Perilous Journeys. Shadow Over Rhudaur III

[Caelen]

Morning of Nov 6th, Eryndil's house in Cameth Brin

Caelen walked swiftly through town, arriving at Eryndil's door a little out of breath. “He MUST know something; he MUST!” she thought, desperately hoping that Eryndil was home and could tell her something to dispel the awful rumors that she had heard about Gimilbeth’s entourage. She took a minute to catch her breath and smooth her hair, and then knocked firmly on the door.

The door was answered by Eryndil's housemaid, who eyed the slightly disheveled Caelen with surprise, but pleasure – her day had been quite dull so far, and perhaps some more interesting things would happen now that the red-haired young lady was here again.

"Is Er ... er, Hendegil home, please?" inquired Caelen in as calm a voice as she could muster, realizing just in time that it would probably be better to ask for Hendegil instead of Eryndil.

"He ... er, she is, miss - come right this way, please," answered the housekeeper, ushering Caelen through the hallway and into a room where Hendegil and - oh, joy! - Eryndil were seated; Eryndil at a writing table, and Hendegil on a pretty little chair next to him. They both stood quickly to greet her, having a good idea why she had shown up there with such a pale face and distressed expression, as Eryndil had just finished filling his sister in on the dispatch that had been received from Captain Merendil.

"Hendegil," said Caelen, taking her friend's hands, and then suddenly finding that she could say no more. But her eyes quickly moved from Hendegil to Hendegil's brother with an imploring look, for surely he would know more about Callon ...

Hendegil gave Caelen's hands a reassuring squeeze and made her sit down on the chair, while she pulled up another one and sat down next to her friend. Eryndil turned his chair so that it was facing Caelen and sat down, saying with a bright smile which was meant to reassure her, "From the expression on your face, I'm guessing that you must have heard some wild palace gossip!"

"They said everyone was killed," she said in a anguished whisper, wringing her hands in her distress, her large grey eyes looking at him for an instant, then moving nervously all around the room like a wounded animal looking for a way out of a trap.

Eryndil sighed and shook his head. Those trouble-making gossips!

"Caelen, that's just not true," he started in a firm voice, but she didn't seem to hear him; she just kept wringing her hands and looking around the room, unable to focus on anything. Finally, he leaned over and took her hands firmly in his, trying to still their nervous motion as he had seen her brother do. Sure enough, it worked - Caelen calmed down noticeably after a few moments and looked at him as though she had just seen him for the first time that day.

"That's just not true, Caelen," he repeated firmly, giving her hands a slight shake for emphasis, as he had seen her brother do. "I know - I saw the official dispatch myself in a meeting last night with the King. And it certainly did NOT say that they were all killed!"

He waited a moment for this to sink in, and was pleased to see that she was listening now, for she stopped her nervous glancing around the room and looked back at him steadily, with some measure of comprehension in her eyes.

"What the dispatch said was that Captain Merendil was returning to Cameth Brin when he saw some signs of orc activity, so being the good soldier that he is, he decided to go and check things out." Actually, it was worded much stronger than that, but she didn't need to know that now.

Caelen bit her lip and nodded, but still couldn't speak. Her grip tightened on his hands, and she seemed to be drawing strength and calmness from him.

"Callon definitely knew how to calm her down," he thought, trying to concentrate on projecting confidence and security to Caelen through his hands, instead of noticing how soft and warm and delicate they were ... and how nice they felt in his … He gave himself a little mental shake, regaining his train of thought which the feel of Caelen’s soft hands in his had temporarily derailed. Oh yes, there WAS some bad news that he had to tell her ...

"However, I do have to tell you some news that will be ... disappointing to you," he continued, choosing his words carefully. Caelen looked up at him quickly, but was reassured by his calm expression and the word "disappointing". It must be something pretty minor - and after hearing that the group hadn't been slaughtered wholesale, she could take anything now!

"After speaking with the King, I proceeded to find the messenger and speak with him myself," Eryndil continued. "Caelen... I'm afraid that Callon was taken along for the rest of the trip to Amon Sul. At best, that keeps him away until spring; at worst ... well, the Orcs appeared headed toward Gimilbeth's party ... but the King's men are well-trained and well-armed - I think he'll be fine."

"I just was at my desk, writing you to inform you that Callon would be a little later than we expected, when you came in. I figured you'd probably be hearing some wild, crazy rumors and be frightened - and I was right, wasn't I?" he finished with a smile, trying to show her how silly he thought those rumors were, and hoping devoutly that they wouldn't prove to be true.

This won a slight smile from Caelen, and her hands relaxed a little in his. "Do I still hold her hands now, or is now the time to let go?" wondered Eryndil uncertainly, and then thought that he probably better stay on the safe side and keep holding them; it really seemed to calm her down, after all ...

"You must think I'm terribly silly," she said ruefully, looking down, and realizing for the first time that Eryndil was holding her hands. "Oh!" she thought, a little confused. "I musn't act like I LIKE that he's holding my hands – not that I do, or anything! He's just trying to reassure me about Callon." She kept her face down, for she could feel a warm blush rising on her cheeks, and as they were right in front of her eyes, she looked at Eryndil’s hands. "Such nice, strong hands," she mused, looking at their sturdy masculine shape and noticing a few little scars here and there and wondering how he got them. She looked at the scattered dark hairs on his hands - she thought really hairy hands were ugly, and his were quite nice – just right, really - and then blushed deeper – what was she thinking?!

"No, I don’t think you’re silly at all!" said Eryndil, a softer note in his voice now. "I just think it shows that you have a warm and loving heart."

"Oh, that's too much," he thought suddenly with an inward groan. "She'll think I'm being too forward!" Thinking quickly, he added, "... towards your brother, and Callon and I are lucky to have sisters like you and Hendegil!" Caelen's hands now felt very warm indeed in his. He hoped his hands weren’t sweating too much and wanted to release her hands, but he wasn't sure how to let go of her hands without seeming to be disapproving of her.

Hendegil got up unobtrusively and busied herself looking over her knitting supplies, which were on a little table nearby.

"Oh, no, he must think that I'm being terribly forward by letting him hold my hands so long!" thought Caelen wildly, but she wasn't sure how to extricate her hands from his without seeming to disapprove of him.

The hand situation was now reaching a crisis point, with neither one of them knowing what to do, when suddenly there was a welcome interruption. Caelen's hair, which had been slowly moving across her shoulders as she looked down, suddenly tumbled down and fell across their joined hands.

"Oh, this HAIR!" exclaimed Caelen, withdrawing her hands with what she hoped was an ever-so-casual movement – an “oh, you were just holding my hands as a friend does in hard times, and it didn’t mean anything to either of us” casual movement - and pushing her hair back over her shoulder. "One of these days, I'm going to just cut it all off!"

There was a slight pause, and then ... "Don't," said Eryndil in a voice that made Caelen look at him quickly and then down again just as quickly. "It's beautiful," he said softly, watching her intently. She seemed shy and embarassed, but not displeased ...

Another unruly lock of hair slipped down over her shoulder and hung there, shiny and beautiful ...

And Eryndil reached out his hand and slowly, gently, put it back over her shoulder, again watching her intently. Although she kept her face down, he could see that her lips had parted slightly and she was breathing rather quickly. As he withdrew his hand, he let it brush ever so lightly against her neck and saw with mounting excitement that she drew a quick breath and moved slightly towards him.

And then it was over - but he had learned volumes from her silence.

She pulled away from him and sat up straighter, avoiding his eyes while giving her hair a firm twist that put it in its place. They both cleared their throats and then did the little upper-lip scratching thing to show that things were all fine and casual - and then they both stopped unexpectedly and took a second breath as they smelled the scent of the other still lingering on their hands. And into both of their minds shot the memory of Eryndil carrying Caelen up to Hendegil's bedroom - Caelen remembering the scent of Eryndil's neck - a masculine scent, like her brother’s, but somehow different, unique … and … and nice - and how it grew stronger as he broke out into a slight sweat from his efforts; Eryndil remembering the scent of Caelen's hair as it caressed his face, silky and smooth, as she pressed her head close into his neck, and the feel of her soft skin against his as she clung to him ... His imagination suddenly seized the reins and started moving from the things that had happened, to the things that he would like to happen ...

Things were getting out of control.

Eryndil got up and went over to the window for some cooler air, making some comment about how nice the weather was, as the November wind howled and battered at the window. Hendegil, smiling broadly now, decided, out of pity for Caelen (who really HAD been through quite a lot recently) to not make the “a bit warm for you, brother?” comment that she was just dying to say, and instead added a few innocuous weather comments of her own, trying to make things more comfortable for everyone.

Eryndil was furious with himself for losing control like that, yet elated at Caelen's response to him. He had just been trying to see if Caelen had any feelings at all towards him, and then suddenly things had escalated far beyond what he had planned. He had always prided himself on being able to quickly and accurately assess any situation that he had found himself in, and cooly decide the best course of action to take, and carry things out efficiently and dispassionately. But this slip of a girl, with the large grey eyes and the warm, golden-red hair, was giving him more trouble than all of the orcs and outlaws that he had ever dealt with, combined! Frustrated, he watched the water in the fountain as it was blown about in the stiff November winds, and then got an idea.

“Hendegil, we have been remiss!” he said to his sister. “We have never offered our guest any refreshment! Let me just step out and tell the housekeeper,” he said as he moved quickly to the door – and for the first time in his life, Eryndil fled a battlefield.

[Daurendil]

Cameth Brin, morning of November 6, 1347


Daurendil awoke well after sunrise with a splitting headache. He sat up cradling his head in his hands and groaned remembering yesterday’s disappointment. What a marvelous morning it could have been! He had so looked forward to this ride with Caelen…and now it was not to be. Instead, there had to be this blasted Council…

“Ohh, sweet Valar, have mercy on me!” he moaned.

One of Daurendil’s pages, quite experienced in treatment of morning hangovers, brought the Prince a cup of chamomile tea laced with Kingsfoil. Daurendil sipped it slowly, trying not to scald his palate, and, upon finishing it, he felt marginally human again. While the page attended to his toilet, the prince set his mind on finding the way out of the mess he had put himself into.

The page was already putting the final touches to the Prince’s hair, when Daurendil jumped up with a whoop, narrowly missing the hot circling-irons the page was holding. He had it – the perfect solution to Caelen problem! Daurendil was quite pleased with himself – didn’t his tutor tell him again and again “You have a bright mind, Daurendil…”? To tell the truth, the old man never failed to add “… but you are awfully lazy, headstrong and inattentive.” Daurendil never took the last part to heart, preferring to relish the first part.

A glance at the water-clock in the corner told him that he had at least an hour left before the council. The prince grabbed Rildorien’s letter, ordered the page to take the box with Caelen’s dress, and sped to the palace, the page with the box in tow.

"I hope Tarniel agrees to cooperate..." he mused. Suddenly he realized that he had no idea as to his sister's possible reaction. The thought was so new to him that he stumbled and almost ran into one of the palace servants. But indeed, what did he know about Tarniel? For him she was just something underfoot - first a tiny squalling baby that his mother birthed instead of a big older brother he had asked for, then a plump toddler, then a thin awkward girl - but hardly a person. And now he had a boon to ask of her... But he was determined to try.

In a matter of minutes he was at the door to Tarniel’s sitting room. Inside, everything was quiet and the Prince sighed with relief. Least of all he wanted to run into Odare - he had unconsciously taken to avoiding his old friend ever since the fateful hunt. Daurendil ordered the page to wait in the corridor and tapped on the door.

"Come in" came Tarniel's voice.

Daurendil pushed the door and greeted his sister. "Morning, Tarniel. I see you are alone..."

"Not really", Tarniel replied petulantly, indicating two guards stationed near the door. "I am never alone now, Daurendil. But if you are looking for Odare, she is in the garden. She..."

"No, in fact I was looking for you" Daurendil replied somewhat awkwardly. "I hope you won't mind if I send your guards out - I will guard you myself for a while. I wish to talk with you alone."

Tarniel nodded, genuinely surprised. She couldn't remember having a serious conversation with Daurendil before - ever. She waited for the guards to leave the room, then shyly offered her brother some refreshments.

"No, thank you" Daurendil shook his head absently. He approached and sat on the window seat facing Tarniel. For some time he silently frowned, then looked into Tarniel's eyes and smiled broadly.

"Remember this race, sis?" Tarniel nodded. Daurendil continued in a rush "Well, this Caelen - she has won the race, didn't she? And if she has won the race, than she deserves a prize. It is only fair if I, who has lost the race, provide it for her. I was thinking along those lines, nothing personal, you know, so I have commissioned a riding outfit for her - as the prize for the race. You must have noticed - her dress was so-o old and tattered..."
"Anyway, I have sent her the dress with a note about all this - but it seems my intentions have been misunderstood. And not by Caelen, mind you, but by an old meddling relative - her aunt or something. Look what a letter she has sent me! As if I were courting a married woman...."

Daurendil dropped the crumpled letter on Tarniel's knees and she took it, but her brother gave her no time to read it. He rushed on.

"Now - that's what I thought: could you, please, write to this lady yourself, telling her that it was our common present - a gift from you and me and Amantir and Odare - from all of us, those who were beaten in the race? Then it will be quite proper for Caelen to accept it, especially if you send it back to her with one of your own maids, or, better still, if you go upstairs yourself to present it!"

Tarniel listened open mouthed, too bewildered to reply. Taking advantage of her confusion, Daurendil rose, pecked his sister on the cheek and said cheerfully "Thank you, dearest sister. I knew I could trust you. I have to hurry to the Council meeting now. Just don't tell anyone, especially Mother. Do it quietly and do it fast." He brought his lips close to Tarniel's ear and added in a whisper "And I swear by the Valar that I will order a ball dress for you, even better than Caelen's! It will be my Yule gift to my little sister, and nobody will think THAT improper!"

[Wilwarin]

Cameth Brin, Servants’ Common Hall. 6th of November, late afternoon.

After she had risen, Wilwarin dressed and went to the common hall to look for some breakfast. There was always some left for her, one of the cooks made sure of it. The hall was not empty, Sirien, one of the palace servants was cleaning. Wilwarin bade her good afternoon.

“Good afternoon, Wilwarin, or should I say ‘good morning’?” Sirien asked.

Wilwarin chuckled. “It does feel like morning to me, yes,” she admitted.

“With sleeping in so long you missed quite some excitement!” Sirien’s eyes lit up. “have you heard of what happened to Princess Gimilbeth’s caravan? They got attacked by orcs. Hundreds of them! They say no one survived!”

“Really?” Wilwarin raised her eyebrows questioningly. She had heard a few snippets of news from the guards earlier. “Then how do they know there were hundreds of orcs if no one survived to tell the tale?”

Sirien’s brow wrinkled for a moment when considering this conundrum. “Pfft,” she said and waved the feather duster dismissively at the other woman. “Why do you always have ruin a nice juicy story with your merchant-logic?”

“I’m not,” countered Wilwarin with a smile as she opened a cupboard and withdrew a plate with bread. “I’m just pointing out the holes in your stories so you can fill them up and spread your improved fanciful tales.” She found a jug with still fresh milk and sat down.

“I reckon the news of the attack was good news for Caelen,” Sirien mused out loud. “her husband was with the caravan.”

“Caelen, that latest newcomer to Cameth Brin? Why should that news please her?”

“You haven’t heard? Really, Wilwarin, the entire staff is talking about it!” Sirien lowered her voice conspiratorially. “They say even Queen Eilinel came down to ask maids about her.”

“The Queen herself? Why would she concern herself with an ostler’s wife?”

Sirien leaned on the table next to Wilwarin and spoke quietly. Gossip was one of Sirien’s favourite topics, but while gossip was worth telling, it was worth telling it without eavesdroppers that could get her into trouble later.

“Because her oldest son is more than concerning himself with the ostler’s wife, of course! He invited her to a horse race by the princesses and princes just like that, and she accepted! She seems to be held in quite high favour.”

“Yes, I assume she would be.” Wilwarin said, cutting off a chunk of bread.

Sirien paused and looked at Wilwarin. “Is that a smidge of jealousy I hear?”

Wilwarin chewed in silence for a moment, considering. “Perhaps,” she conceded finally.

“Understandably. There are quite a few maids wishing to be in her shoes right now, I can tell you that! Who wouldn’t? I mean, look at that gorgeous hair and that pretty face. I’m betting that and that cute, innocent demeanour of hers is what send men over the cliff of bleary-eyed devotion. She must be quite pleased now that her husband is out of the way so she’d have the Prince all to herself.”

“Prince Daurendil? My dear Sirien, there’s another hole in your rumours. The prince doesn’t have a chance with Caelen unless he grows himself some manes and hooves.” Wilwarin said while chewing on a mouthful of bread. She swallowed before continuing. “The stable master’s wife said there’s little space in Caelen’s head that isn’t taken up by horses. I think she’s not far of the mark. Even that handsome thane-son will probably have more luck than our unfortunate prince.”

“What handsome thane-son?” Sirien asked suddenly, eyes shining at the prospect of more stories.

Wilwarin winced. “Ack, I should have learned by now to watch my tongue around you.”

“Oh come one,” whittled Sirien. “You know you’ll have to tell me now, or you know I will just fill the holes in myself with fanciful fabrications. I know you hate that.”

Wilwarin held up her hands. “All I will tell you is this: He recently arrived to Cameth Brin, I don’t know his name. I saw Caelen return yesterday evening, accompanied by him and a noblewoman I do not know. For all I know they are acquaintances from her home lands. But if looks are anything to go by, he’s a tad disappointed her husband met Caelen before he ever did.”

Sirien eyes lit up. “Three men, my! I could have known a beautiful woman like Caelen wouldn’t settle for just one man.”

“Sirien!” Wilwarin protested.

“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone I got this from you. I have to go now, before Thillas finds me loitering. She’d let me feel the end of her broom if she did.”

“Sirien!” Wilwarin hissed urgently, “don’t you dare…”

But Sirien had flittered out the hall, leaving Wilwarin to curse her own rash tongue. She pinched the bridge of her nose and put her face in her hands. “Never fear for me meddling in politics, father; it looks like palace gossip will gladly be the end of me first.” She muttered to the empty room.

[Witch-king of Angmar]

Early morning, November 6
Fortress of Carn Dum, Kingdom of Angmar

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.

[Saakaf]

Old Orc camp at Pennath Teneg, Trollshaws, night of November 8

The march back to the old camp in Pennath Teneg 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.

[Tarniel]

Cameth Brin, morning of November 6, 1347

Tarniel felt like a whirlwind had just slammed into her, sucked her up into its center, and carried her away. Just what had that been about? Or perhaps she knew what it was about, but could barely believe it herself. Certainly, her brother could not be so scheming as to use both Odaragariel and her to win the favor of the woman he desired! But it certainly seemed like that was what he was attempting to do, to use his little sister and his friend (whom he would most likely marry) to find some socially acceptable way to court this woman. And to make matters even worse, this woman was married!

The more Tarniel thought about it, the more she got angry, until she was furious. Daurendil was acting like some corrupt Cardolani noble, lusting for every pretty lady of the court! She would have no part in this! Sneaking around her mother's back and making the gifting of the riding habit seem like an official gesture to assuage Caelen's rightly worried relatives – what audacity did Daurendil have to ask such things!

Outraged, Tarniel stormed over to the door and opened it, surprising the guards outside. Ohh, she would tell her dear brother a thing or two about his little scheme! She was of a mind to tell the king and queen just what the darling prince was doing, but reconsidered when she thought about how explosive the scandal might be. They were well aware of the rumors which were flying, and perhaps they were considering ways to deal with the embarrassing situation.

Lost in her thoughts, she was taken unawares by Arinya, who was coming her way down the corridor.

"Tarniel, you certainly look upset," Arinya exclaimed when she saw the incensed expression on her face, the way her brow was furrowed and her lips were set in a pout. "What is the matter?"

Tarniel worried her lower lip for a moment, considering what to say. "Ohh, it is just all these horrid rumors which seem to have sprung up lately like weeds," she said, displeased at the way she had understated the situation. She tried so hard to be the epitome of dignity and grace, honoring the king and queen and her country. There were times though, especially times like this when her brother was doing all he could to shame the ruling family, that it was difficult not to just scream and break down into a royal, howling tantrum.

"Which rumors?" Arinya hedged politely, attempting not to aggravate an awkward situation. "There will always be rumors... but it is not wise to pay heed to all of them."

"Do you not know?" Tarniel asked, emotion filling her voice. "The rumors about my brother and that – that woman!"

[Arinya]

Cameth Brin, morning of November 6, 1347


"Ah, those rumors!" said Arinya with a rueful little smile.

"Well, you might think they're funny, but I do NOT, and ... " started Tarniel angrily, but Arinya put a hand on her shoulder and stopped her.

"Let us go to my room to discuss this," she said, looking significantly at the people passing by. Tarniel swallowed the rest of the angry words that were clamoring to come out and agreed, and they silently made their way to Arinya's room.

"There are many reasons why a woman might go down on her knees before a prince," said Arinya quietly, looking thoughtfully at the spot where Caelen and Daurendil had been only a few short days ago. "And you must remember, Tarniel, that your brother is not only a man - he is also a prince of this land."

Tarniel paused - Arinya had a point; perhaps Caelen was bringing a matter before Daurendil ... and after all, they hadn't been alone - Arinya had been right there with them. Tarniel had seen many people on their knees before her father - but her brother? And then she remembered her brother's attentions to Caelen during the ride ... but to be fair, Caelen didn't seem to be returning them ... She shook her head in frustration.

"But our minds tend to choose the reason that will upset us the most, do they not?" continued Arinya, smiling at Tarniel, who had to give a grudging acknowledgement to this common affliction of mankind.

"You do not ask me what I think you should do, and I would not tell you, anyway; the elves do not willingly give advice to the Secondborn. But I will give you some information - all is not as it seems with Caelen."

"It seems that the elves do not give information willingly, either!" complained Tarniel. "You have told me nothing!"

"Ah, but that is not so," replied Arinya. "If a captain is looking at what seems to be a peaceful countryside, and a scout tells him that all is not as it seems, do you think that that is no information to the captain? Do you not think that he will immediately send out more scouts to find out more information?"

"If I were that captain, I would ask the scout to tell me himself - and torture him until he did!" said Tarniel rogueishly.

Arinya smiled. "I would tell you if I could, Tarniel, but I cannot - the secret is not mine to tell. But I will give you this advice - wait and watch and listen. I think it will come out soon. And people will find that they have scorned Caelen for the wrong reason. I do not say no reason; merely the wrong one. Her real error is only slight compared to what she has been wrongly accused of, and it can be easily excused by reason of her youth, her desire to obey one she loves, and the grief of her loss of her parents and home."

Tarniel frowned. The trouble with talking with Arinya was that things never got easier. On the contrary, they usually got more complicated!

"Well, I suppose that I better take your advice, since it is such a novelty for you to give it to me!" she teased. "I'll just tell Daurendil that I'm still thinking about what is best to do, and hope that this mysterious information will come out soon."

"I think talking to Daurendil is a good idea," said Arinya firmly. She turned towards the window. "Think of him as a scout ..."

Tarniel's expression changed. Was Arinya saying that her brother was in on this secret?

Arinya turned back to Tarniel. "And as for the other rumors..."

"Which ones?" asked Tarniel, feeling rather overwhelmed.

"I do not know which you have heard, but I think that if you have not talked to the King and Queen today, that now would be a good time ..."

Tarniel got up hastily, all thoughts of Caelen and Daurendil now forgotten, and left the room quickly.

Arinya looked after her thoughtfully as she walked rapidly down the corridor. "I do not know whether to tell you 'fear not' or 'congratulations'," she mused wryly, knowing something of Tarniel's feelings towards her older sister, as well as her own feelings towards Gimilbeth...

[Agannalo]

Fortress of Morkai, kingdom of Angmar.
Morning of November 6, 1347.


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!”

[Tarnendur]

The Council Meeting Begins

November 6, 1347, mid-morning - Cameth Brin – the Palace of Rhudaur

Tarnendur was interrupted in his anxious pacing by a knock at the door. He stopped and drew himself up as Orefim entered. Orefim bowed and spoke.

“Your Highness…”

“Yes?”

“Broggha has just arrived. The Council is all assembled.”

Tarnendur’s face showed a somewhat contorted smile – his lower lip pushed upward as if to force a frown, but the corners of his mouth turned up in an attempt to smile.

“Very well then. We shall go at once. Is Daurendil ready at last?”

“Yes, Your Highness. He has been found and made ready. He awaits you outside this very chamber.”

“Then let us go.”

- - - - - - - -

On to the Chamber of the Council of Rhudaur

The King came forth from his chamber and walked briskly down the hall and the stairs and on out into the November morning. His son and Heir stepped in just behind him, with various attendants falling into place as they passed. He strode proudly across the royal grounds and on to the Tower of Cameth Brin. He held his head high and kept his face forward, but his eyes darted around to survey all about and before him. Those in the courtyard stopped at their tasks and bowed as he passed them. Two attendants rushed ahead to clear the way for his coming and the guards stood aside and drew open the doors to the tower. On they passed toward the Council Chambers, where at last they arrived just as the announcement, “The King!” faded from before them.

As Tarnendur entered the chambers he saw that all present were standing, except Broggha, who only now slowly stood to his feet, as if grudgingly. Tarnendur pretended not to notice, nodded his head in acknowledgement to all and took his own seat as signal that they may now do accordingly. He then began the session without delay.

“No doubt you have heard already some form of what I am about to lay before you. Yestereve, I received a message from Captain Merendil – who was to escort the Lady Gimilbeth on the first part of… a trip she has taken, … as far as Brochenridge, and whose return might indeed have been expected yesterday.”

“Orefim – have the message read.”

Orefim signaled to a scribe who carried a small scroll. The young man opened it and read in a loud, clear voice:

“November 4, 1347

King Tarnendur,

While returning to Cameth Brin, have discovered that a band of Orcs, perhaps 300 or more, have infiltrated the land and had observed our earlier passage, and have since set off in a direction which might intercept Princess Gimilbeth’s party before they reach the Last Bridge. Had already assigned her 40 men – may not be sufficient. Am giving chase with all available men, in hopes of reaching her in time.

I know not from whence these have come, or how they breached our borders, nor if others are about as well. Having no time to ponder these things which you must, I turn only to the attempted rescue of your eldest child.

Regards,

Captain Merendil”

The scribe rolled up the scroll, laid it beside the King and stepped back. There was silence as the various council members compared this account with the versions they had previously heard. Next, the man who had delivered the message from Merendil was called forward, that any of the Council might ask him further questions. When these had been addressed, the King signaled Orefim to lead the messenger out. At this point, several of the attendants who had followed the King to the chamber were dismissed, leaving only the Council, Orefim, two recording scribes and the guards.

“Council members,” began the King, “You have heard the message from Merendil. My daughter’s fate we must leave in his hands, for she is now five days out from Cameth Brin. But what of these Orcs? What is their number, and what was their purpose? Has their purpose now become to attack my … daughter?” The King’s composure showed signs of breaking, but he mastered himself and regained it. He continued, “Are there others about? Where did they come from? Where did they enter into our lands? What harm have they already done?”

He then stood in his chair, still composed, raised his voice further and proclaimed, “This charge I now lay upon you, Council of Rhudaur – to take up this matter with me. The Kingdom of Rhudaur needs all your strength, … all your devotion, … all your wisdom! What say you to this? What are we… to… do?”

His voice beginning to break at the end, the King lowered himself slowly to his seat. He placed his hands on his lap, below the table, for he could no longer contain their shaking. He lowered his head gravely as he waited for someone to speak.

[Lieutenant Hyarion]

Fortress of Morkai, kingdom of Angmar.
Morning of November 6, 1347.

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.

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"A shum dara ningak" - Empower blood magic, Sumerian