Perilous Journeys. Shadow Over Rhudaur III

[Lieutenant Hyarion]

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

Uncertain whether he believed the prisoner's tale or not, still Lieutenant Hyarion had listened to his bizarre story. Now the wretch was staring at him right in the face. "You mean sacrifice an innocent virgin to unlock the power of the blade?"

"Precisely." A slow smile uncurled itself on Agannalo's face.

"You are asking me to sanction murder!" Although he had absolutely no compunctions against murder, the repercussions of kidnapping a maid and killing her could be great. If her kinsmen had any suspicion that he was involved, Lieutenant Hyarion was quite certain they would hunt him down and kill him some hideous way.

"You wish to know the secret of the blade, do you not?" Agannalo taunted.

"Yes, yes," Hyarion said through gritted teeth. "But at the expense of some girl's life?"

"It is the only way the spell will work, but if you are not interested," Agannalo shrugged his shoulders.

"It is too risky," Hyarion grumbled.

"Then I suggest you call the guards so I may return to my cell." Agannalo started to turn.

"No, wait! I need more time to think before giving you my final decision."

"When do you think you might be able to make up your mind?" Agannalo asked sarcastically. It had been far too long since he had drunk human blood, and he was weak from thirst, almost overcome with cravings. He glanced at Hyarion's neck, but put the thought out of his mind.

"Before we reach Angoul, which should be in one day's time." Nervous at the inspection that Agannalo was giving him, he looked at him questioningly. "Why are you staring at me like that?" he asked nervously.

"No reason," Agannalo smiled. "I just think that we might be able to come to an understanding."

"Perhaps," Hyarion evaded. "But now you are going back to your cell. Guards!" he shouted. "Remove this man!"

[Agannalo]

By the Angsuul river, morning of November 7, 1347

Musing upon his choices Lieutenant Hyarion had little sleep over the night. The next day, prompted by the angry commander, the party set off early – before the first light. They had traveled a long way when at last the pale dawn came, revealing a dull white plain beneath the low pall of dark clouds heavy with unshed snow.

The road ran along the bank of the frozen Angsuul - all the way to the town of Angoul which they planned to reach in the evening. From there, the road would leave the river and start its winding climb into the foothills of the mountains of Angmar, where Carn Dum stood.

Agannalo tossed his head to readjust the hood of his cloak - a difficult task to do with hands chained behind him. With the hood more out of the way, he looked around. He squinted his eyes in puzzlement when he detected a movement on the glimmering surface of the river – some sort of vehicles were coming downriver, but he couldn’t make out what they were...

“Njamo’s muzzle! It must be the Lossoth!” one of the soldiers exclaimed. “Look like their sleighs glide on the ice! They go much faster on them bones than we do on horse hooves.”

Agannalo watched open mouthed as the Lossoth Party drew level with them. He saw the laden sleighs drawn by strong grey dogs - or were they wolves? A group of short squat brown-skinned people clad in embroidered skins followed. All of them had long flat bones of a whale attached to their feet and glided over the glistening ice with incredible speed and easiness. In all his long years Agannalo had never seen the Lossoth, only heard tales about them told in the South - and he discarded those tales as pure invention. In a matter of minutes, the Lossoth party left the mounted Angmarian guards behind.

“But what are they doing here?” another soldier inquired. “I thought they lived along the shores of the Ice Bay far to the west.”

Agannalo’s one-eyed guard, who happened to be native from Angmar, explained importantly to the others “The Lossoth never sit long in one place. In summer they go north, in winter they go south, and sometimes they come upriver – to the towns along the Angsuul to sell their wares – fish, skins, bones and fat of sea monsters, and often fancy leather garments and shoes their women make –all decorated with seashells they are. They buy things they need - wood mostly, but especially they value iron. ‘Tis very profitable to trade with the Lossoth for they are simple people. You can get quite a lot out of them for a steel knife – a heap of skins, or a couple of those dogs, maybe, or even a woman.”

Agannalo, who watched Hyarion closely during this short conversation, noticed that at the mention of a woman Hyarion suddenly grew very still. Then the Southron shook himself and barked the order to move faster - in the same direction as the Lossoth party had gone.

[Lieutenant Hyarion]

By the Angsuul river, morning of November 7, 1347

Their horses pressed to keep up with the swift-moving Lossoth on the river, Lieutenant Hyarion's party whipped their mounts to a faster pace until finally they drew abreast with them. A shout of "Hail!" brought the Lossoth to a halt, curious as to why a military patrol would have any business with them. Perhaps trade, they concluded. Their bodies covered with foamy sweat, their nostrils snorting steam with each breath, the horses were almost enveloped in a misty vapor of condensation, giving the scene a feeling of unreality.

Lieutenant Hyarion motioned for a corporal to ride up beside him. Aware that the man knew several of the native dialects, Hyarion enlisted his services as an interpreter.

"Sir, what do you wish for me to say?"

"Ask for their headman," he replied tersely.

A rapid exchange of words transpired between the corporal and the Lossoth until finally a man taller than the rest stepped forward. This man was wearing a more ostentatiously embroidered tunic of skins than the others, and around his neck was an elaborate necklace of seashells held together with leather.

"What did the savages say?" Hyarion asked, his nose wrinkling in contempt as he looked down at the Lossoth leader.

"Sir, as you directed, I asked to speak with the leader. His name is Arnaldr; he is the taller one in that fancy embroidered tunic and the fur cape. He understands Common, though, and said he would rather deal with someone besides an underling like me. A rather arrogant chap, I would say," the corporal muttered in Haradric.

"All right, at least he can speak Common. That is more than I can say for some of these barbarians." Hyarion frowned. He had always considered himself far above these backward people who drove whalebone sleds pulled by dogs and earned their livelihood by fishing and hunting. "Introduce him to me, corporal, and tell him that I have brought him a gift.. That always impresses them."

After the corporal had completed the formalities of introduction, the lieutenant directed an aide to go to the packhorse. There, the man fetched several beaded necklaces wrapped in brightly woven wool and presented them to the chief, who seemed delighted to receive them.

"Lieutenant, by the generosity of your gift, you have established that you wish to be friends with my people," the elder's wizened face beamed in a broad smile. "Have you brought things you wish to trade with us? We have pelts, furs, dried fish and meat, and the fat from the great creatures that swim in the sea. What do you need?"

"A woman." Hyarion looked the chief in the eye without the flickering of a lash. "I have brought valuable goods to trade."

"Oh, yes, yes," the chief bobbed his head up and down. "I understand. The nights are long, cold and lonely and you need someone to share your furs. That can be arranged."

Hyarion nodded.

"Is it important that the girl be very beautiful, or are you not particular?" Chief Arnaldr looked at him appraisingly.

"What is important," Hyarion's voice was cold, "is that she must be a virgin."

"That, too, can be arranged. My youngest daughter is a pure, innocent girl. I have had a number of offers for her, but no man of my people has enough to pay me. She is very beautiful, you know." Hyarion noticed that the old man's expression was sly, and he did not quite trust him. With so little time remaining ere they reached Carn Dum, he would be forced to accept whatever the old man was asking.

"Chief, I offer you a fine steel knife and another bundle of glass beads." Hyarion was not a man to be overly generous with money. He would try to get the girl for as low a price as he could, but he was sure that the old chief would rob him if he could, charging him an exorbitant fee.

Arnaldr shook his head. "Not enough."

"Two knives." Hyarion's voice was firm.

"No." The old man took off one of his fur-lined mittens and held it in his teeth. Taking out his knife, he cleaned his fingernails and ignored Hyarion and his party as though they were not there.

"Is there not some other maiden that I can get for a lower price?"

"You should have said that in the first place, Lieutenant." Chief Arnaldr wiped the blade off on his leather pants. "Yes, there is a girl, an orphan, who lives with my family. Her father was killed last winter when he fell through the ice. She is not so beautiful as my daughter. Pretty," he shrugged his shoulders, "just not beautiful."

"How much will you take for her?" Hyarion was annoyed. Whenever he looked at Agannalo, he thought the man was sneering at him. "The sarcastic devil," Hyarion thought. "He is enjoying my difficulties in obtaining a woman for him. If this blood ceremony does not give me the power to use the pale blue blade, I just might see that Silmadan has an unfortunate accident and never reaches Carn Dum. A little poison in his wine will soon end his problems."

The chief by this time had ordered the girl brought away from the sleds to stand beside him. Hyarion's breath caught in his throat. She was beautiful! Her face was not so brown as the men of her people, but rather a dark tan, almost the same shade as his own. She was short, aye, but petite, graceful and well-made. Hyarion resisted the urge to gape at her, but his eyes did travel the whole of her body.

"Three steel daggers and five bundles of beads - nothing less. If you are not interested, this discussion is at a conclusion." The chief put his glove back on and folded his arms across his chest.

"That is outrageous!" Hyarion wondered what the other girl who was reported to be beautiful would have cost.

The chief turned to go.

"No, wait, I will pay it!" Hyarion shouted angrily at him. Agannalo smiled knowingly.

The price was paid, the girl was placed upon a spare horse, and the entourage was soon trotting away towards Angoul. The maiden, who had never ridden a horse before in her life, clutched at the pommel and tried to stay on the animal's back. Looking over her shoulder, she watched as the chief cracked his whip over his dogs' backs, sending them bounding forward across the ice. Up ahead of her she could see the back of the grim man who had purchased her from her guardian. He was frightening enough, but she did not fear him so much as she feared the pale man who kept staring at her. That man had an evil air about him. Shuddering, she wondered what fate held in store for her.

[Agannalo]

By the Angsuul river, late morning of November 7, 1347

Agannalo witnessed Hyarion’s deal with the Lossoth chief with growing contempt. The nazgul never understood how anyone could be content with second best. He himself certainly couldn’t - ever. And now the Southron bought him a plain fish-smelling flea-infested diminutive morsel of a girl instead of the chief’s beautiful daughter!

Agannalo snorted and shook his head. He was lucky indeed that Halflings didn’t live in this land, or Hyarion, because of his avarice, would have bought him a virgin of that species - with hardly two pints of blood inside!

The thought of blood made Agannalo nostrils quiver. He caught a whiff of the girl’s smell - mostly fish oil and unwashed flesh, but mixed with those unsavory odors were the sweet feminine smell and the heady, intoxicating aroma of warm blood. Agannalo’s mouth watered and he unconsciously urged his horse forward, trying not to loose the elusive smell.

Surrounded by guards, the girl was riding in the middle of the party, a short way in front of the nazgul. Feeling the increasing pressure of Agannalo’s knees, his buckskin gelding drew level with the grey mare the Lossoth girl rode. Unfortunately, both the girl and the mare felt the nazgul’s presence at once. The girl turned her head and gaped at him, her pretty features contorted in fright. As for the gray mare, it suddenly stumbled, glanced sidelong at Agannalo, and then neighed and reared. The girl’s grip on the pommel slipped and she was thrown head over heels into the deep snow by the roadside.

Hearing the commotion behind, Hyarion barked “Halt!” and harried to the fallen girl. He dismounted and lifted the small figure out of the snow. Agannalo watched how he wiped the maid’s face muttering reassuring words in Haradic. “Are you hurt?” he asked over and over, first in the Southern tongue, then in Westron. The girl must have understood the latter, for she shook her head.

“No, no hurt” she replied and shyly, tentatively tried to smile. The smile, however, froze on her lips when she noticed Agannalo looking down at her with that strange, that horrible expression... as if he wanted to eat her, or worse...

Hyarion turned to the smirking Agannalo. “Do not come near her, you rascal!” he lieutenant shouted. “Guards, make sure the strawhead rides at the back of the troop. And the girl will ride by my side”.

Hyarion lifted the girl back into the saddle. “You will be safe, my beauty,” he reassured her. Agannalo rolled his eyes.

[Eryndil]

November 6, 1347 late afternoon – Palace of Rhudaur

It was been the first time Eryndil had seen a noble formally presented to the King. There really had not been much to it – just a bit of to-do with protocol and ceremony, followed by a stand-up reception only slightly less formal, with refreshments and conversation. The only part of this that really caught Eryndil’s attention was when King Tarnendur casually asked the Thane if he or any in his family had been involved in the Incident of 1249*. But Camglas, a young man at the time, and his father Borlost had remained free of stain from that time, and so had managed to retain their holdings when Tarondacil the Treacherous was overthrown just five years later.

“Remarkable,” mused the King curiously, “That your family has held Nandemar for all these many long years unbroken – even through the reigns of both Histendil, and his son Tarondacil, and the great purges that followed after each.”

“An advantage of being small enough, and remote enough to be of little note, Your Highness,” replied Camglas. “For ever in those tumultuous times did we remain loyal to our own land, and yet hold out hope that the throne would return once more to a rightful heir, as it has since.” Camglas followed this with a slight bow.

Witnessing his father’s conduct before the King was a new experience for Eryndil. Camglas no longer seemed the country rustic. His father had known though, that this audience would come, and had packed suitably for it. He wore an elegant tunic with the family crest, not the latest fashion, but respectable as a classic look, which was set well against his new, dark cloak. His hair and beard were neatly trimmed and his manner impeccable. He only took one sample from each plate of food brought before him, as they stood together. And though Camglas and Tarnendur were of an age, and spoke with an intimacy into which few younger men could enter with either, once Tarnendur had finished his glass of wine without calling for another, Camglas knew this as a sign that the interview was at an end, and departed with the appropriate well-wishing.

His father maintained a formal, dignified air as they were led forth from the Reception Hall and on toward the stairs. But there they heard feminine voices, for sure enough, a group of four or five female servants, having quite forgotten themselves in returning from their duties, were taking the main stairs up from the Ground Level before continuing on the servants’ stairs to their evening meal and their quarters, chatting indiscreetly along their way.

Eryndil looked among them, and there she was… Caelen! And she… oh my! His mind went racing back to that morning. As they had sat opposite one another, leaning toward each other and he holding her hands to calm her… he had fixed his eyes upon their hands, or her eyes, and tried as he might not to notice the advantageous view afforded by her posture and the cut of her dress. But glances he had stolen at the soft roundness of her upper form, until the falling of her golden red tresses had recalled him to himself.

And now, as she ascended the stairs toward him, he held the same advantage once more – and owned it a lovely sight. Just then their eyes met – her lovely eyes, set off by that wondrous hair, and her face brightened. But he saw that those next to her looked at her sharply, and she stifled her intended greeting and lowered her head to avoid looking into his eyes. Now conscious of herself, she placed her hand over the top of her gown and climbed the last few stairs, then swept past Eryndil and Camglas without a look or a word, along with the other married servant women, now rushing along in silence at their discovery on the main stair.

Caelen had slowed and trailed them, and now glanced back with a slight smile. But just as she neared the corridor which turned into the servants’ stair, she walked right into a servant. He dropped the load he carried, and was quite exasperated at first, but stopped complaining as he beheld her. Caelen, quite embarrassed, bent down to help him pick up his things – and Eryndil’s mind raced, seeing her now in THIS posture.

“Well…” said his father. “Shall we stand here all night? This dose of courtly ways will do me for a week or two, I suppose. Come on now, son. The way is down the stairs, I suppose?”

Eryndil came to himself and realized that he had been staring. But Caelen was gone now. Eryndil looked toward his father, who gave him a wink, and down the stairs they went without speaking, through the Hall and out the doors into the fading daylight.

When they had gone a little distance, his father began to speak to him. “Will you go down the hill with me tomorrow to fetch my wagon?” Camglas had meant to do so on this day, until summoned for his audience. So he had sent a servant with word that he should come the day after.

“I don’t suppose Vilyandur could help?” asked Eryndil, hoping to give his brother something to do, partly to take some load off himself.

“Hmph!” replied Camglas. “Your brother Vilyandur is pretty useless! Didn’t even make his first appearance today until just before we left. I just don’t know about that one…”

“Strange,” answered Eryndil. “I saw him this morning when I got up – some time before dawn… though I didn’t see him again myself until we left.”

“Yes, well if he was up when you got up, then he was STILL up!” said the Thane. “And Gildurien is as bad as he. I’ve tried on occasion to set her up with a good marriage – or at least a marriage of some kind. But she won’t have it! Not any of those I can find. Now she’s fifty-five, and I’ll be lucky to marry her to a more-or-less respectable innkeeper - or miller. Maybe Hendegil’s prospects will be brighter. But I had hoped to see Gildurien married before I died, so she wouldn’t be a burden to your brother Dornendur.”

Eryndil was silent as he digested all this. But at last, returning to the question at hand he said, “I’ll go with you father. Of course, the King may keep me late tonight, but then I think would not require my companions and me tomorrow.”

“Good then,” his father said, and then continued, “of course, you’ll be off the hook if your ‘married’ friend comes by. After all, she may be in need of guidance, so as not to go stumbling about in hallways and such.”

“Father…” began Eryndil. His father turned to look at him closely. “She is a rather silly girl after all, isn’t she? Not very sensible, I think.”

Camglas returned his gaze to the path before them, sighed and then at last said, “Maybe not so sensible in some ways… the ways that sense grows into. But in the important things, the things that really matter, she’s the most sensible young lady I’ve met in many a year.” Then adding with a smile, after a short pause, “only excepting my Hendegil, of course!”

Eryndil smiled himself, first at the pride his father took in his sister, and then at his father’s approval of Caelen.

His father went on, "so... when we first came yesterday, you two didn't seem to be getting along so well."

"Yes," admitted Eryndil. "We had quarreled a couple times in the few days before."

"Oh, I see..." and Camglas nodded expertly. "That happens at times."

"I think maybe she's not angry any longer," volunteered Eryndil.

“And of course,” his father’s eyes twinkled once more, “she views well from above, doesn’t she?”

Eryndil blushed brightly and turned his face half away, hoping the growing shadows would hide the color - and hoping even more that this line of conversation was about over.


* 1249 - the date of an incident that stained the royal family of Rhudaur and many noble families as well. As recorded in the Annals of Rhudaur:

He (King Tarondacil - editor) thus wrested control of Amon Sul from them (Cardolan - editor) once more, but within 3 years (1248 - editor), Celebrindor of Arthedain had gathered his own forces and dislodged them. Neither Rhudaur nor Cardolan could contest with Arthedain alone, and indeed, in their years of warfare they had been mostly well-matched, sometimes Rhudaur winning the field, and other times Cardolan – and thus they had shared the Palantir. Therefore, Tarondacil called a council with Cardolan (1249 - editor) under the pretext of joining together in opposition to Arthedain, and Menelcar came with many men, for he did not trust Tarondacil. There, Tarondacil put on a great display, with pomp and ceremony. A servant was provided for each guest from Menelcar’s delegation, but on a signal, each drew a weapon and struck his guest, for the servants were in fact warriors of Rhudaur. None of Menelcar’s delegation survived, all were struck down.

And in the Annals of Cardolan:

XVI Menelcar
Born 1113, Crowned 1247 (134), Reigned 2 years, Slain 1249 (136)
Treacherously slain by King Tarondacil of Rhudaur. For he and all his leading nobles were invited to a parley with Rhudaur, where they might decide how to join together and drive Arthedain away from Amon Sul. They were presented with a lavish feast, even for the men-at-arms who accompanied them, but on a signal, each man’s servant (actually warriors in disguise) as well as their other hosts, drew a weapon and slew the entire delegation of Cardolan. Last of all, that he was able to see the destruction of his men, Menelcar was slain by Tarondacil as two men held his arms. And Tarondacil laughed with merriment, delighted at his deception made under pretext of truce.

It was 5 years later that Tarondacil was overthrown. Few of his nobles would rally to his aid, and by then, even most of the Hillmen distrusted him.

[Lieutenant Hyarion]

Tavern on the road leading to Carn Dum, early evening of November 7, 1347
Written by Angmar and Elfhild

After leaving the Lossoth that morning, the military escort had ridden east along the bank of the frozen Angsuul. The lieutenant had commanded them to travel at a far slower pace than what was normal for them, for the girl could not ride well. Agannalo, riding at the rear of the column, had bristled at this nonsense, as he considered it. He was thirsty, the need having grown now to an uncomfortable ache. What would it matter if the girl fell off the horse a few times if she still arrived alive at the next town?

As dusk settled over the land, Lieutenant Hyarion ordered a halt at a small, modest inn still several miles short of the town of Angoul they were striving to reach. Without even bothering to look at Agannalo, he had ordered his guards to imprison him in the inn's root cellar, where he had remained ever since in a cool, damp, musty chamber filled with bins of parsnips and turnips, and crocks of pickled vegetables. "How long will he keep me here?" Agannalo fumed to himself. He heard his one-eyed guard and others engaged in a lively conversation outside the root cellar. Agannalo knew what that meant. The guard and some of the other men were enjoying flagons of ale while they threw the bones.

"If he tries to break the agreement..." Agannalo's face contorted in a scowl.

Since taking occupancy of his lodgings in the inn that evening, Hyarion had lounged in a comfortable chair, watching an almost constant procession of the inn's servants pass through his sitting room. First it had been two stout lads who had carried a leather tub and buckets of hot, steaming water. "My lord," they had asked, bowing in awe at him, "where do you wish the tub to be placed?"

"Back in my bed chambers," he waved them dismissively into the room with the stem of his narghile. Next to ask admittance to his rooms was the innkeeper's wife, a large, buxom middle-aged matron with every hair in place and a cap atop her head. Following her were three attractive young chambermaids who carried trays laden with jars of soap, herbal fragrances, towels and cloths. As he lazily looked over their willowy forms, they dropped their eyes, blushed and giggled nervously as they saw the way his eyes gleamed.

"My lord," the matron curtsied and the three girls followed suit, "where is the young lady whom we are to bathe?"

"In there, mistress," he motioned with the narghile stem, and as they all passed, his dark eyes followed the movement of the women's hips, which seemed to sway even more appealingly under the influence of the floral scented smoke.

"I am finished with my smoking for the time. Take the pipe away, boy," he ordered his pipe-bearer. Hyarion knew that if he continued inhaling the narghile's smoke, he would become far too relaxed and could drift off to sleep. He had considered doing that, for ever since the girl had come into his possession, he had been beset with feelings of guilt, an emotion almost alien to him. If he allowed his mind to slip into a state of peace and complacency, he would be almost immune to her screams when Silmadan performed his dark ritual. He did not dare risk the chance that the prisoner would kill her... or perhaps even him if his mind was too hazy. Though the pipe had made him feel calm and relaxed, still his mind was clear. He did not trust Silmadan. Perhaps the scoundrel was telling the truth that if he provided a virgin, he would indeed show him the secret of the blade. Maybe he was lying and did not know the secret either. Perhaps he was nothing more than a madman with a bizarre tale.

Inside Hyarion's bed chamber, a small drama was taking place. Elína, the Lossoth girl, held a stick of firewood clutched firmly in her small hand. When any of the other women approached her, she would lunge forward, threatening them with the weapon, coming uncomfortably close to two of the chambermaids' faces on several occasions.

"My dear, why are you so frightened?" asked Muinadaneth, the inn-keeper's wife, as she looked at her kindly. "No one is going to hurt you. All we want to do is help you take a bath. Would you not like that? A nice, warm bath?"

"No!" the girl wailed, answering back in Westron. "Too cold to take bath in winter!"

"But, my dear, Lord Hyarion, your new own-- new guardian, insists that you have a bath. Look at all the soap and fragrances he has provided. He is thinking of your welfare." Muinadaneth was trying to spare the girl's feelings by not telling her that everyone thought that she stank. Muinadaneth herself could hardly stand to be in the same room with her, and only by smelling the lavender-scented handkerchief that she kept in her bosom could she tolerate the stench.

"I care not how much soap there be! No take bath!" With a wild look in her eyes, she moved forward a step and shook the log at Muinadaneth.

"Well, I do not know what to do," Muinadaneth sighed in resignation. "I suppose that we will just have to ask for Lord Hyarion to come in here and reason with you."

One of the servant girls leaned over and whispered into Muinadaneth's ear loud enough for Elína to hear, "Maybe m'lord Hyarion will give her a bath if she will not allow us. I wonder how she would like that?"

The Lossoth maid's frightened eyes darted between Muinadaneth and the servant girl. "No!" the girl shouted. Dropping the piece of wood, she began to tug off her fur and leather clothing and drop it in the floor.

"Here, dear, let us help you with that," Muinadaneth said solicitously.

"No! Tark woman, stay away from Elína!" the now nude girl wailed as she jumped into the tub, sending water splashing over the four women and the room. Elína began to rub water wildly over her face and hair. "There, I done!"

"No, my dear." Muinadaneth's motherly heart had opened to this poor, lost waif. "Girls, show her how," she said kindly as she stepped back from the tub. The three girls soon were lathering the protesting girl's long, lustrous black hair as she screamed and cried. A bucket of rinsing water over her head had her crying even more frantically. Efficiently, the girls worked on with determination, and soon, even though the dresses of all of them were soaked to the skin, Elína's hair and skin were glowing.

"What about these, mistress?" One of the girls held her thumb and finger over her nose as she pointed to the pile of furs and leather garments which reeked of fish oil and sweat.

"Slip a stick under the bunch of them, take them out to the courtyard and burn them," Muinadaneth replied. "Ewww!" she wrinkled her nose. "They do smell!"

"But what Elína to wear?" The tears were pouring down Elína's cheeks and she gasped and choked upon them.

"Why, dear, don't think anything about it," answered Muinadaneth. "My youngest daughter has some dresses which she has outgrown. I have brought them along. I think you will find some which suit you. Now let me see," she stood back and surveyed her. "What can we do with your hair?"

Elína looked up at her uncertainly as the older woman began combing and brushing her wet tresses. Within an hour after the four women had entered Hyarion's chambers, Elína was gowned in a dark blue dress, her hair braided and wrapped around either side of her head in twin buns. The girl smiled as the others complimented her.

"Beautiful," Muinadaneth sighed as she took her by the hand and led her into the sitting room, where she seated her at the end of the table across from Lieutenant Hyarion. "Exquisite, is she not, my lord?" she asked, pleased with the transformation she had effected in the girl's appearance.

"Yes, delightful," he replied, looking boldly at the girl. Reaching over to a small ebony box on the table, he took out a purse and put it in Muinadaneth's hands. "A little something for your efforts."

She weighed the purse in her hand. "My lord is most generous."

Excusing herself quietly, Muinadaneth left to help the chambermaids in ordering the Southron's room. Soon the four of them took their leave, departing into the hall where they passed the servants bearing Lord Hyarion's supper.

Too frightened and upset to do more than stare at her food, Elína waited until the servants finished setting the plates and platters down before looking over at him. What she saw was the Southron staring intently at her, his chin resting upon his hands.

"Eat, my dear," his voice was deep and heavily accented. "The beef is very good.

"Yes, my lord," she stammered, grabbing a handful of meat from a platter and tearing it into pieces, stuffing several pieces into her mouth at one time .

"No, no, my dear! That is not the way it is at all! You must learn proper table manners." He shook his head. "Let me help you." Rising to his feet, he made his way over to her, took her knife and showed her how to slice the meat into pieces and then spear them with the point. Moving the knife tip to his mouth, he slid a piece into his mouth. "See how it is done, my dear?" He put his arm around her shoulder. "Now you try it."

A knock at the door interrupted Hyarion's pleasant interlude. A cavalryman, his dark face ruddy from the cold, stepped into the room, closed the door and bowed. "My lord, a word with you... in private, please." The trooper looked over to the girl.

"Speak in our own language," Hyarion hissed to the man.

"Yes, my lord, yes," he nodded humbly.

"What news?"

"My lord, Sergeant Tishur and two troopers you sent to find another girl have returned...empty-handed and in a sorry state, teeth missing, ribs broken. It seems the girl they chose to kidnap had four brothers - native Angmarians and stout fellows. They beat our men almost senseless so they hardly made it back. There might be more trouble if the girl's relatives followed their trail here."

"They will present no problems. Our contingent outnumbers any we would meet in this remote place. But is it possible to find another girl?"

"I don't think so, my Lieutenant. News travel fast. All the neighbourhood must be on the alert by now, men armed and waiting for robbers."

Hyarion sighed. Much as he wanted to find another virgin to spare Elina, his attempts came to naught. He turned to the trooper. "Now you are excused. Go down to the cellar and inform the prisoner's guard that he is to bring him here in an hour. I am inviting him for a late supper," Hyarion chuckled grimly as the soldier saluted and departed from the room. He then turned back to Elína, who looked up at him with frightened eyes and poured her some strong Dorwinion wine. "Try this, my little Elina" he offered. "The vintage is quite good."

The girl took the goblet, sniffed at the red wine and sipped it hesitantly. "No drink wine" she explained. "First time now." She swollowed more, finding the sweet fruity taste pleasant. Soon the goblet was empty and Hyarion poured her more.

"Well," Hyarion thought, "I hope she gets drunk as not to feel too frightened. But Silmadan is just going to have to be satisfied with carrying out only part of the ritual. I do not intend to let him take it to full course and drain her of every last drop of blood. Seldom have I seen such a comely maid in the north, and I have developed a fancy for her. I have devised other plans for her... very pleasant plans." Hyarion felt his blood growing hot at such thoughts. The girl must not die! If there were no secret of the blade, or if Silmadan balked and refused to tell him, Hyarion would have him tortured. Fifty lashes on his back could be very persuasive.

[Caelen]

Night of November 6, 1347 - Callon & Caelen's room in the married servants' quarters of the palace

Caelen lay in her bed, a slight smile playing across her lips and a dreamy expression in her eyes. "Those girls weren't so silly after all!" she thought, the smile widening into a rueful little grin as she reflected back on the last few days.

She felt Eryndil's touch on her skin again and sighed, closing her eyes. He had such nice, warm hands ... Callon, the horse trainer, had more muscular legs, but Eryndil had broader shoulders ... She rubbed her cheek against the pillow, remembering yet again being held tight against those shoulders, and sighed. Then she thought of Eryndil standing at the window, his back to her, and how those broad shoulders tapered down so nicely to such attractive, um ... "hindquarters" ... She giggled, still not used to the idea that she was actually looking at him that way.

She wondered what Eryndil looked like without his shirt on. She remembered the day when Callon had stripped down for a swim with their friends, like they had been doing for years and years when they were all children together, and the girls had suddenly stopped and taken a second, furtive look at him. Caelen, startled, looked at Callon and noticed with surprise that the being that she had thought of as merely her brother was also now a strong, attractive man. It gave her a queer feeling; it was irritating that this new dimension had entered into things that had been so simple and pleasant. Girls that had never been very friendly with her suddenly started coming over to talk with her, especially when she was with her brother. She had hated the hypocrisy and despised the girls.

And then girls that she had once merrily climbed trees with had suddenly decided that they would rather not do such childish things anymore, and she had spent many hours alone in the tops of trees, climbing as high as she could and feeling the fresh wind on her face.

And now, suddenly, she understood what those girls were feeling (although she still didn't like the hypocritical ones).

She turned over and wrapped her arms around her pillow, and suddenly she was in the forest with a shirtless Eryndil holding her tight against his chest with one hand, a bloodied sword in his other hand as a gigantic wolf lay dead at his feet. "My darling," he whispered into her hair in his strong, deep voice. He raised her face to his and kissed her gently, and the scene faded gracefully into the mists before anything more ... well, intense ... happened. What might happen after a kiss was firmly forbidden to enter her mind, for it brought with it the memories of the terrifying, groping hands on the road ...

She turned over, and suddenly she was in a corner of the castle grounds, crying over the mean things that the servants had said about her, and Eryndil suddenly appeared (with a shirt on this time, since she couldn't think of a good reason for him NOT to have a shirt on - wait, maybe something had spilled on it ... and Eryndil suddenly was bare-chested, carrying his soiled shirt in his hand). "Oh, sweetheart, what's wrong?" he said, dropping his shirt and sweeping her into his arms. She told him all her troubles while he stroked her hair and held her close, and then again he raised her face to his and gently kissed her - but this time, Caelen experimented with letting the dream Eryndil go a little farther - he kissed her again, and again, the kisses growing stronger and more passionate, before Caelen brought the curtain quickly down over the scene again.

She took a deep breath. That last scene had started to get just a little uncomfortable for her ... half of her really liked it, while the other half was getting more and more frightened. She decided that keeping it to just one kiss was more pleasant to dream about, and returned (in her mind) to the forest scene.

Eryndil was safe to think about - she knew he didn't like her in any special way, for he was always correcting her. Even tonight on the stairs, she had tried to give him a friendly look, and he had just looked at her with a strange expression on his handsome face, and then seemed to glance at her bodice and quickly look up again with a clenched jaw and pained look in his eyes. Caelen sighed - the top button had come off of her bodice, and she hadn't sewn it back on yet - he probably thought she was being immodest again, and would lecture her at great length the next time he saw her.

Yes, Eryndil was safe to fantasize about - attractive, manly, and noble - but safe. He would certainly never give her any unwanted attentions.

[Caelen]

Morning of November 7, 1347 - Callon & Caelen's room in the married servants' quarters of the palace

Caelen put the finishing touches on the little room that she shared with her brother. She looked around and smiled; everything looked neat and clean, ready for Hendegil's visit, and the fresh greenery in the little bottle added some much-needed softness. She touched the leaves gently; they reminded her of her mother, and all the little touches that she used to add around the house that added beauty and softness. Caelen decided that she would keep fresh greenery in the room every day from now on.

A crisp knock on the door made Caelen break out into a smile that made the room much more pleasant than any amount of greenery, and she eagerly stepped over to the door and opened it. But it was not Hendegil; it was Thillas, the head housekeeper - the one that kept both the palace and its servants in ship-shape.

"May I come in?" she asked curtly after a few seconds, as Caelen stood there blinking at her in confusion, forgetting to ask her in. Caelen had been expecting Hendegil's friendly face, and this was a bit of a shock.

"Of course, Thillas! I'm so sorry; I was expecting someone else and you surprised me!" said Caelen apologetically, ushering the housekeeper into the room and indicating the one chair that was available, as she sat on the bed.

Thillas pursed her lips together and cleared her throat. This was not going to be pleasant, but she was never one to avoid unpleasantness. Good housekeepers never avoided messes; they tackled them head-on. She raised her left eyebrow slightly in the way that made the lower housemaids panic as they remembered the obscure corners that they hadn't dusted.

"I've always prided myself on running things here in the palace efficiently and ... properly," she started off, putting stress on the last word and raising both eyebrows for emphasis. "But something has come to my attention recently that I am VERY displeased about."

"Yes, Ma'am?" said Caelen a trifle guiltily, hoping she wasn't blushing. Had she heard some of those dreadful rumors about her that had been flying around?

"We at the palace took on you and your ... husband ... in good faith," she continued, noticing how Caelen's large eyes grew larger at the meaningful pause. "I have not heard of any complaints about him - his work AND his behavior has been exemplery - but I'm sorry to say that I can't say the same about you."

Caelen bit her lip nervously. Thillas' eyebrows lowered ominously, and her eyes narrowed.

"I have been hearing the most shocking rumors about you ever since your ... husband left, and if even one of them is true, I would be seriously displeased - SERIOUSLY displeased!" She leaned in towards Caelen to emphasize her point, making Caelen pull back despite her effort to remain calm.

"What exactly have you heard, Ma'am?" asked Caelen in a small voice, pulling Callon's shirt from under its daytime resting place under her pillow and nervously playing with the hem. It never even occurred to her to try to bluff it out; she had faults, but dishonesty wasn't one of them, and maintaining her brother's ruse had been extremely difficult for her.

"I have heard," said Thillas regally, sitting up straight again and crossing her hands across her ample breast, "that you schemed to get your husband to go on this trip so that you would have a free hand to try to better your position in life; that you feigned your pregnancy to play on your husband's and our good will so that you wouldn't have to work so you could chase after other men; or that if you WERE pregnant, that you took steps to end it so that you would be free to pursue your own schemes; that you played on the generous heart of our prince Daurendil, extorting an invitation to ride with the young royals, which was ENTIRELY inappropriate for a person in your position; that you encouraged the Prince Daurendil in ways that no modest lady in your position would even consider, such that he, in his innocence, was moved to give you a gift of riding clothes, which you TOOK! most inappropriate! and then FLAUNTED around town in the most brazen manner; that you are currently chasing after one of the King's new young advisors in case your schemes with the Prince come to naught - need I say more?" She turned her head slightly to the right, and her left eyebrow reached new heights as she fixed Caelen with an inquiring look - a look that clearly expected to hear no good ...

"No," said Caelen softly, her face white. She sighed and looked down at Callon's shirt, and then held it up to her face, closing her eyes at its touch. "I'm sorry, brother, I cannot keep this up anymore," she said, then took a deep breath and put the shirt back in her lap, although she kept a tight grip on it. She looked at Thillas steadily. The housekeeper was surprised; she had expected furious denials or bribing tears. Perhaps she HAD misjudged the girl ...

"Callon is my brother, not my husband," she said simply. Thillas' right eyebrow joined its sister near the top of the housekeeper's hairline.

"We were orphaned in a terrible fire, and I was cruelly harassed by a brute of a man that wanted to marry me and was going to force me into it. My brother and I had to flee our home. On the way, we were waylaid on the road and almost killed." She paused, a blush coming into her cheeks at the memory of what she was going to say next. "I wish I HAD been killed, though, Ma'am," she said. "It would have been better than what those men did to me."

Thillas furrowed her brows, bringing them closer for a hirusitic conference. Was this a ruse to gain her sympathy, or was this true? Her eyebrows suspended judgement for the moment and waited to hear more.

"But we were rescued by some of the King's men, lead by one Eryndil of Ostinand - who I think is the man you referred to in one of those rumors that you heard."

Thillas nodded curtly. The eyebrows increased their vigilence ever so slightly.

"We spent several weeks at Ostinand with Eryndil and his family, and I came to love his sister as the sister that I never had - and by the way, it was his sister that I went to visit yesterday - he merely walked me home out of courtesy. Then when we came to Cameth Brin, to our horror, we found that some of the very men that attacked us on the road were in the group of Hillmen camping around the Road. My brother was naturally very concerned for me. And when we got to the stables, there were some rough men around that ... that looked at me in ways that alarmed him, and so in his concern, he grasped at the only thing that he could think of to give me some protection - he said that I was his wife, and that I was with child."

The housekeeper's eyes were now almost as large as Caelen's. The story was wild ... WILD! ... but yet ... she gave names of people and places that could be checked. And she spoke plainly and with a certain simple pride that, in Thillas' extensive experience, spoke of an honest heart. The eyebrows relented slightly.

"I know it sounds ... " Caelen paused and shook her head, at a loss for words to describe the recent tumultous events of her life - "crazy, but it's true - and when my brother returns, he will confirm what I say. Oh, and Eryndil can confirm it, too - my brother wrote him asking him to support the ruse, since he knew that we were NOT husband and wife. Oh, and Arinya knows, and the Prince Daurendil - oh, and you are right, I should NOT have accepted the riding outfit - but I love riding so much! - but I was terribly wrong, and I have returned it - where was I? Oh yes, Arinya and the Prince know, and Eryndil, and his sister and family. They can confirm it, too. And I'm so, so terribly sorry for all of the trouble I've caused - I was trying so hard to honor my brother's wishes and his attempt to protect me, but it was so hard - I HATE lying!" she closed vehemently.

Thillas sat back in the chair, absolutely speechless. Of all the messes she had been called to deal with, this one took the cake. Her eyebrows sagged; there was simply no expression that they could conceive of that was appropriate to this situation. But wait - one thing was clear: this was the married servants' quarters, and this young lady was NOT married. Her eyebrows rallied; THIS they could handle.

[Caelen]

Morning of November 7, 1347 - Callon & Caelen's room in the married servants' quarters of the palace

As Hendegil reached out to knock on the door of the room pointed out to her as Callon and Caelen's room, the door was suddenly opened, and a stern-looking lady walked out in a huff. Hendegil peered into the room, and her curiosity turned into concern as she saw her friend's face.

"What is it, Caelen? What happened?" she asked urgently.

Caelen looked at her friend. "I have to leave," she said in a dreamlike voice.

"Leave? Where? Why?"

Caelen took a deep breath. "Remember those awful rumors about me that I told you about? Well, that was the head of the palace servants, and she came to ask me about them."

"Oh, no," said Hendegil, a worried expression on her face as she took the chair that Caelen indicated. Caelen sat down wearily on the bed and took up her brother's shirt again, mindlessly playing with the hem, which was now starting to fray under her nervous fingers.

"It's a long story, but I ended up telling her the truth about Callon and me," continued Caelen. "I just couldn't keep it in anymore! And then since we weren't 'married servants' anymore, we can't stay in the married servants' quarters." She shrugged her shoulders - she was used to the world being difficult now. "So I have to leave and find somewhere else to stay, although Callon can stay in the men's quarters. I can't even stay here and work because she says there's no openings - although I think that she just doesn't want me around. I guess I've upset things around here too much."

She turned to Hendegil. "Do you know which inn is ... would be safest for me to stay in? I don't know much about these things ..." she finished in an uncertain voice.

Hendegil assumed a stern expression that rivalled Thillis'. "I know of an EXCELLENT place for you to stay," she said firmly. "Eryndil's inn!"

Caelen looked at her, a confused expression on her face. "How odd - there's an inn in town with your brother's name on it?" she asked, incredulous. "Callon always said that I never notice anything, but ..." she shook her head.

Hendegil looked at her friend and shook her head. Caelen was a warm-hearted, generous, honest, loving person - but not always too quick on the uptake. But she had been though a lot lately, Hendegil reflected, trying not to think of what it had been like for Caelen on the road ... and now her brother, her only remaining family, was gone, and she had just been evicted from the small room that was her only home, merely because she told the truth.

"No, silly!" she said, taking Caelen's face between her hands and shaking her head at her with a smile on her face. "You're staying with me, at my brother's house!" And she laughed with pleasure as she watched Caelen's expression change from confusion and sorrow to elation and relief.

[Agannalo]

Small tavern near Angoul on the road to Carn Dum. Night of November 7, 1347

Meanwhile, down in the cellar, Agannalo was awaiting Hyarion’s summons. Mad from impatience and thirst, the nazgul started pacing back and fourth like a caged animal, his mood turning to outright murderous. Like a cloud of darkness his feelings must have reached beyond the heavy door, as the guards stopped their merry game and huddled near the fire, silent and uneasy.

It was well past midnight when at last Agannalo heard footsteps on the narrow stair and a rusty key turning in the cellar’s lock. Four heavily armed guards entered, manacled the prisoner’s wrists behind his back, and took him upstairs to Hyarion’s rooms on the first floor.

Hyarion seemed grim and preoccupied. He paid no heed to Agannalo’s murderous stare and without a word of greeting ordered the guards to free the prisoner’s hands and to leave them alone together.

“Are you sure, my Lieutenant?” one of the guards ventured hesitantly. “He is quite dangerous and with his hands free, he might try to escape.”

Hyarion shook his head. “There is no escape here. The shutters on the windows are barred and locked for the night. The only door is this one, and you four will be guarding it. Stay here and wait till I call you. I don’t want to be disturbed whatever happens.”

The guards saluted and remained at the landing. Hyarion closed the door and locked it carefully from inside.

Smirking at such precautions, Agannalo walked nonchalantly to the table. There were two half-empty plates with meat and an almost empty flagon of wine.

“Do you want a drink, Silmadan?” Hyarion asked, cold hatred plain in his voice.

“Thank you for the offer, o illustrious Lieutenant.” Agannalo replied with a mock bow. “So very generous of you to think about my needs... at last. But I humbly have to decline. If you are finally done cuddling the Lossoth girl, I would like to start the ritual straight away. Where is she?”

“She is in the bedroom, this way,” Hyarion made for the door to the adjoining room but then stopped abruptly at the threshold, turned and gripped Agannalo’s shoulders.

“Look here, you, rascal” Hyarion hissed looking up into Agannalo’s face. “I will go along with your plan, but only as long as the girl is safe. I will not let you kill her!”

Agannalo stared at him incredulously. The stupidity of this mortal was really unfathomable! “But why wouldn’t you kill her? You have bought the girl just for this, didn’t you? What has changed since?”

But Hyarion was not in the mood to give any explanations to this weird cold-blooded killer. “You will do as I say, Silmadan. I will cut not her throat, but her wrist, and pour only a little blood – just enough for the spell, no more. And then I will quench the blood flow and the girl will soon recover.”

Agannalo threw back his head and laughed. Melkor forbid, the silly mortal became enamored of the little filthy wench! “And you think the spell would work?” he asked the Southron sarcastically. “I think not. One life should be taken to prolong another – that is the whole point, as I see it.”

“You should pray that the spell works, Silmadan”, Hyarion replied stubbornly, his hands clenching into fists, “for if it doesn’t , I will order you lashed until there is no skin left on your back. I would love to see you smirking after that!”

Agannalo inhaled the air deeply and slowly let it out to calm down. He could smell the girl’s blood – so very near - just beyond the door. Now her scent was mixed not with fish oil, but with the sweet flagrance of exotic flowers. The want for blood almost made him faint. “Well, Hyarion” he said at last. I agree to your terms. Lead me to the girl.”

“That is not all,” the Southron pressed his advantage. “Once you have chanted the incantation and I have drunk the blood, you should leave. I don’t want you to witness how I… complete the spell.”

“I perfectly understand.” Agannalo couldn’t resist smirking again.

Hyarion briefly nodded and led the way into the other room. There stood a large four-poster bed and on it the girl lay, small and dainty in her thin white chemise. She turned her head to look at the men, but her eyes were unfocussed, uncomprehending.

“Drugged, or simply drunk?” Agannalo asked Hyarion, much like a physician inquires about the health of a patient.

“Both”, replied Hyarion grimly. “I did give her some hashish as a dessert, but I think I should better tie her to the bed, in case she returns to consciousness.”

The mention of hashish made Agannalo’s mouth water. Barring blood, it was a thing he enjoyed most. He crossed his arms at his chest.

“So you have hashish…” he drawled. “I won’t do anything before you give me at least a few ounces. It will make my nights in various cold cellars so much more enjoyable.”

Cursing in Haradic, Hyarion strode to a wall cabinet, took a small mahogany box inlaid with ivory and threw it to Agannalo. “Take it, blasted scoundrel! I am in no mood to haggle with you!” Agannalo pocketed the box without argument.

Hyarion meanwhile sat on the edge of the bed and was whispering something soothing to the girl, something not meant for Agannalo’s ears. The nazgul, however, had no difficulty to catch most of his words.

“It is our marriage custom” Hyarion was explaining to a befuddled girl. “Do not be afraid. In my homeland the groom drinks a few drops of the bride’s blood during the ceremony and then the marriage is completed.” The girl muttered something unintelligible and moaned softly.

“Now, Silmadan, come here and hold this silver chalice.” Hyarion ordered with more assurance than he actually felt. He unsheathed the Morgul knife and put the girl’s limp arm on his knees.

“So small a vial?” asked Agannalo petulantly. “Half of the blood will be lost on the floor.”

Hyarion shot him a murderous glance and slowly, hesitantly started to cut the girl’s wrist.

The pain instantly brought the girl out of her stupor. She jerked her arm away from Hyarion and wailed in fright. The nervous Southron dropped the pale blade, nearly hitting his own foot.

“Take care, you fool!” Agannalo growled and scooped the knife from the carpet in one fluid motion. Quick as lightning, he caught the girl’s flailing arm in an iron grip and deftly made a deep cut across her wrist. The blood poured out in torrent, right into the silver chalice that Agannalo held.

“What are you doing?” screamed the Southron. “I told you not to hurt her! Stop it, you, monster!” He managed to push Agannalo away, but not before the nazgul filled the silver vial. Hyarion reached frantically for dressing materials he had prepared beforehand, put a tourniquet above the girl’s elbow, and dressed her wounded wrist.

Agannalo stood observing the Southron sarcastically, the vial of blood in one hand, the Morgul knife in the other. “I will leave you soon, Hyarion” he said “and this I must tell you before our ways part. I didn’t enjoy your company one bit. You are a dull chicken-hearted scoundrel. You will never rise higher than a commander of a remote fortress, be it in Angmar or elsewhere.”

“What?” asked Hyarion, not believing his ears. Now the knave was offending him!

“I am tired of you, Hyarion. Are you still interested in the spell or did the wench steal all your reason? Now listen to me - for I will not repeat twice."