Perilous Journeys. Shadow Over Rhudaur III

[Witch-king of Angmar]

November 6, 1347, mid-morning - The Tower of Cameth Brin

Written by Angmar and Elfhild


After King Tarendur resumed his seat, the council members were in shock at the alarming news. When the full realization of the gravity of the situation dawned upon them, the men murmured angrily among themselves. Faces turned expectantly towards General Nimruzir of Fennas Drunin, the Head of the Army of Rhudaur.

A dour expression upon his face, the general rose to his feet and looked over the assembled members. "Your Majesty, honorable lords and dignitaries, fellow council members," he began in voice strong despite his many years. "We have all heard the contents of the letter from Captain Merendil, and know the great peril which now faces our beloved Princess Gimilbeth." He gave the king a sympathetic look. "You ask how this thing has happened and what is being done? I am just as shocked as the rest of you, but I promise you that our princess will be returned! Everything possible is being done to see to her speedy rescue. Dispatches have been sent to our posts in the area, ordering all available troops to be dispatched and sent to her aid. But there are few troops to be spared," his voice rose, "for our forces are spread woefully thin!"

Lord Belzagar leaned towards Lord Elured, who sat beside him, and whispered in his ear. "He has said nothing of any substance, but what does he ever say? The old general is in his dotage. He should have been retired long ago. A younger man should be found to replace him before the old man's growing mental deterioration and ineptitude compromise our security."

Elured nodded gravely and muttered, "Unfortunately, I must agree with you. He has been saying the same thing for years. He should be removed and a better found to take his place."

The general looked over the crowd before continuing. "But as I have maintained for years, it is not great numbers of men in the army that win the battles - it is the resolve in the men's spirits and minds that tell the tale! And the heart has gone out of our army!" He slammed his fist on the table, causing goblets and drinking vessels to rattle. The assembly muttered at his words, some agreeing, some disputing.

Belzagar murmured low under his breath to Elured, "When there is nothing to be offered but excuses, the old sycophants always resort to histrionics." Elured nodded.

Nimruzir went on, his voice growing louder as his face grew redder. "And why you might ask has the heart gone out of our army? It is not for want of leadership, for there are no finer officers than ours in all of the North. It is not for lack of devotion upon the part of our soldiers. Nay, they are all good and brave men who journey over the long, lonely marches." General Nimruzir sipped from his goblet of water and then resumed.

"I could cite the fact that none of the officers or men have had a pay increase in the past five years as an explanation. I could say that many of our people are more interested in making profits than supporting the military. I could tell about the young men who shun military duty in favor of a life of parties and high living at court." He riveted Prince Daurendil with a piercing stare.

"I could say many things." The old man's eyes blazed with fury. "While all these play a part, this is not the explanation. We have faced just as bad in the past." He turned his gaze on Broggha and stared coldly at him. "We have forgotten who we are, the descendants of the Númenóreans, a once proud people. Our ancestors forged a great empire from the South to the North! But in the years that have elapsed since then, we have faltered and become prey to fear. In our weakness, we have taken counsel with those who do not share our vision."

A muscle twitched in his cheek as he clenched the table with one hand. "We have allowed ourselves to be influenced by lesser men! We, the sons of Númenor, must reclaim a sense of who we are and forge our own destiny without the influence of outsiders! Only then will we return to greatness!" The general bowed his head. "My prayer is that the princess will be returned safely to us and that the Valar will give us guidance. I have nothing more to say. Thank you for listening to me." The old general sat down amidst an angry mutter of voices.

A faint smile spread across Belzagar's face as he looked from General Nimruzir to the pale face of the king and then to Broggha. "The old fool challenges the great Broggha. He has just signed his death warrant."



Lord Curugil waited for calm to return before standing to his feet. An obesely large man, he had to scoot his chair back slightly so that his ponderous girth would not bump against the table when he rose. Clearing his throat, he scratched his stomach and gave his doublet a sharp tug forward so that the buttons would not gape so widely. The man's fat face was ruddy, and his breath reeked of wine and garlic.

"Your Majesty, esteemed lords, members of the council," he looked around, blinking when his vision blurred and doubled, "this is indeed a dark day in our history. Never before have the orcs made an attack upon a... a member of the royal family! My heart goes out to the.... king and the queen and their children!" His words were slightly slurred, as he had arrived at the meeting mildly intoxicated, and intensified his inebriated state with each subsequent goblet he had consumed at the meeting...

"How did we allow such a thing to happen? Orcs within our own borders? An impossibility! But yet it is true! We have failed! Our vigilance has faltered, and these bestial creatures have come into our country to terror.... terrorize our citizenry. This is only another - hiccup - woe to... add to a long line of woes! They have crossed the... where was it again?" He looked down to Huramir from Dol Aglardin, who was sitting beside him. "Ah, yes! The river!" In a low voice, he thanked Huramir and slapped him on the shoulders, causing him to pitch forward. "Then Dol Hithaer was taken by the enemy, a terrible thing..."

Weaving on his feet, he took another sip from his goblet to shore up his balance. "My friends, this is the hour of crisis! We must arise to the occasion and drive these rogues from our borders!" He raised his wine goblet in the air and shook it for emphasis, some of the crimson liquid sloshing out and hitting Huarmir in the face. "We must never let this happen again! We must be more willing to support our army in every way possible! My friends, before I take my seat, I leave you with this humble suggestion. Ahh... ahhh...." Pausing, his besotted mind tried to remember what he was going to say. "Ahh, yes! The levy of taxes must be increased!"

Belching loudly, Curugil sat down with a great thud and looked around, beaming drunkenly. A few members of the audience clapped, more for politeness than anything else.

The assembly turned expectantly to Jarl Broggha, Count of Pennmorva, who was just rising from his seat. As bulky as a great bear, his broad shoulders covered with a fox cloak, the redhaired giant inclined his head to the king before looking around the table at each man. "Your Majesty, honorable lords, distinguished colleagues, how I am saddened to learn that the beloved Princess is in peril, and perhaps faces grave danger at the moment we speak." He paused for emphasis.

"I am equally saddened to hear the words of General Nimruzir, who seems to have woefully misjudged those who would only be friends and offer succor in a time of need. I have done everything in my power to bring our two peoples together and foster a spirit of felicity and harmony between them." He glanced towards General Nimruzir, who sat stiffly in his seat, his spine like a battering ram as he glared at Broggha.

"I am a forgiving man and not easily offended. In my desire for cooperation between our peoples, I will allow this slight to go overlooked." A smile played over Broggha's full lips, but his blue eyes were like glittering ice. "My lords, I will not take much of your time, for I know there are many other important matters to be discussed at this meeting. I will not bring you endless words this day, promises that mean nothing! I bring you more than hope, for hope is fleeting. I offer you far more than that. What say you to the offer of two hundred trained and well-armed men to aid in overcoming this crisis? Perhaps General Nimurzir would object to the fact that they are led by my own officers. Hillmen, aye, and perhaps what the general would call lesser men, but each one has a sharp eye, a steady hand and swords of the sharpest steel. Your Majesty, my lords, I await only your word."

As Broggha bowed his head in false humility, all eyes in the chamber turned to the king.

[Tarnendur]

November 6, 1347, mid-morning - The Tower of Cameth Brin

Written by Serenoli


The king stood up.

In a terse voice - he seemed to be holding in much anger - he said, "I thank you, those who have tried to address the crisis we are facing. I called this Council in a state of much fear and anxiety... knowing full well that any action we take now may be too late to help the Princess, but determined all the same that swift actions have to be taken, firstly, to aid Captain Merendil in any way in rescuing her... and secondly in driving out these orcs and taking precautions that they never come back.

"I did not call this Council to ask for an explanation from anyone, though General Nimruzir felt compelled to give one anyway. And the explanation amounts to this - he wishes for a pay rise for his army and he resents the fact that there are those present at this Council who are not descended from Numenor. Lord Curugil on the other hand, has proposed we increase taxes. And Lord Broggha has offered me two hundred trained men.

"I have thought hard about this," he could not resist being a little bit sarcastic "and I have decided that - while there are obvious attractions to paying an army for letting a horde of orcs come into the country and attack their princess, and while I can entirely see why the orcs, frightened, perhaps at the thought of paying more taxes, might chose to leave the country of their own volition - despite all that, I have decided we can do no better than accept Lord Broggha's offer of two hundred men to help us." Angry murmurs started to make their presence felt, and Tarnendur quelled them by saying firmly, "And that is decided."

[Tarnendur]

Tarnendur turned to Broggha and addressed him directly, his old grey eyes meeting the Hillmen`s blue ones levelly.

“Aye, I accept your offer, Lord Broggha. But I say to you, the Kingdom is in peril and utmost sacrifice is required of everyone. It is time to prove your worth, Broggha of the Hillmen!”

“You offered me two hundred fighters. It is not enough. You can do better. Take five hundred Hillmen and lead them yourself under the King`s banner with my blessing. If in two months you bring me the keys of Dol Hithaer, a rich reward will await you. Every one of your men will be counted in the Army of Rhudaur with full pay and subsistence that only Dunedain guards now have. But make haste, as winter gales are at hand.”

“Help you will have. Once in the lands of Imlad Mitheithel, make sure to contact Lord Dínen, Seneschal of this land. He will rally his men and send at least a hundred with you, maybe more.”

“Lord Belzagar here...”- the King`s heavy gaze fell on the young councilor, who rose to his feet - ”Your lands of Duniath are close to Imlad Mitheithel and also threatened by the orcs of Gundabad, so it is only fair if you send a hundred men to help Lord Broggha to reclaim Dol Hithaer, unless you choose to go there in person. As for me, I will send Captain Merendil north with some reinforcements, once he is back.”

“What say you to that, my Lords?”

(written by Gordis)

[Jarl Broggha]

November 6, 1347, mid-morning - The Tower of Cameth Brin

Broggha's cold blue eyes were expressionless as he faced the king, but inside the hillman chieftain seethed. "What does he think I am? A fool!" he thought to himself. "He seeks to be rid of my men and me for the duration of the winter by sending us into the mountains of Angmar! More likely, he prays that we will meet our deaths in the swirling snows of the mountain pass, or at the hands of the orcs! Never would I have thought that the old dottard had retained enough keenness of judgment to devise such a stratagem. Perhaps his daughter, the clever Princess Gimilbeth, would have such acumen but never her elderly sire! The old man would dare play a game of wits with Broggha! He will find that the stakes are far higher than he believes. Still, I will give the old man what he desires - the keys to Dol Hithlaer. Then in the spring when my men and I return with the praises of the king and his people in my ears, I shall take his whole kingdom as my price and his daughter, Tarniel, as my bride!"

Noticing that Belzagar, Lord of Dol Duniath, had risen to his feet, Broggha gave him a quick glance before directing his attention to the king. "What is Taurendur's motive for requesting this nobleman's presence in the north?" Broggha's devious mind wondered. "Perhaps for some reason he wishes to be rid of him, too. However, this is no time to consider the king's reasoning at the present." Broggha would ponder that matter at another time. The hillman chieftain was not aware that Belzagar was also in the employ of the King of Angmar. The slippery Belzagar had been the Northern King's spy master in Rhudaur for years, but because of the danger of his work and the fear that he would be discovered, only one other man - Authon - knew of his activities.

When Broggha spoke, there was no trace of anger in his voice, only a flickering spark of hostility deep in his eyes. "Your Majesty, this is a day which will be recorded as one when history was made. Today, when the darkest peril faces the land of Rhudaur - perhaps the darkest in all of its history - hope is rekindled! Our people have united together to fight a common enemy! A people divided and separated by thought and motive is doomed to extinction, but a people united can never be forced to their knees. We are forging a strong and powerful alliance which will guarantee that in the future, Rhudaur will be victorious against all of its enemies!" At these words, a murmur of approval rose through the council chamber. No words of praise were upon General Nimruzir's downturned lips, though. His brow furrowed, the old general's expression was one of great disapproval.

Broggha waited until the crowd had quieted. "My heart is moved with the greatest feelings of friendship and felicity towards the people of this country." As a show of his feigned emotion, he put his right hand over his chest. "The feelings of my people are the same. They yearn for peace and cooperation between our two peoples. They will look upon this day with joy in their hearts!" Boggha paused, and another cry of approval rose up from the hall.

After taking a sip of wine from his goblet, Broggha went on. "Though some have misjudged us," he let his glance skim over General Nimruzir's scowling face, "you will find that the hillmen and their chief do not make idle promises. Under the King's Banner, I will lead my 500 of my most experienced warriors to Dol Hithlaer. With our blood and steel, we will purchase Dol Hithlaer for the king of Rhudaur!" Broggha paused again and then smiled benevolently. "What do I ask in return? Your Majesty, you do not need to promise me a rich reward. Your friendship will be honor enough for me."

A look of relief upon his face, the king smiled gratefully at Broggha. Broggha nodded to him and then resumed speaking. "An expedition of this size involves planning and cooperation, and many men and animals. Therefore, I will rely upon Lord Belzagar for 100 men, and the lord's leadership, too, if he would be so kind as to provide that." Belzagar looked to Belzagar, who nodded in agreement. "It is well that I have a good man at my back," Broggha, an inscrutable expression upon his face, affirmed. "And Lord Dínen, Seneschal of Imlad Mitheithel, I will call upon him for 100." Broggha smiled graciously.

"Now, my liege, Hillmen are used to traveling light and surviving under harsh conditions. We require little and can endure much. We will travel light, taking our provisions with us on pack horses, thus avoiding the encumbrance of baggage wagons." Broggha paused and then looked up in the king's eyes. "I am a man of few words and am almost finished speaking. Only this do I have to say. Truly I am honored by Your Majesty's trust and confidence. I will not let you down, sire." His face an expression of total deference and gratitude, Broggha resumed his seat to the ovation of the council members.

"How I look forward to cutting out the old fool's heart and offering it upon the dark altar as a tribute to the Lord of Darkness, the One Who Rules In the Place of His Majesty Melkor the Potent," Broggha thought gleefully.

[Agannalo]

At the Bridge of Angsuul, Kingdom of Angmar, night of November 6, 1347

It was late evening when Hyarion’s tired company finally reached the King`s Arms Inn at the Bridge of Angsuul. The troopers filed into the common room, happy to be out of cold and snow, and the Lieutenant was given the best rooms in the Inn. He retired for the night, giving express orders to lock the prisoner in the cellar and to guard him well. Agannalo was led down a flight of stairs to the freezing basement.

”Still not eating, strawhead?” inquired the scarred one-eyed soldier assigned to guard Agannalo. “And not drinking either?” The guard shook his head disapprovingly and grinned, showing crooked yellow teeth, “Watch out, or there will be nothing but a wraith left of you when we reach Carn-Dum.”

The last statement made Agannalo smirk despite his bad mood. The captivity was taking its toll on the nazgul and the absence of subsistence caused this queer hollow feeling inside – not exactly hunger or thirst, but some vague dissatisfaction, some persistent yearning. Unfortunately, Agannalo was well aware that nothing that the guard could offer him could slacken his thirst. The ringwraith’s nostrils quivered catching the scent of the guard’s blood – both alluring and revolting... but mixed with the male’s scent more revolting than alluring – yet...

Something in Aganalo’s intent gaze must have unsettled the guard, for the man broke the eye-contact and roughly pushed the prisoner towards the low door of the cellar assigned for him.

“I wish you a cheerful night, weird one” the soldier jeered. “I reckon it is a tad cold in the cellar, but I am sorry to say we have no wenches to warm your bed.”

The mention of food and wenches made Agannalo hiss in frustration and clench his hands into fists as the heavy door clanged shut behind him and the key turned in the lock. It has been a long time since he last had a wench and drank warm red blood. Two weeks or more have passed since he killed this plump fool of a servant near Pennmorva. He had so looked forward to reaching Shedun, promising himself a girl there, but one mistake brought his plans to naught. Here he was now - cold and hungry and weaponless - locked in a icy stone cellar of a roadside inn.

When would he be able to feed again? In Carn-Dum – maybe- if the Captain would deign to grant one of his female subjects to an old comrade. Or, perhaps he would be able to buy himself a slave girl, like he did so many times back in the East? But did they practice slavery in Angmar? Agannalo was uncertain.

Ever since the cursed Ring he received from Annatar had perverted his senses, Agannalo killed for blood - again and again. He was wary at first, taking infinite precautions to cover his tracks, but then, with time, he grew careless. The disappearance of a number of maidens in Numenor couldn’t have passed unnoticed. Soon the authorities became suspicious of the noble Lord Silmatan, and though the King’s cousin could not be accused publicly, Silmatan soon learned that the King’s patience had its limits. One fine day he got an order to leave Numenor for the colonies and never come back.

And so he complied, settling at first in Umbar and then moving further and further south, away from the accusing stares of his compatriots. There in idleness and debauchery he spent his long mortal life, until one dark and stormy night he simply disappeared without trace, leaving his palace filled with priceless objects of art and his many slaves behind. It was a fitting end to a sinful life - as everyone agreed, so King’s relative or not, nobody really looked for him in earnest. The invisible Silmatan made his way to Barad-Dur and the Dark Lord had got yet another of his nazgul.

Agannalo sighed, remembering the cozy South, where maidens were so easily acquired and men so easily fooled. Oblivious to the cold, he stretched on a bare stone bench and stared at the frosted ceiling preparing to spend yet another long night of his eternal life.

[Lieutenant Hyarion]

Lieutenant Hyarion's rooms, King's Arms Inn
Near the Bridge of Angsuul, Kingdom of Angmar, night of November 6, 1347

Lieutenant Hyarion had been well satisfied with his rooms at The King's Arms, which were, after all, the best lodgings in the entire inn. Even though the journey had had a less than auspicious beginning, there had been no serious problems since. Eager to share a few drinks and some conversation, the lieutenant had called his officers to his apartments to join him for supper.

The meal, served in generous portions, had been adequate but lacking in appeal. There were several soups - both asparagus and yellow split pea soup - both lacking in any flavor. The inn featured a number of vegetables cooked in various ways - red and green cabbage, beets, cauliflower, spinach, turnips and onions - all of which were overcooked and bland. The bread - both rye and white - was excellent, and there were cheeses, pickles and jelly and various condiments to add flavor, but the lieutenant was not one to be satisfied with bread and cheese.

Then when the servants carried in the main course on a great platter, Lieutenant Hyarion frowned. As the serving boy lifted the covering, Hyarion's eyebrows arched high. There before him was a boiled sheep's stomach stuffed with the animal's heart, liver and lungs, as well as onion, oatmeal, suet and spices. The smell was pungent. "The accursed cuisine of the North," he muttered.

"This is food for the lowly peasant's table, not the table of a lord and his officers! How dare you serve us tripe! Take this disgusting effrontery out of my sight!" He scowled at the lad who waited to serve him.

"Certainly, sir, immediately," the boy stammered as he nodded to the other serving boys to remove the platter. "There are several excellent main courses on tonight's menu. Please choose from any of them. The cook has prepared black pudding, which, as you know, is made from blood; there is some of that left. Then there is roast duck served with baked apples and prunes, liver cooked with onions; ham and sausage. For dessert, there is oat porridge, delicately flavored with nutmeg, cinnamon and honey, or you could choose this autumn's apples and pears."

"The duck, you will bring us the duck, boy, and for dessert, we will have the oat porridge," Lieutenant Hyarion grumbled.

After the boy had scurried away, the lieutenant, his face flushed, his tawny flesh reddened with his anger, turned to his officers. "This is what we have to expect here, so far from the south! Unimaginative, poorly flavored cooking! These clods misuse even the most delicate of spices, indiscriminately adding them to dishes which are too foul to be consumed by man. These rustics have no concept of what constitutes good cooking! When we reach Carn Dum, you will see a world of difference!"

After the officers had gone, the lieutenant, still disgruntled, considered retiring early with a bottle of the house's best Dorwinion wine to bring him some solace. He knew better than to request one of the inn's serving girls to keep him company, for they were as bland as the food. With a mutter, he actually lay down in the bed, propped his head back against the headboard, slowly sipping his wine as he looked at the flames glowing in the fireplace on the other side of the room. He was restless, though, and sleep evaded him. He turned back the cover, and climbed out of bed.

Sheathed, the magic dagger lay on a stool near his bed. He remembered the last time he had experimented with the strange blade. When a drop of his blood had landed upon the blade, the blood had disappeared. He had been convinced that that this event had sparked a fierce blast of thunder which had rocked the Morkai fortress, and so he was hesitant about further testing. He decided, though, to perform another experiment. He went to his baggage and took out a small, round piece of glittering crystal and walked back to the blade. This stone was one he used in his magic rituals.

Unsheathing the strange gleaming weapon, he touched the crystal talisman to the blade. Since he had just taken it out of storage, the crystal had been cool to the touch, but instead of warming to his hand, it grew gradually colder. Icy condensate gathered where the blade touched the stone, like frost upon a window. A pale mist rose up around the crystal as the mystic blade caused its surface to sublimate. Gasping in fear, Hyarion dropped the prism, and it fell to the floor, shattering into tiny pieces like a slab of ice dropped upon a stone.

The lieutenant was both frightened and mystified. "Blood touched to the blade disappears - the magic talisman breaks as it sends up clouds of mist. Yet I can draw no conclusions. Perhaps I should conduct one last test to conclude the series of three, the magic number. Perhaps that third test would unlock the secrets of this blade!" He knew that he was becoming obsessed with this blade. He found he was thinking about it more and more all the time - when he was riding with his troops, when he talked with his officers, when he ate, and when he slept, he had even begun to dream about it.

Holding the blade up to the light, his dilated eyes gleaming, his heart hammering in his chest, Hyarion watched the pale light undulating in luminosity, darkening and lightening as the light reflected off its surface. He must have the answer to its secret! He would summon the prisoner and see what information he could glean from that scoundrel. The knave probably knew nothing about the powers of the blade, for Hyarion was convinced that the arrogant thief had stolen it from some sorcerer. Still, perhaps under threats, he could intimidate him into telling the name of the sorcerer from whom he had stolen it.

A command to the guard stationed at his door soon had the prisoner brought before him. "You are not needed. You will be called when you are," Hyarion told the amazed one-eyed man who been guarding Agannalo. After the man left, the lieutenant turned to the prisoner. "Take a seat, Silmadan; I believe that was the name you called yourself. I have some further questions for you."

A smirk on his face, Agannalo nonchalantly sat down on one of the chairs and looked at the lieutenant. "I thought I had answered all of your questions before, lieutenant."

"You answered nothing, or nothing I would believe! You allege that you are the nephew of the king of Angmar, a story which I do not believe for one instant. When you get to Carn Dum, His Majesty will be able to separate the truth from the lies." He walked over to the stool where he had placed the unusual blade. Unsheathing it, he walked back to Agannalo. "Where did you steal this, you lying dog? I want the name of the wizard who owns it! Start talking, and tell me the truth, or I will promise you I will cut off your nose if you do not!"

[Hurgon Fernik]

Evening, November 5 and Morning November 6

It was a sick sight that had met his eyes when he screwed up enough courage to re-emerge from the trees where he had hid himself. The battle had been an ugly one - and Hurgon, who, shut up in the Palace all his adult life, and having led a pretty comfortable life before that, had never seen a dead man - walked around aimlessly for a long time, shell-shocked. He was hardly aware of what was going on, but finding the familiar faces of the two elves - who appeared to be tending to the wounded - he sat down near them. He was still clutching Tarniel's painting to his chest, and soon afterward, exhausted by all that had happened and all that he had seen, he fell into an uneasy sleep right there on the ground. Luckily, one of the elves had the good sense to cover him up with a blanket - else he might have frozen right where he slept.

The next morning was worse. He woke up feeling guilty - he should have been less cowardly, that was his reproach to himself. So when they started sorting out the corpses, he volunteered to help, even though he would much rather not touch the dead bodies. A vague, undefined sort of thought passed his head, that maybe he would have done better to have run away with Nauremir while he had the chance. Or even better, if he had painted Tarniel properly at the very start, as opposed to giving her purple hair, he at least would have been safe back home in Cameth Brin now.

But nightmarish at it was, that hour passed too, and after washing himself thoroughly, and partaking of the slight breakfast that was available, he had just enough time to scavenge the wagons for his paint supplies. Most of them were spoilt or destroyed - but he thought he had enough with which to finish off the painting. He gathered them all, and one of the ponies that had lost its master was commisioned for his use. And so they started off for Iantbarad, and Hurgon was not the only one of the party to look nervously around them at the slightest sound.

[Tarnendur]

November 6, 1347, mid-morning - The Tower of Cameth Brin

"I take your promise, Lord Broggha, and I will hold you to it." Then softening his tone, Tarnendur continued, "If you succeed in your task, you will have my friendship and that of my people, as you ask. And Lord Belzagar, I hope to hear well of your conduct in this as well. You will not find me ungrateful." After a short pause, he said, "Well, if that's all settled, I think we can call an end to this meeting." He had a feeling that perhaps he should thank Broggha again, but deciding against it as too grovelling, he rose and left the room. Behind him he heard the scuffling of feet and chairs as everyone else emulated him.

He found himself being followed by General Nimruzir. His face still had a sullen look that had settled there during Tarnendur's speech, and he now said, "With all due respect, your Majesty, I beg you to reconsider your decision to trust the Hillman," he practically spat out the last word. "He will turn this to his advantage, he will do something to sabotage it, depend upon it."

"General, if you feel that strongly about it, why don't you go with him, and keep an eye on him? I would appreciate it myself, seeing as I can hardly go myself. But I leave it entirely to you. I'm sure Lord Broggha will have no problem."

Nimruzir didn't bother him again that day, though when he was walking away, he murmured something that sounded suspiciously like, "I just might take you up on that offer."

Later, Tarnendur had one more conversation about the Council. Happening to see his son, he asked him, half-seriously, why had he not protested, like last time, at everything Broggha? Daurendil said, rather quietly, "Well, though you do seem to trust him over-much - I can not protest against anything that sends him away from here. Besides, I doubt even he likes orcs or consorts with them. We might as well let the Hillmen die against orc blades since they are of no other use."

Slowly, reluctantly, it seemed, the tide was turning for Broggha at Cameth Brin. It would be a long time, perhaps, before anyone trusted him entirely. But, in the meantime, people were starting to tolerate him, accept him as a necessary evil - and that was all he needed.

Posted by Serenoli

[Belzagar]

November 6, 1347, mid-morning to early afternoon

While the meeting of the king's council had been in session, Authon, Lord Belzagar's secretary, spent the time waiting in the corridor outside the hall. The meeting had seemed inordinately long to him, and a number of times he had heard strident voices inside. He considered the loud voices normal, simply part of the usual pompous speech making of which men in the public eye were so fond, and nothing about which to be alarmed. When the meeting at last ended, he watched from the other side of the corridor as the council members filed out. He bowed and smiled when appropriate, or gave a brief nod when a bow was not necessary. Courtiers knew their place.

When Lord Belzagar left the chamber, Authon saw a look of agitation under his master's usual bland public smile. The lord could hide his moods from everyone except Authon, who knew him so well. "My lord, overhearing some of the comments, I take it that the meeting was a rather tumultuous one."

"We will discuss it later, Authon," Lord Belzagar put him off as he gave a pleasant, though patronizing, smile to General Nimruzir, who was glaring at all. Nodding and giving the usual expected replies to the other lords who still congregated in the corridor, Lord Belzagar led Authon outside to the stables. The stable boys soon had their mounts waiting for them, and the two men mounted their horses and rode down the steep hillside to the city below.

"My lord, where are we going, if I might ask?" Authon asked as he trotted his horse beside the dark bay stallion of his master.

"The Hare and Thistle, Authon. I could do with a tankard of ale."

Later, seated at their favorite table with tankards of foaming ale before them, the two men acknowledged the greetings from the other patrons. Lord Belzagar was a well known and popular man around Cameth Brin. As Aradiel, one of the barmaids who was in their employ, passed by, Authon raised his chin slightly in greeting. Looking at wenches was an appealing way to idle the time while he waited for Belzagar to tell him about the meeting. He had already gathered that it had not gone well, and he secretly gloated.

"Authon, while I had planned to remain at court until spring, as is my custom, now it appears that I must leave the city, possibly for a few months. For the first time in my life, it seems that I must take up my sword in the king's service and lead into battle a hundred of my kinsmen who serve under my banner. I can take some satisfaction in knowing that they will be incovenienced when they learn that they must leave the pleasures of my warm hall and take to the field in winter. Curse this whole thing," he muttered an oath.

"Our entire operation will be dependent upon you while I am gone. I have trained you well enough so that I am confident that you can take care of matters without my direct supervision." Belzagar blew the froth from the top of the liquid and then put the rim of the tankard to his mouth.

"My lord, I heard some things, but I could scarce believe my own ears. I take it that Broggha has proposed a northern expedition. Unbelievable to think of such a thing in the middle of November! Has he gone mad?"

"Not Broggha. Never Broggha! The man is far too clever for anything like that. It was King Tarnendur himself who came up with this harebrained proposal to retake the Hithaer Pass! When he presented it to Broggha, the scoundrel accepted his challenge, and in doing so, he condemned me! Yes, Authon, I was forced to accept, and now I have committed not only a hundred men, but myself! There was nothing else I could do and keep the trust of the king and preserve my own reputation," Belzagar's words were an angry whisper as he leaned towards Authon.

"My lord, I knew that the old king was in his dotage, but still I had not realized that his faculties had declined so far." Authon's expression was incredulous.

"Authon, keep your voice down! There are ears everywhere! It seems the king is far more clever than you and I gave him credit for being. All of this was nothing more than a ploy to send Broggha to the north, where Tarnendur hopes he will die beneath the blizzards of winter. But why me?" he hissed. "Why does the king wish to be rid of me, along with Broggha? I thought that I held the old man's confidence."

"My lord, perhaps the king suspects something. Possibly before she left on her trip, Princess Gimilbeth had told him about that incriminating message which she found when her falcon brought down one of our mail pigeons. Perhaps the king has only been looking for a opportunity to remove you quietly without risking the scandal which would be involved if he publicly accused you." Aware of the chilling effect that the suggestion would have on his master, Authon looked at him sheepishly. "At least I am safe enough here," he thought. "There would be no possible reason for my name to be connected in any way with the matters contained in the damaging letter."

"Why did he not just take the direct approach and have me murdered? That is what I would have done." Belzagar was astonished at this revelation of his underlings' suspicions. Never before had he intimated that his life could be in danger. "Damn him!" Belzagar thought. "Perhaps he, too, wants me out of the way!"

"I would suppose that His Majesty would consider such an act too far beneath him." Authon looked away. "The old man holds the concept of 'honor' highly."

"So he sends me to the north to exile me, with the hopes that I perish in the winter. How kind and noble of him," Belzagar hissed bitterly.

"Do you wish me to go with you?" Authon asked dutifully, knowing that his employer would decline his offer. Besides Belzager, he was the only one who knew enough to handle the extensive network of spies which Belzagar had built up over the years. Authon had always hoped that some fortuitous event might occur and leave him in control of the spymaster's power. Now perhaps his opportunity had arrived.

"Of course not. You are needed here." Belzagar spat out the words and then looked dourly at his drink.

"My lord, you know that I would be perfectly willing to go, and suffer the same risks and deprivations which you must face," Authon replied with just the right amount of humility in his voice to sound convincing.

"Of course you would, Authon, of course you would!" Belzagar laughed sarcastically. "You are so loyal to me, so very incredibly loyal and steadfast unto death! Now when you have finished your drink, we will return to my home. I must send a courier to my hold in Dol Duniath ordering 100 of my men to be in readiness for my arrival. Then I have an assignment for you."

"Yes, my lord?" Authon inquired, cocking his head to one side.

"You are to ride over to Lord Broggha's hall and inform him that if it is convenient, that I would like to pay a call to him tonight. I think it is time that he and I talked."

Authon's eyebrows arched in surprise. "And when he inquires as to the reason for the visit, what am I to say?"

"Just tell him that we have a mutual friend in the North." He laughed and then tossed the rest of his ale down. "He will understand what I mean, just as you do, Authon." Fraught with malice, his eyes bored into those of the other man. Belzagar tossed the remainder of his ale down and rose to his feet.

[Agannalo]

Lieutenant Hyarion's rooms, King's Arms Inn, Kingdom of Angmar, night of November 6, 1347


“Start talking, you lying dog, and tell me the truth, or I promise you I will cut off your nose if you do not!" Hyarion prompted his prisoner.

Much amused, Agannalo reflexively touched the tip of his nose and narrowed his eyes at the gleaming Morgul blade in the Southron’s hand. Now that was going to be interesting! Hyarion’s curiosity provided an unlooked-for and welcome distraction from the sad musings that had assailed the nazgul down in the cellar. A slow smile crept over Agannalo’s face.

“So, you did not believe me when I said this blade was a present from my uncle?” he drawled, rearranging the folds of his cloak around his tall frame to make them fall down in an elegant cascade.

The Southron only snorted loudly in reply, his face gradually turning redder.

Agannalo sighed and shook his head disapprovingly –indeed the other never believed him when he happened to tell the truth! Well, now was the time to see whether Hyarion would believe lies more readily. Now was the time for the cat to play with the mouse…

“Well… tell me first, what do you already know about the blade? Have you been … ahem… experimenting with it?” Agannalo asked mildly.

“I know it is magical, you, knave!” the Southron shouted. “I know it gleams with its own light, I know it shatters magical stones, causes blasts of thunder and absorbs blood without a trace! The only thing I don’t know is how it is supposed to work!”

Agannalo’s left brow arched at the mention of thunder. Hmm… that was new. He managed to wipe the smirk off his face and nodded sagely at Hyarion’s words.

“I can’t say I know all about the blade myself…” he drawled. ”But listen to me -I will tell you the blade’s story.”

Hyarion was all ears. Agannalo’s voice acquired a sing-song quality, common for wandering minstrels.

“Far-far to the East in a dark stone castle on a hill there lived a wizard. The tribes around, both the Balkots, the nomadic barbarians, and the horse-lords of Rhovanion held the wizard in awe and in great esteem, for he helped them out sometimes, when it suited himself. The magician was hundreds of years old, it was said, and wizened by years, yet he had managed to retain the vigor of a young man, especially when it came to women. I heard his appetites were insatiable and his prowess in bed remarkable.

“Years in the Wide World passed, but not for the old man. Every full moon the nomadic barbarians brought a young comely maiden in tribute to him– never to be seen again. And every time a maiden disappeared, the old wizard seemingly got even stronger as if he fed on her life-force.

“About five years ago I happened to pass through these lands and I grew most interested in the old wizard’s secret. It so happened that at this time, the old man became enamored of a young maiden, the daughter of a Rhovanion noble, but the maid despised the wizard and had declined his advances. Now, unlike Balkotes, the men of Rhovanion do not sell their women, however high the offered price might be. The wizard tried everything: sweet promises, money, threats and blackmail, but still the woman he desired remained unreachable.

“Here was the opportunity I was waiting for. I went to see the wizard and we made a deal, profitable for both sides. I offered to abduct and bring the maid to him. In return he promised to teach me his spell.”

Hyarion leaned forward in his chair and drank in the nazgul’s words as the desert absorbs water. “And so, did you manage to kidnap the woman?” he prompted with gleaming eyes.

“Oh, that was not really necessary,” Agannalo replied nonchalantly. “I had only to smile and wink to her once and she became all too willing to elope with me. That’s how I have brought her to the wizard.” He laughed softly.

“Now the wizard was obliged to stick to his part of the bargain and to reveal his secret spell – but then again he had never planned to let me out alive to tell the tale…” Agannalo paused for dramatic effect. Hyarion was forgetting to breathe.

“He undressed the screaming maid and tied her to the bed. Then the wizard produced this very knife. Slowly and very carefully, as not to damage the blade, for it was quite fragile, he said, the wizard cut the maid’s neck and opened the blood flow. He poured the blood into a silver cup, stirred it with the knife and, chanting spells, drained it. Then, while the maid’s body was still warm and struggling, the magician occupied himself to defile her.

"Disgusted by such vileness, I managed to cut off the magician’s head while he was thus distracted, and took his knife as a memento.”

“And what about the spell?” Hyarion asked breathlessly.

“I have memorized it, of course,” Agannalo replied dryly. "But it is a powerfull spell - it won't do to utter it in vain."

The nazgul slowly rose and leaned over the Southron looking him directly in the face.

"So, Hyarion, will you find a maid to make a demonstration?"