Perilous Journeys. Shadow Over Rhudaur III

[Witch-king of Angmar]

[Hegga]

The Three Goats Inn on the road from Cameth Brin to Pennmorva, evening of October 26, 1347.


Hegga, the former Kviggr's sweetheart, was a new maid at the inn, hired only about two months ago. Broggha's men have all but devastated the countryside around Pennmorva and there was very little stores left in the village of Penn for Hegga's big family to possibly survive till the next harvest. After young Kviggr left for Arthedain to become King Malvegil's mercenary, Hegga's hopes for marriage were utterly ruined. Now there were few young men left in the village, most went to swell Broggha's enormous band. So, after much deliberation, Hegga's parents decided to send their daughter away to her cousin, Gwynn, who worked as maid at the roadside inn North of Morva Torch.

There was much more to eat at the inn than back home, of course, but Hegga soon found out that the landlord was not going to give her anything but board and lodging for all the hard work she was doing for him. If maids wanted some money, explained Gwynn with a wink, they had to earn it themselves. Hegga was old enough to understand what her cousin meant, and she shriveled at the thought. Most men staying at the inn were rough, baseborn men, vagabonds and traders and the idea to spend a night with one of them made Hegga sick. Sure, there happened some customers of quality, but, as her cousin taught her, those were unlikely to fancy the inn maids. Many a customer winked to her suggestively, attracted by her fresh face, milky throat and plump breasts, but still Hegga turned a deaf ear to immodest words and slapped at the prowling hands. At nights, she dreamed of a fair prince who would come by and rescue her.

This evening it seemed to her that her dreams came true. Cheeks aflame and breath coming in short gasps, Hegga peered from behind the counter into the dim common room.

The slow autumn rain was beating on the roof. The downstairs room of the old inn was half-empty. The winter was approaching and travelers on the road became fewer, much to the landlord's chagrin. There were only a company of southbound horse-traders drinking their fill of ale at the central table, two masons going north to seek work for the winter and a lone traveler sitting quietly in a corner furthest from the heart, a bottle of wine and the untouched plate of mutton in front of him. His figure was concealed by an unadorned dark-blue cloak that he kept on, despite the heat in the room. The hood was up, leaving his face in deep shadows. He put his sword on the table in front of him and stretched his long legs under the table. The glow of the fire played on his travel-worn leather boots - the only detail clearly visible about the stranger.

"What do you make of him?" Hegga whispered to Gwynn, once the other returned to the counter with a platter of empty mugs.

"Which one?" asked Gwynn yawning. She had been busy again last night and had little sleep.

"The one in the corner! Who do you think he is?" prompted Hegga excitedly.

Gwynn studied the stranger for some time, then shrugged. "He is not SOMEONE, for sure", she said with contempt. "There is not a single trinket of silver or gold on this one, not even a bit of embroidery. His sword is unadorned, in plain leather sheath. His boots are old. I bet he has not a spare coin in his pouch."

Hegga giggled in reply. "Then you are wrong, Gwynn" she whispered triumphantly. "He is SOMEONE all right. I know who he is, because he told me. I was the one who took him upstairs to show his room. He is an Elf!!!"

"An Elf? asked Gwynn, wide-eyed. Are you mad or what?"

Still giggling, Hegga dragged her cousin to a larder to tell her story.

"It was like this. He came from the South on a big gray horse, a fine animal, they say in the stables. I took him to his room, Number Three on the first floor. He had his hood on, and I could not see his face. He thanked me and I was going to leave when he turned to me and laid back his hood."

"Oh Gwynn! I stood dumbstruck and peered at him like a dimwit. He is the most handsome man that ever walked in Middle Earth! He has most striking blue eyes, like the sky in spring, and his hair is like shining golden river, falling down unbound to his waist. He smiled at me kindly, he did! When I found my voice, I asked him "Are you an Elf, sir?". Then he laughed. "You are perceptive, child" he said kindly at last and his voice was like music. "Indeed I am of the Firstborn." And he told me his name and where he hails from. I looked into his eyes, and I knew it was the truth. His eyes... I am a simple village girl, and I don't think I can put it right, but his eyes are old - as if he had seen countless ages of Men, wars long forgotten, victories and defeats... and he looks so young otherwise... no more than thirty!"

Gwynn shook her head. "I don't believe an Elf would stop in our inn, rain or not. No one ever sees them. I sure saw none in all my life. Perhaps they have all gone over the Sea."

"But he is an Elf!" cried Hegga. "He said so himself. And I have seen his ears. Have you heard that all Elves have pointy ears?"

"Yes, that I have," replied Gwynn.

"Well his ears are slightly pointed - not so much as the tales tell, but still much more pointed than yours or mine or any Man's".

"Well if he is an Elf, as he says", said Gwynn dryly, "you won't expect him to fancy you, a lowly mortal, would you now?".

Hegga blushed furiously. "I hope you are wrong", she said. "I told him I have always loved stories about Elves and even heard a song about HIM from a travelling minstrel last year, a song how he slew a fiery demon! He smiled and said that he would tell me about it and even sing me some songs if I come to his room after supper. He has a knee-harp with him!"

"Perhaps he will do just that, sing you some songs...and nothing else," replied Gwynn acidly, an obvious envy in her voice. "Make sure he pays, will you?"

"Oh Gwynn, you must be joking", cried Hegga in outrage. "I love him so very much already! Money? I will never ask no money from him!"

Gwynn knocked trice on her forehead to show what she thought about Hegga's wisdom. She made her way to the door of the larder, then turned abruptly.

"You said he told you his name", she said. "What is it?"

Hegga blushed again and announced proudly.

"Glorfindel. Glorfindel of Rivendell."

[Hegga]

The Three Goats Inn on the road from Cameth Brin to Pennmorva, morning of October 27, 1347

It was already noon when they started looking for Hegga. At first, when Hegga failed to be on time for her morning chores, Gwynn made no fuss out of kindness, allowing the poor girl to sleep after her first night with a man, but by the late morning it became evident that something was wrong.

Hegga's long-cold body was found in the bed of the room Number Three, her throat neatly slit from ear to ear. Surprisingly, there was very little blood. The weapon that did the deed was thrown carelessly nearby. It was an ornate Elven dagger adorned with runes and golden flowers. As for the customer, Glorfindel by name, who stayed in the room overnight, he was long gone.

Gwynn, her yesterday's envy forgotten, only congratulated herself that she was not the one the Elf took fancy to.
"What is the world coming to these days?" she wailed. "Elves taking village maids to bed and killing them! Bloody perverts they are, may Njamo eat their rotten souls! So no one here is bold enough to avenge the poor girl?"

"Where are those Rangers when you need them?" roared the innkeeper. "They mill around by dozens when all is fine, but when something goes really wrong, who knows where to find them? Is there anyone here who is willing to man the pursuit party?"

The horse traders argued that they had their own business to attend and hurried along on their way to Cameth Brin, venturing only to warn the authorities there about the happenings at the inn. The masons promised to do the same at Pennmorva. A frightened and disheartened group of stable boys wandered for sometime in the rain, careful not to venture too far from the inn. And that seemed the end of it, if we don't count horrible stories ever growing in the telling that spread far and wide over the land.

[Belzagar]

Belzagar's modest townhouse, Cameth Brin
Late afternoon of October 27, 1347

Authon could see by the expression on Lord Belzagar's face that he was sorely displeased. The spymaster's chief assistant had just come into Belzagar's meeting chamber, and after being offered a chair, had sat down.

"I take it the news is not good, my lord?" Authon frowned as he took the goblet of wine offered by a servant.

"Not one pigeon has returned from the Trollshaws! It has been like this since yesterday when that witch, Princess Gimilbeth, was up to her tricks! I believe, Authon, that she and her agents are actively hunting our birds and intercepting the messages from our troops in the Trollshaws!" Lord Belzagar's face was flushed and angry as he stood warming his back by the growing fire in the great hearth.

"What can we do?" Authon asked nervously.

"Nothing!" Belzagar was close to shouting. "Not one thing!"

Authon cleared his throat uneasily. "What about messages from the North? Anything there?"

"No, and I do not expect anything. I took a chance yesterday and sent the raven Âmbal flying with a message to Lord Alassar in the North. I explained that the Princess Gimilbeth's falcon had destroyed one of our homing pigeon. And, of course, I detailed my suspicions that her agents are spying upon us. I further advised of the danger of using birds as messengers, at least for the time being."

"My lord!" Authon exclaimed. "Basically that leaves us cut off and isolated here in Cameth Brin! We can neither send nor receive dispatches by raven or pigeon!"

"Aye, Authon, and you know what is far worse than that!" Usually calm and unruffled, Lord Belzagar was far more upset about the developments than he would ever let Authon know. "The Princess' agents will be watching our every move!" His face grim, Belzagar shifted his weight uneasily by the hearth.

"Then what are we to do, my lord?" Authon asked after he had gulped down a hefty swallow of wine.

"We must rely upon our trusted dispatch riders, our couriers. Of course, considering the vast terrain, much of which is rough and without roads, the delivery of messages will be slow!"

"My lord, I still think that you should allow my men and me to dispose of the princess. We could take care of it in ways that would make it seem like an accident." Authon's cruel eyes showed the first signs of emotion that they had since he had arrived.

"No!" Lord Belzagar exclaimed angrily. "We have been over that! Any attempt to kill her now would be far too dangerous!"

His face pale, Authon finished his goblet of wine. "Then, my lord, what do we do? Sit here and wait while the Princess plots against us and tries to collect enough evidence to prove our treason?"

"She can prove nothing!" Belzagar snapped irritably. "You ask what we are to do, Authon? Why, nothing. Nothing at all! We will go about our lives as honest, upright citizens, while all the time your agents continue collecting information. In time, the Princess will grow bored with her games and find something more interesting."

Accepting another goblet of wine from a servant, Authon looked to Lord Belzagar, and then shrugging his shoulders, he said, "It might be a long winter."

A smile flickered across Lord Belzagar's face. "Interesting that you should mention the winter, Authon. We never know what tricks His Majesty might have up his sleeve."

[Agannalo]

In the woods west of Pennmorva, October 27, 1347.

A lonely hooded traveler rode along a narrow path in the woods. The overgrown path led North, avoiding Pennmorva and presumably striking the main road to Angmar west of this city. This suited the traveler well, as he was hurrying along to outpace the news of his night's work.

The rider grinned again remembering the silly girl with milky throat and full breasts who came enamored and trusting to his room last night. He heard and smelled human blood running hot and strong in her body. The way the blue veins could be traced beneath her white, almost transparent skin aroused him greatly. So he took time killing her and drinking her blood. He held her in his arms feeling her life force seeping out of her, feeling her body becoming as cold as his, seeing utter terror in her innocent blue eyes....With a parting kiss he bid her to send his greetings to old Namo - greetings from Agannalo. He never missed to ask this favor of any of his victims. By now, his name must be well known to the Vala... The traveler laughed aloud at this thought. He was not counting to see old Mandos - ever, so let Namo get impotently frustrated, for all he cared.

During his unnaturally long life, the traveler was known under many names, but "Glorfindel" was not one of them. In the forgotten West, his noble parents gave him a sumptuous name, Silmatan, the Jewel of Mankind. And indeed, with his handsome Elven-like features, golden hair and blue eyes, he deemed himself the jewel of the House of Hador. His mother and close friends called him Silmallaire - the little jewel... But it was long ago... in the short mortal years before the Ring. Now for already two thousand and seven hundred years, he called himself Agannalo, the Shadow of Death.

At mid-day the sun rose above the pines lining the path. The traveller threw back his hood and waved to the watery autumn sun, so different from the fiery orb of Far Harad, as he would to an old friend. Still, even the weak northern version of the fiery Arien hurt his eyes, so he pulled his hood back over his head right after sending this mock greeting.

Soon after, the gray stallion started to show signs of tiredness. The sly horse, always at his tricks, pretended to get lame, but Agannalo's will overrode his and they continued on. The nazgul frowned - he was concerned about the horse. Twenty years ago, Agannalo bought the gray in Harad and called him after a certain pesky wizard - Mithrandir, the Gray Wanderer. The name was given in jest, but proved prophetic. Over the years, there was never a place that the Gray Wanderer could call home, there was only a succession of roadside inns, unfamiliar stables in different places and endless nights in the wild with only the starry sky for a roof. Now the stallion was growing old and eager for small comforts. Agannalo carried a vast supply of oats, apples and a warm blanket for the horse. Hopefully he needed none himself.

Just before sundown the rider finally stopped. This time the Grey was pretending no more - he was really exhausted. Agannalo fed the horse, put the blanket over his back and started a small fire. Not a real one, of course, but just a semblance of fire that gave some greenish light and almost no warmth. The Gray was grateful even for such a substitute, though - he never overcame his fear of the dark.

Soon Agannalo was sitting near the fire with his harp on his knee. Mithrandir stood nearby, munching quietly and listening to the haunting melodies of the songs long forgotten by mortals.

This evening the tunes were sad. Agannalo stopped feeling kinship with mortals very long ago, so killing them was as natural for him as squashing midges was for humans - no remorse, no second thoughts. But there was one thing that saddened him deeply - the loss of the elven dagger with golden flowers he had to leave near Hegga's body for the evidence. He found the dagger while digging for treasures in the ruins of Ost-in Edhil and kept it for many lives of men. The dagger was of no use to him, really, as it burned his hand as if by hellish fire. But it was a wondrous piece of craft, with runes and golden flowers running along the razor-sharp silver blade, and Agannalo, ever a collector of high art, grew quite fond of it. Perhaps it was indeed from Gondolin... And now he lost it in a silly joke! Maybe the real Glorfindel would never hear of it....

One thing was cheering, though. He will see his Captain again. Agannalo was surprised that he started to miss his comrades and his captain so much... The Nazgul King had a vicious temper when annoyed, and Agannalo had a knack to annoy him constantly. But still he looked forward to meet the Captain again... soon, very soon ... once he gets to Carn-Dum.

[Algeirr]

Cameth Brin, evening of October 27, 1347


"The Jarl will see you now" announced a scarred dangerous-looking brigand who guarded Broggha's doors. The cut-throat looked incongruous in furs and velvets - the newly acquired finery of the Jarl's new court.

Algeirr nodded and stepped into the dimly lit room. The hour was late and the Jarl obviously had more than his share of strong drinks. - he sat slumped in a high-backed chair near the fire, Maleneth on his lap. But the blue eyes that met Algeir's were sharp as ever.

"Greetings, My Jarl" said Algeirr, his dark face unreadable.

The Jarl grunted a greeting and waived to a chair across the table. "There is some wine left. Help yourself. What is it you want?"

"I have important news. But that is for your ears only". Algeirr looked pointedly at the Jarl's mistress.

The Jarl scowled, then pushed Maleneth from his lap. "Go to bed, wench, and wait for me", he barked.

Maleneth scurried away. Broggha pulled his furs closer around his giant frame and fixed Algeirr with a steely gaze. Algeirr understood that his hopes to get the Jarl drunk and not so sharp as usual were wistful thinking. Still he had to get through with his plan.

"I think you have heard that Gimilbeth the Witch is leaving Cameth Brin in three days time?" asked Algeirr.

It was impossible to tell whether that came as a surprise for the Jarl or not. He simply grunted and asked "So... where is she bound?"

"Amon Sul. The Witch is going to use the Palantir there - a fabled magic device of the Tarks, that enables them to see far and to talk to each other over great distances. Also she is going to propose Princess's Tarniel's hand in marriage to Malvegil's grandson".

The Jarl's eyes narrowed. "Where have you learned such news?"

"Gudhrun, my ..." Algeirr chuckled slightly "...well, let us say "my betrothed" is keeping an inn in Tanoth Brin. The king's guards frequent it. Strong ale makes even the tarks' tongues loose."

Algeirr dawned his goblet and continued. "But that is not all. The guards say that Gimilbeth is going to ask Malvegil for armed assistance against the rebel Hillmen. With the Arthedain's army at his back, they say, King Tarnendur is going to show the accursed barbarians their proper place."

Broggha crashed his fist on the table so suddenly that Algeirr dropped his goblet and paled. "Treachery! Treachery again!" roared the Jarl. "The Tarks are plotting behind my back!"

"Quite so, my Jarl" Algeirr nodded, satisfied by the effect his news had on Broggha. He waited patiently until Broggha's angry pacing subsided and the curses he muttered died out. When the Jarl finally sat down again , Algeirr continued, trying to get closer to his own secret goal.

"Gimilbeth is taking inordinately large company with her. Hundred and twenty Dunedain guards - a third of what they have in the fortress. The garrison here will be much depleted. She is afraid of an ambush, they say." Algeirr waited, allowing his words to sink down.

"But there is some good news as well. The King has ordered the guards to accompany Gimilbeth till Brochenridge, but no further. Then most will return back, and only about twenty knights will accompany her further. The great Road is safe, they think."

The Jarl's eyes glittered and a cruel smile crept to his lips. He was obviously planning something. The interview was going much as Algeirr hoped it would.

"Can we send some spies with Gimilbeth's company?" asked the Jarl.

"No Hillmen is allowed to ride with the Witch, on the King's express orders. Not only they don't trust us, but they also have Nauremir's body to dispose of. If the wretch is indeed not dead, it would be awkward to let one of us see him resurrected, would it not?"

"You are the head of my spies, Algeirr". The Jarl's voice took a dangerous edge to it. "You must find a way to send one of our men with Gimilbeth".

"I have already done it, Jarl." Algeirr allowed himself a smile. "Captain Merendil himself has promised to take me along . There is very little that the King's guards can refuse to my Gudhrun, Jarl"

Unfortunately, the Jarl immediately became suspicious. "Why would this woman want to send you away, Algeirr?"

Here, Algeirr came to the most difficult point in the conversation. He had to tell a lie and not let Brogga detect it.

"My Gudhrun is from Fennas Drunin, Jarl. Gudhrun plans to move to her native town, as she thinks Tanoth Brin has become not a safe place to live. She wants me to go there, take a good look around and probably find a good inn for sale. Then I have to go back to report to her. That's why she asked the guards to take me along as it is unsafe to travel alone. I accepted, so I could be your eyes and your ears in Gimilbeth's company, at least as far as the Great Road."

In reality, Algeirr craved to go not to Fennas Drunin, but much further - to Tharbad. Tharbad in southern Cardolan, on the banks of the great river Gwathlo, was the richest city of Arnor. From the moment when Algeirr stole the wondrous emerald necklace, he knew he had to go somewhere far away to sell it. Heirlooms of the kingly Tark house of Dauremir were no trinkets that one could sell anywhere in Rhudaur without any explanations. At least if one wanted to get good money for them. No, he had to go somewhere out of the country. The best place to go was, of course, Gondor. But the Southern Kingdom was far and the road was long and perilous. Tharbad was the second best choice. Immense riches changed hands daily in this city of merchants, sailors and thieves, and no difficult questions were asked.

"If I sell the necklace for a fair price, I shall settle in Tharbad and never see you again, my Jarl," thought Algeirr. "If something goes wrong, I shall return to you and to my Gudhrun and none will be the wiser. I may even get a promotion after fulfilling a difficult mission."

Algeirr looked into the Jarl's piercing eyes and waited for the other's reply, trembling inwardly from fear and excitement.


***

Broggha




"Algeirr, I had come to expect anything out of the witch, but this time she outdoes even herself. Princess Tarniel betrothed to Malvegil's grandson! The army of Arthedain giving Rhudaur aid! Aye," he said, stroking his thick, red beard, "Gimilbeth thinks she is very clever, but she will find that she is attempting to match wits with someone far more clever and with far more power.

"Now here is what you are to do, and perhaps there might be an extra profit for you - if you are successful. But much depends upon how successful you are in achieving the 'if,'" he emphasized. "I do not like failures." The Jarl's icy blue eyes glittered. "But then does anyone?"

He studied Algeirr's face to see the other man's reaction, and Broggha was pleased when he saw the distinctive look of fear in the other man's eyes.

"No, Lord Broggha, of course not, but I will not fail you," Algeirr exclaimed. "What is it that you want me to do?"

"A very simple task. Nothing complicated. As you know, our friends in the North have provided aid for me to use, forces whom no one would suspect. The orcs under the leadership of Pizbur Ashuk are planning an ambush. They are waiting in the Trollshaws - you will get there on the second evening of your journey. When you think it is the right time for the orcs to attack, you will organize a distraction. You are to rein in your horse and take him to the side of the road. Give the excuse that one of your mount's shoes is loose. Dismount and make a show of inspecting the horse's hoof. Then say that you are not satisfied and must pull the shoe and replace it with another. This will be the signal for Pizbur Ashuk to attack. Princess Gimilbeth must be captured alive, for her presence is requested in the North. If possible, capture the officers, and any who might prove valuable for questioning. But the rest - kill them all." Broggha laughed loudly. "Perhaps the orcs will be allowed a little treat for their success in accomplishing the task. When it is all over, they can dine upon Nauremir's body - if the miserable coward does not sicken even an orc!"

Even Algeirr was disgusted at this idea, but he allowed no emotion to show in his eyes. The two men rose to their feet and as they faced each other, Broggha slapped Algeirr over the shoulders. "Remember, there are rewards in success, but failure often has very unpleasant consequences."

[Pizbur Ashuk]

Near midnight, October 27
Orc Camp in the Trollshaws

As the rider guided his horse along the narrow path that was little more than a deer trail, he grew ever more alert and apprehensive. He knew that they were watching him, and he also knew the hatred and contempt in which they held his kind. If he had been one of the king's riders, he would have been dead long before now, shot through the heart by a black fletched arrow. They knew him, though, and so he was safe.

The day-and-a-half long journey had been a grueling one for both his horse and him. The difficulty of traveling through the inhospitable, foreboding landscape had slowed the trip, while the horse picked his way over tailless grounds that would prove challenging even for a surefooted mule. Since there was little forage for the beast other than a few autumn-dried grasses, it had been necessary to pack an abundance of grain to last for the return trip back to Cameth Brin. Stopping only long enough to allow his horse to rest, feed and drink, the rider had made good time, sometimes nodding asleep in the saddle.

Lean and wiry, his muscles hardened from years of riding, Galuarth the messenger had once been a dispatch rider in the army of Arthedain, but his short temper, flippant tongue and surly mood had earned him trouble from his superiors. He had finally been dishonorably discharged for insubordination to an officer. Turning to roving after that, he had joined with a group of petty criminals who made their livelihood stealing anything upon which they could get their hands.

Seeking their fortunes, the whole motley group crossed the borders into Rhudaur. Agents recruiting for Jarl Broggha had promised them quick promotions and ready gold, and they had joined the Hillmen. All had prospered since, but Galuarth preferred riding to fighting. Through a propitious meeting with one of Authon's agents, he had found employment as a messenger for the spymaster's assistant.

His duties called for him to be ready to ride at any moment. While he always had to be on the alert and had little time of his own, the position payed well. He enjoyed the keen sense of danger that he experienced when he would ride the dark and lonely trails, sometimes even being sent as far as the distant northern kingdom of Angmar.

Alert, the horse's ears pricked forward and the rider could feel the animal's body tensing. The gelding pranced, his nostrils sending out clouds of vapor in the chilly air. Suddenly, his horse shied as a large orc left the thick underbrush and blocked the trail ahead.

"Ho, Tark!" Galuarth recognized the voice which belonged to Durbûrz, one of the lads of Pizbur Ashûk's company. "What has prompted your lazy carcass to leave the city and come to these forgotten wastes? I doubt that it is because you have taken a fancy to any of us, is it?" Durbûrz laughed at his own crude joke.

"You aren't my type, Durbûrz," the horseman laughed dryly, "but if I ever change my mind, I will be sure to let you know."

The orc let out a thunderous guffaw, enjoying the rough banter. When his mirth finally subsided, Durbûrz wiped the moisture from his one good eye and said, "Come on now, I'll take you to camp." Then he turned and led the horseman down the path.

Pizbur Durbûrz, the leader of Third Company, First Regiment of the Third Brigade, of the Army of Angmar, had been enjoying a feast of roast pheasant when he saw Durbûrz and the messenger coming into camp. Wiping the grease off his mouth on the back of his sleeve, the chieftain called out a greeting to the two.

The fierce orc soldiers lounging about the camp turned greedy eyes towards the rider and his mount. While manflesh was always appealing, some of the orcs always had a hunger for horse flesh. There was more on the bones of a horse than there was on the frame of a man, and some thought it had a richer taste than human flesh. Having learned to fear and hate orcs in the past, the horse snorted and shied as Galuarth tried to soothe him. Slipping the bridle off the horse's head, Galuarth tethered the animal by the halter rope to a bush on the side of the road. Slipping a nose bag of oats over the horse's head to distract the beast, he patted the gelding on the side of the neck and walked to the orc campfire.

"Come over and warm yourself, rider!" the pizbur roared out a greeting. "There's draught and fresh game in plenty. You can have the choice of raw or cooked, even though I have not seen any man yet who appreciated the delights of raw meat."

"Narnûlublat," Galuarth replied in words meaning "thank you" in Black Speech. "If I might have a piece of that venison roasting and a drink of orc draught, I'll be pleased." The thoughts of eating raw flesh sickened Galuarth, but he did not let it show on his face.

"What news have you for us?" Ashûk asked as he scratched at an irritating louse under his armpit and watched the man eat.

"Well," Galuarth answered between chewing and swallowing the meat, "you're not to send out any more pigeons to the contact in Cameth Brin. It appears that that whole line of communication has been utterly ruined by the Princess Gimilbeth. The witch has interfered and now sends her falcons to hunt the messenger pigeons."

Somehow the idea that one woman had destroyed an elaborate spy system appealed to Pizbur Ashûk's sense of irony. "You don't say," he remarked, rubbing his dark jaw. "You know, that's funny," he chuckled. "What that woman needs is a strong man to put her in her place!"

"Not likely that will ever happen," Galuarth chuckled.

"Since they are no longer needed, can we eat the pigeons now? The lads have restrained themselves and have not taken even one." The orc leaned over and peered into Galuarth's eyes.

"No, no, you cannot do that!" the courier exclaimed. "Those are valuable birds!"

"Then what are we to do with them if we are not to eat the little beggars? I think they would be downright tasty... just twist their little necks off and pop 'em in your mouth, then spit out the feathers."

Galuarth looked at the orc with utter disgust. "A man will be along tomorrow to pick them up and take them on their way."

The Pizbur looked disappointed. He had been thinking so much about those tender little birds, that he had already imagined that he had eaten half of them himself. "So how will we get dispatches to the spymaster in Cameth Brin? None of us can exactly go sauntering down the city streets."

"I will be attending to that, and if I should not be able to for any reason" - he thought of the possible reasons... his death or his capture by the king's agents, and felt a chill go down his back - "there will be a replacement found for me. Now that I have finished this fine provender and draught, I need to get to the main purpose of my visit... This dispatch," the rider reached into the pouch at his belt and pulled out a scroll tube sealed with wax and handed it to the orc commander. "I will wait for your reply."

Hastily the pizbur opened the tube and drew out the message. Unrolling it, his eyes skimmed over the document. "We will be ready... tell him that."

"Your message will be delivered, Pizbur Ashûk. Now I need to be heading back with any messages that you should feel fit to send."

"Except for an elf who was nosing around here a few weeks back, things have been quiet. There is no need to send a written message... Now if you should change your mind about those pigeons," the orc licked his lips hungrily, "we could put them in a pigeon pie."

"No, that will be quite unnecessary," Galuarth replied tersely, turned and went back to his horse.

[scribe]

October 30th, married servants' quarters in Cameth Brin castle

"I wish I didn't have to go," said Callon for the hundredth time.

"I know, but ..." Caelen left the sentence unfinished, except for an expressive shrug of her shoulders.

"It's only a week," he said for the hundredth time.

Caelen fixed her brother with the stare that she usually used on stubborn horses. "I'll ... be ... FINE!" she said firmly. "Don't worry about it!"

Callon walked over to the window and looked out.

"I wish we could have found our cousins - that would have made it so much better for you..." He trailed off as he gazed into the distance, as if he might somehow see the family that they had come so far to seek.

"That would have been nice," agreed Caelen regretfully. Although they had made diligent inquiry, they had found no news of their family. The only news was news that seemed to be all too common to this region - roving gangs of bandits, families robbed and worse.

"Well, maybe I'll find news of them on this journey," said Callon optimistically. "We've only been here a short while - maybe we'll hear something about them soon. I haven't given up yet."

Caelen smiled encouragingly at him. He was so nervous about leaving her, and she wanted to make things easier for him. He had done so much for her, given up so much for her ...

Callon moved away from the window and over to his sister.

"I wish you hadn't slipped up and told Arinya that we're brother and sister, but it's probably a good thing that she knows - I think she'll keep our secret, and I think she'll be watching over you more now. It will come out eventually, I'm sure - but at least the people here will have been used to thinking of you as a married woman expecting a child, and ... and ... well, hopefully that will help," he ended up somewhat vaguely.

"And she can help me during my "miscarriage", too," added Caelen in the same low voice, with a glance at the door - listening at doors seemed to be a popular pastime here. "It would have been difficult to fake being pregnant much longer, and it would have looked strange to not have a woman with me during that time."

"Do you think you should do that while I'm gone, or when I come back?"

"No, the timing will be just about right when you come back - I mean, with ... all the details," she waved her hands vaguely.

Callon, who knew very little about a woman's monthly "time" and had no desire to learn more, made no objection. "Whatever you think is best, Caelie," he said, standing up and walking over to his bag, idly checking its contents once more.

"No! It's all packed! Leave it be!" said Caelen, moving across to her brother and pulling at his arm ... but not before he had found the note.

"Thanks, Caelie," he said softly, pullling her close and giving her a hug. "I'm glad you remembered ..."

It had been a family tradition of theirs to sneak a little love note into the bag of anyone that was leaving home, even for a day. Callon smiled as he thought of the note he had slipped into her drawer ... some things never died.

[Gordis]

Cameth Brin Palace, October 30, 1347.

The night before her departure, closeted alone in her underground study, Gimilbeth prayed.

It was The Holy night, Sauron's Last Night before the Dark Lord departed the World of Living.
Rumor had it that this night, one thousand three hundred and forty-six years before, Sauron, besieged in Barad Dur by the Last Alliance, gave a great feast and ball. Ever since, the followers of the Dark Lord held this night holy and selebrated the Duvediu.

Gimilbeth remembered what a wild night it used to be in Umbar. Great bonfires were lit in the streets and a crowd of commoners: sailors and merchants, men and women, Umbarians and Haradians alike, danced around the Duvediu fires all night after partaking their share of the strong local wine. It was the night of wild revelry, songs and fireworks, flirting and street fights - the night that left enough to talk about for a whole year to come.

The King's guards and the Gondorean Governor were not too happy with this custom, knowing of Duvediu dark origin, but over the years the celebration had become traditional both in Umbar and Harad and, much as the conquerors tried, they never could wipe it out. So the Gondorean guards and the Faithful in general just tried to make themselves scarce, least they be maltreated by the heated crowds. The Faithful reappeared the next morning - clad in white robes they walked in a dignified procession celebrating Sauron's downfall and the beginning of the New Age, while most of the Umbarians slept after the last night's revelry, or nursed their hangovers.

Umbarian nobles celebrated Sauron's Last Night as well, but they never mixed with the wild crowds of commoners.. Richly clad guests and relatives gathered at Gimilbeth's grand-parents' palace for a great feast and dancing. But first, dark rites were held in the underground vault decorated with golden and black velvet trappings and lit by nine great lamps filled with scented oil from Harad. Gimilbeth remembered chanting in a strange language, harsh and alien, that she heard coming from the vault. Young Gimilbeth craved to be there, she begged her grandmother to let her take part in the ceremony, but Serinde was adamant:

"No, child, you can't join us," she said to Gimilbeth, her colorless lips pressed into a thin line. "I have promised to your poor mother afore she died that I will keep you away from the Holy Rites. In her bewitchment with your father, she wanted you to become one of the deluded Faithful, as he is. I may regret it now, but I have sworn by the Holy Darkness, and I intend to keep my promise."

So Gimilbeth remained in the empty hall, waiting for the other guests to reappear after the rites. She took part in the subsequent feast and danced at the ball, but she couldn't help but feel frustrated to be left out of the main ceremony.

Now, eighty years later, she finally had the ritual chants for the Holy Night recorded in full in the black book she had inherited. There they were, written in a neat flowery script by one of her mother's ancestors. Prayers in the Holy Black Tongue and their Adunaic translation. Gimilbeth spent two days trying to learn the unfamiliar words by heart. But when the Holy Night came, she was prepared.

This night, alone in her study, Gimilbeth lit the nine candles and chanted the prayers to the Two Lords of Darkness, Melkor the Mighty, and Artano, the Giver of Gifts, and to the Nine Angels of Shadow, Those Who Live Forever. She killed three sacrificial black birds and spilled their blood on the stone altar, asking the Holy Darkness for guidance in her plight and for a safe journey.

At some point along the long chant, she got a feeling that her prayers were not in vain, that they were being heard... She felt another, much more powerful, mind slightly touching her own... She thought she felt cold invisible fingers on her shoulder, along her neck... Frightened and elated, Gimilbeth continued chanting in a low voice, trembling from emotion. Will the Dark Lord deign to answer her prayers?

[Witch-king of Angmar]

Tower of Carn Dum, October 30, 1347.

The Witch-king stood looking through the open narrow window as dark clouds hung low and foreboding over the tower of Carn Dum. Moaning and howling like lost spirits, icy winds raced from the north and whipped about the tall structure, buffeting the stones with tiny pellets of ice.

As the wind whipped up the ice crystals, swirling them wildly outside the window, a face began to materialize and take shape before the king's eyes. "The Princess Gimilbeth," the knowledge came to his mind, "is concerned about her trip, troubled and uncertain." The Witch-king laughed at the irony. Her trip to Amon Sul played right into his plans for kidnapping her. But, should the ferocious storm sweep down from the north, her journey would be delayed. The king would not let that happen.

Among the powers that his ring had bestowed upon him was the ability to control the forces of winter. It was obvious to him that the natural elements had decreed that a storm of great fury and might would sweep down across the North that night. If the storm were allowed to continue on its course, everything from the Ice Bay of Forochel to Sarn Ford would be covered in snow until the blizzard tapered out in the mountains past Rivendell.

Laughing, the king took the full force of a fierce swirling whirlwind of snow as it burst through the window and whipped snow about his tall form. Raising his arms, he held a long, shimmering sword into the air and intoned softly,

Gazogal pardahûn-ob bor-ob agh akûl
Khlaar hasum-izub, khlaar mog-izub
Shakrop naakh-lab, unr krum satug-zi
Sharlob kul pardahûn-izub-ishi!

Princess Gimilbeth's prayer had been answered, and no foul weather would plague her journey, but she had paid a price. Her prayers and obeisance only deepened the hold that the Witch-king already had upon her. Now he would bind her still closer.

Closing the window, he walked to the table where rested nine candles on nine silver candlesticks. A delicate blue flame appeared in front of him and rippled atop the wicks, lighting the candles. He opened up an ebony box inlaid with torticeshell. Taking out a sheer silk nightgown dripping with lace and trim, he visualized the owner of the gown. Clearly he could see her in her study chanting before nine candles. Intoning in a soft, singsong voice, he utilized his power to conjure up a pleasant image of himself as a handsome prince. The vision seemed to float just above the candles before her.

In her mind she heard his deep voice. "Princess Gimilbeth," he touched the place where her neck and shoulders would be, "your prayers are answered. Into your hands will come all you have ever wished and more." Taking the small ceremonial dagger from his belt, he sliced across his right forefinger. He watched as the blood slowly dripped over the bodice of the fluffy nightgown, falling to the spot which would rest over the wearer's heart. He smiled as he saw an expression of rapture light up the princess' face.

***
TRANSLATION

Wielder of the might of snow and ice
Behold my plea, hear my voice
Stay thy hand, hold back the gale
Until the woman is in my power!