Gimilbeth's battered company cheered - their perilous journey was nearly over!
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