Perilous Journeys. Shadow Over Rhudaur III

[Agannalo]

Shedun Pass, November 4, 1347

The last day of the journey over the Shedun Pass dawned sunny and bright. "Disgustingly bright," thought Agannalo spitefully, while he gingerly made his way along the ice-covered roadbed. He had to dismount and lead the half-starved horse - drag him along, to be more precise. Unused to ice and snow, the old Gray trembled in fright when his shoes skidded upon the icy ground. The road was still steadily mounting toward the gap in the ridge beyond which the city of Shedun was supposed to be.

By midday the rocky slopes on both sides of the road became level with it, and Agannalo stopped to observe his surroundings. Squinting in the sun, he looked around. The view from this highest point of the Shedun Pass proved spectacular, even to his poor nazgul eyesight. To the South-East, the white mass of the Mount Gram rose almost to the very skies, white and glimmering like a fang of some giant carnivore. Beyond it stretched the endless chain of the Hithaeglir, its peaks toppled with snow. Agannalo turned slowly around. Behind him, to the south, was the valley of the Mitheithel with its uncounted tributaries looking from this height like a finest net of silver threads over auburn hair. While to the South the leaves were still yellow and red, to the North the trees stood with bare branches. There lay a realm of ice and snow - Angmar, his Captain's new abode.

To the North Agannalo could make out the wide valley of the already frozen Angsuul, the river that took its sources in the glaciers south of Gundabad and flowed into the Ice-Bay of Forochel, far to the North-West. But what startled him, was the number of large and small towns scattered all over the valley. Numerous smokes indicated the presence of smaller villages and farms. On the Second Age map that Agannalo had copied in Khand, this land was shown as empty and barren. Now, with the advent of his Captain, it was certainly not the case anymore.

Agannalo's gaze wandered further and he swore under his breath. What he took for a tall rock on his right was in fact an upper tier of a watch-tower overlooking the road. With the Sun right in his eyes he almost missed it. So, unlike with Rhudaur, the border of Angmar was guarded. Well, that was no wonder with his Captain in charge... Annoyed, and not wishing to answer awkward questions, Agannalo turned to leave quietly the way he had come, to wait till nightfall and then try to sneak past the tower. But he soon found out that the tower was not blind. He hardly made a few steps, when he saw that his retreat was cut by soldiers issuing from some hidden tunnel in the rock. He was trapped.

Trying to seem unperturbed, Agannalo turned North again. A group of horsemen in black-and-red livery appeared from behind a sharp bend on the road and rode toward him.

"Hail, stranger," the foremost rider called to Agannalo. What is your name and business in the land of Angmar?"

"My name is none of your business," Agannalo replied irritably. "I am riding to Carn-Dum to see ...a relative, and I wish to stay in Shedun overnight".

The guards visibly tensed at his impertinence and exchanged glances. "Come with us, then, and talk to the Lieutenant of the Tower" the head of the patrol replied.

Agannalo hissed in irritation, but complied. There was no denying the order. He was surrounded and could not escape without doing some serious damage to his Captain's men.

[scribe]

Merendil

November 4, 1347 – early morning, Brochenridge

As Gimilbeth and her party began to make their way on down the road to the south and west, Merendil led his troops back north, the way they had come the day before. If they went straight on to Cameth Brin, they’d easily cover in two days what had taken three escorting the wagons.

But Merendil knew they wouldn’t go straight there, and wondered how long it would be before he saw Cameth Brin again. Hopefully before the deep snow and bitter cold came to the land. But he was a soldier of the King, and of the realm of Rhudaur, and there was the matter of the Orcs along the road to deal with.

He didn’t know how many there were, or what their purpose. At least 20, he thought, and maybe even 50 – most likely looking for some farmhouses to raid before returning to the mountains. Although Gimilbeth would surely be safe from their reach, he thought it prudent to have sent the extra twenty men along with her. And, Count of Brochenridge sent another twenty with him, on learning of the likelihood of Orc rovers about. It was best this way, thought Merendil. If the men from Brochenridge went with Gimilbeth, he wasn’t sure if Gwindor would command their respect – and they might be inclined to return to Brochenrdige from the Last Bridge – or even a day or a half-day out from their homes. But the men from Cameth Brin would stay with them, and Merendil felt he could handle the twenty with no trouble. And their leader, Barund, seemed like a good man - and Ormendur had called him his top scout.

It was good that Ormendur had agreed to send the men. But Merendil thought he could have taken the matter a bit more seriously. He had seemed so pre-occupied. Could it have been the loss of Nauremir? The man had other grandsons, and as a man of war, surely understood the times and the nature of life and death. Nonetheless, these extra twenty men brought his company back to a full 100. Whatever the size of the Orc band, he didn’t want to merely defeat it – he wanted to annihilate it! And the more men he had, the less risk to all. If the Orcs were few enough, or undisciplined enough, he might pull it off without losing a single man of his own! He had seen it done, years back, but hadn't pulled it off while in his own command. Two men to each Orc was a pretty safe way to pull off an extermination. And with 100, he could probably do that - or else have enough to split his forces two or three ways if the need called for it.

The six hounds would also be a great help. Unless the Orcs had Wargs with them, thought Merendil, checking himself. But no – and he could comfort himself with this thought, Wargs would have surely made some noise at nighttime, and stirred up the alarm all across the countryside.

So off they rode, 100 strong, all mounted, with the hounds at their horses’ heels. If all went well, they would reach the site of the hanging with plenty of daylight left to find whatever traces of the Orcs they could. If the Orcs were still around… he might be back in Cameth Brin by tomorrow night after all!

[Alagos and Tyaron]

on the great road south of Brochenridge, morning of November 4, 1347.


"Oh, come on - stop worrying about tactics and defensible positions. Let's meet these dwarves - it will be fun! What does it matter if we die, anyway? We've wandered in this world long enough, that's for sure! "

Tyaron had to smile at his friend's comment. He was right - as elves from the ancient city of Gondolin, destroyed long ago by the malice of Morgoth, they were among the oldest inhabitants of Middle Earth. They had seen many things in their long years, and had set out from Rivendell several months ago to see more.

Tyaron was the more reflective of the two; Alagos was more "hasty", as the Ents would say. Alagos tended to irritate Ents, as he would be up and on his feet with an idea to follow while the Ent was still at the beginning of a (long!) sentence, while Tyaron would sit for days at a time, listening to their thoughts, the sun and the stars wheeling overhead as the time flowed by.

And Alagos the impatient had got the itch to see new things again - so they were off. They had been best friends since childhood, and that, as well as the pleasure of being with someone who knew your birth-language and the place you grew up, in a world where these things were just far-off memories if they were even remembered at all, was the reason they still liked to travel together.

Tyaron lay back and started to sing softly in the ancient language of the city of Gondolin that few in Middle Earth now knew. An onlooker, hearing the unknown words sung in the mysterious and beautiful language, would have guessed that it was a solemn song, perhaps about some long-ago sorrow or love, but it was in fact a comic song that Alagos had composed, while a young child in Gondolin, about dwarves and their oddities.

Alagos smiled; he had won. He extended a hand to Tyaron, pulling him up off of the ground, and they walked onto the road in front of the company of dwarves, their hands extended in front of them in a gesture of peace; Tyaron with a solemn, alert expression in his bright eyes, and Alagos unable to keep a smile off of his elven-fair face.

[Lieutenant Hyarion]

Shedun Fortress, November 4, 1347
Written by Gordis and Angmar

As Agannalo was led forward by the corporal in charge, other guardsmen guided their mounts to follow behind him. They had not ridden very far when Agannalo beheld the gatehouse of the south tower of the Shedun fortress looming before them. Behind it stood the high tower itself. Gazing down upon them from one of the lower turrets stood a tawny-skinned man. He was an officer by the looks of his garb, with a red fox cape thrown around his shoulders for added warmth.

"Likely a Southron who has never become accustomed to the cold Northern winters," Agannalo surmised.

Halting his horse before the drawbridge which spanned a deep, turbulent mountain stream, the corporal called to the gatehouse, "We have taken a prisoner! Permission to pass and see the Lieutenant commanding the tower!"

"Granted," came a voice from the other side, "but you will have to wait to see the commander!"

With a great creaking and groaning of the cogs, chains and mechanisms of the windlass, the great drawbridge slowly swung down across the chasm. Simultaneously, the portcullis, bristling with fierce metal spikes resembling the teeth of a dragon, was hauled up with a loud groan of machinery. Frightened of the noise and its new surroundings, Agannalo's steed perked his ears up, every sense alert. Becoming angry at the obstinate horse, Agannalo touched his heels to the horse's sides, but the beast balked when it heard the hollow sound under its hooves. Agannalo sharply tapped the horse's flanks with his riding crop. Not expecting the sudden sting, the horse plunged forward, hit the bridge with hooves skidding and went down on its knees.

Reins in his hand, Agannalo was off the saddle before the horse's body ever hit the bridge. Not bothering to conceal their guffaws, the guardsmen watched him as he took the crop and slapped the horse's hindquarters several times.

"Up! Up!" Agannalo commanded harshly, and the frightened beast struggled to its feet.

"Best lead your mount the rest of the way, stranger. He seems to be a skittish nag," the corporal barely hid his smirk.

Once past the gatehouse and inside the courtyard, the corporal and two other guardsmen dismounted, while the other guards rode away. Directed to turn his mount over to a groom, Agannalo was motioned inside the building by the grim-faced corporal and directed to an audience chamber, where they were kept waiting for over an hour.

"This way," a red and black liveryed guardsman directed as he opened the hallway door which led to another chamber. "Lieutenant Hyarion will see you now."

Seated at the great table before him was the man whom Agannalo recognized as the officer he had seen earlier, who had scrutinized him from the tower. The lieutenant returned his officers' salutes with a brief nod. To avoid contention, Agannalo bowed stiffly.

"Sir, my men and I found this fellow on the road. He refuses to give his name or say where he is from. When asked to state his business, he will tell us only that he is going to Carn Dum. He requests permission to stay in Shedun tonight. We thought it best to bring him to see you, and you decide how dispose of him."

A broad-shouldered man of slightly above average height with a lean body that reflected a life spent outdoors, the lieutenant pursed his lips. A dark haired man of mid-years, thin-faced, with a high, arrogant aquiline nose, eyes so brown they were almost black, eyebrows which met in the middle, and lips which were both sensual and cruel, Lieutenant Hyarion's appearance betrayed an origin not of the West. He looked down his nose at Agannalo as though he were a slug or a leech.

"It is a irregular, most irregular, when a man will not tell his name," he stated in an accented nasal voice. "Those who are reluctant to reveal their doings tend to make us suspicious of their intentions."

"I have already explained that I am on my way to Carn Dum to visit relatives," Agannalo said. Though he had taken an instant dislike to the man, he held his temper.

"Stranger, that is not quite good enough. I do not like your insolent manner and the way you are staring at me. Yes, I saw that mocking look," Lieutenant Hyarion's voice said softly, an implied threat behind his words. "Have you never seen someone from the South before?"

"Yes, of course," Agannalo replied, disliking this arrogant underling more with each passing moment. He added sardonically "As a matter of fact I came from Far Harad."

At that the Southron's eyes bulged and he sputtered angrily. "Are you mocking me, straw-head? You think I am a fool? The men in Far Harad are swarthy or outright black, and you are as pale as a maggot! I have seen the likes of you - horse boys of Rhovanion. Perhaps your father was a Tark, as you are quite tall, but I bet your mother was a straw-head whore!"

"It seems you are telling me your own story, Southron," Agannalo hissed back. "I gather your own dam was a Haradi harlot. But not everyone is as baseborn as you are."

Hyarion jumped to his feet, the knuckles of his hand white on the hilt of his scimitar.

"You will regret these words, stranger! Perhaps you have never heard of me before, but in such a backward place as this, I would expect that. Perhaps you never heard of my father, the Lord Balakuzir of Umbar? My mother was a princess from further to the interior. She was fond of telling me the way that her people have of encouraging someone to talk." His eyes cold, his lips smiling, Lieutenant Hyarion allowed the words to sink in.

"They put them out in the heat of the desert, bury them up to their necks in the sand, and let their brains bake out. Sometimes they will pour honey all over their faces and let the ants go to work on them. I learned much from my mother's people." He smiled. "Perhaps after you have tarried with us a while, we might convince you to be more...ahhh..." he paused, 'talkative.' Reflect upon it a while. I am sure you will see reason."

[Agannalo]

Shedun, afternoon of November 4, 1347
Written by Angmar and Gordis

While the Southron had been talking, Agannalo's hot anger abated and slowly turned to cold hatred. Unbeknownst to him, Lieutenant Hyaron had narrowly escaped violent death or something far worse. But he was still in for the shock of his life. Agannalo smiled sweetly.

"Oh, noble Lieutenant, your hardly veiled threats made me see reason," purred Agannalo much like a sadistic cat would address a cornered mouse. "I decided to become talkative and to reveal my identity...." He paused for dramatic effect.

"My name is Silmadan, which means, for your instruction, the Jewel of Mankind". At this the Southron snorted, but Agannalo's smile only widened. "And the relative I wish to see in Carn-Dum is your King. I am his Majesty's nephew. My mother was your King's sister, not a Rhovanion whore."

***

For a few seconds, Hyarion stared incredulously at Agannalo, then burst out laughing. "Silmadan, the Jewel of Mankind, the nephew of the King? What absurdity is this? Not only are you an impertinent knave, but you are a lying impostor! To my knowledge, the king has no nephew!"

Agannalo stood aghast. He thought he had the Lieutenant cornered, but this man proved a bigger fool than he had first presumed... In such a situation any courtier from Armenelos would have been groveling at his feet begging for forgiveness! But the Southron was as single-minded and as thick-skinned as a rhinoceros!

Meanwhile, Hyarion continued. "Perhaps you have been sent here to spy upon us, or maybe you have been hired to assassinate the King. However, no spy or hired killer would be so bold or so foolish as to ride up on an old plug and claim that he was the King's nephew! Instead, I think you are a madman." He smiled maliciously at Agannalo. "Whatever you are, I grant you your request. You will go to Carn Dum - but in chains!" His breath coming faster, Hyarion's brown eyes glowed with triumphant excitement.

"Guards! Disarm this man!"

As in a bad dream, Agannalo watched helplessly while the grinning guards got hold of his sword and dagger and started searching him in earnest. In all his long years he didn't remember being searched - ever - and he didn't like the experience one bit.

But what could he do? If he killed the guards, he would have to kill Hyarion as well and the man was likely high in his Captain's favor. And then he would have all the garrison against him. Agannalo couldn't stand against such odds without turning to powerful sorcery. And using terror and Black Breath so openly would blow up not only his cover, but his Captain's as well... Agannalo was pretty sure that even in Angmar no one knew his Captain's true identity - yet.

It was no way to arrive in Angmar with such a bang. From the start Agannalo was not completely sure of his Captain's welcome. He planned to come to Carn-Dum quietly at night, see the Captain and ask for hospitality. Now he was forced to call himself the King's nephew - without the King's permission. Enough already to make his Captain mad - even without wiping away the garrison of Shedun.

"That is what happens when you tell the truth!" he thought bitterly. For he told Hyarion the truth - he was indeed Silmadan, or more precisely "Silmatan" in Quenya, and he did come all the way from Far Harad and he was indeed the King's relative! Not exactly a nephew, but a third cousin twice removed on his mother's side and a fourth cousin once removed on his father's side - anyway the closest living relative his Captain had. Well... not exactly living, but...

"Look at this, My Lieutenant!" cried one of the guards producing a small leather bag with a collection of tiny bamboo tubes. Each contained a poisoned needle of some plant and could be blown out at a considerable distance. "Have you ever seen such like?"

"Black savages from the Far South use them. How could this straw-head get those, I wonder? I bet he is an assassin sent by our enemies! Is there anything else?"

[Lieutenant Hyarion]

Shedun, afternoon of November 4, 1347
Written by Gordis and Angmar

"Aye, Lieutenant," the guard went on, "this man is like a walking armory! Besides the sword and dagger on his belt, we have found hidden weapons from his cloak to his boots!" The guards placed one dagger after another on the table, the blades and sheaths clanking together. "These two wicked curving ones, crafted in the Eastern fashion, were found under his tunic, while the two wide, flat-bladed ones were discovered strapped to his back and shoulder. He wears this large leaf-bladed dagger strapped to his right thigh. And this one from his cloak must be worth a king's ransom..." A guard triumphantly held up a small curved dagger with three large emeralds on the hilt and another at the pointed end of the sheath. Both the sheath and the hilt were gold and studded with glittering diamonds.

Lieutenant Hyarion looked at the jeweled dagger with eyes gleaming almost as brightly as the diamonds. "Not only is the knave an assassin and a murderer, he is also a thief! A rascal such as he never obtained this treasure by honest means!"

Incredulous at the gross stupidity of Lieutenant Hyarion, Agannalo was so angry that he was ready to destroy this pompous officer and all his underlings. If he gave into his urges and did such a thing, though, the king would be furious. "It is a gift for my uncle," he said calmly.

"A gift!" the lieutenant laughed mockingly. "You insult my intelligence if you think that I would believe such a thing! You have murdered the owner and stolen his dagger! I am hereby confiscating this treasure and the rest of your weaponry. All will be sent North, and His Majesty can deal with the matter." The lieutenant turned his gaze back to the guards. "Surely there can be no more!"

"Still more," the guard shook his head. "Here are two small knives from his boots and then there is this..." The guard gingerly held out a small narrow dagger in plain black leather sheath. The handle was covered with intricate runes. There seemed to be a faint pale light emanating from the dagger.

Agannalo found his voice. "You better keep your filthy hands away from it! Or you will rue the day you were ever born!"

"Corporal, ignore that raving madman! Give that dagger to me!" The lieutenant demanded.

"Yes, sir," the incredulous guard demurred, handing the hilt to the lieutenant.

"You are warned" Agannalo hissed, but the Southron ignored him.

"A strange weapon," the lieutenant murmured as he unsheathed the dagger and held the blade close to his face, bemused by the pale glow. "Quite sharp, no doubt." He reached out his forefinger to touch the edge, but his attention was distracted by the question from a guard.

"But the prisoner, sir?" the guard reminded him.

"Chain the strawhead in the dungeon! In the morning, he is to be taken under guard to Carn Dum! I am sure the King will be quite amused when he sees him!"

[Agannalo]

"The King will be quite amused when he sees him!"

"Oh, yes", thought Agannalo as the guards pushed him out of the chamber and down a winding stair leading to the dungeon. "The King will be quite amused to see me in chains, no doubt. He will laugh at me... what a shame! But I still prefer him laughing than wrathful." He gritted his teeth and set himself to endure.

The cell assigned to Agannalo was dank and damp with a trickle of water dripping down one wall. Instead of a front wall there were thick iron bars separating it from the guardroom, so the prisoner was under constant observation. Hyarion took no chances. A fat guard, awfully reeking of garlic, put iron manacles and foot chains on the prisoner's wrists and ankles and chained him to a ring in the far wall. Abjectly Agannalo sat down on a pile of dirty straw and tried to calm down.

There was something good to be found in any situation. "At least they have not noticed my Ring" he thought. Had they tried to take it, Agannalo would have had no choice but to kill them all... and head back from Angmar the way he had come to wander alone and homeless through the lands.

The Ring, invisible to mortal eyes, was still there, on the middle finger of his left hand, and it meant that he could escape, if the situation became unendurable. The sight of the Ring helped him to regain if not peace, but at least some calm and composure.

Unfortunately, not for long. One of the soldiers assembled in the adjoining guardroom brought Agannalo's harp. The sound of tortured strings made Agannalo jump to his feet. Shouting curses, he rushed to the iron bars, but the guards laughed even merrier, while one of them plucked the strings mercilessly, trying to play a village tune.

That was more that Agannalo could take. He fixed his eyes on the "musician" and muttered a Dark spell under his breath. "The Captain will understand," thought Agannalo. "There is a limit to anyone's endurance. The King will not miss this rascal."

The tune abruptly stopped as with some pathetic flailing of arms the guard sank to the ground. He trashed for some time struggling for breath, then went still. Dumbstruck, the others looked in awe from the corpse to Agannalo and back again. Nobody dared to pick up the harp from where it lay on the floor.

Agannalo returned back to his pile of straw. "This lout had no call to touch my harp," he thought, appeased.

[Lieutenant Hyarion]

Shedun Fortress, afternoon of November 4, 1347
Written by Gordis and Angmar

After Agannalo was led away to the dungeon, Lieutenant Hyarion ordered everyone to leave the audience chamber. While he had never seen another knife like it, he knew from its glow that this was no ordinary blade.

As he stared transfixed at the sheen of the metal, he felt as though he were falling through the surface of the blade. He was being pulled down, down, down, through a world of ice, filled with swirling clouds of misty vapors and stinging snowflakes. He kept falling and falling, until at last he saw the ground before him. It was stark and white, completely covered with snow, and right beneath him was a coffin made of crystal, its lid open and waiting for someone... who? And then in an instant he knew for whom it was waiting - it was waiting for him!

"Dire sorcery!" Hyarion panted, wiping his brow with his sleeve. "I have some knowledge of the craft, but this is far beyond my power! I will keep it, though, and find out its meaning." Carefully, he placed the blade back in its black leather sheath and lay it upon the table. He would take the pale blade and the emerald dagger back to his private chamber where he could study them.

His reverie was interrupted by a pounding on the door. "Sir," came the frightened voice of the Captain of the Guards, "please, I must talk to you!"

"Come in, man, and tell me what it is that has disturbed you," Lieutenant Hyarion said, an edge to his voice. "What now?" he wondered. The day had been a strange one, and he sensed it might become even stranger before it was over.

"Sir, I do not like to interrupt you, but there has been a strange occurrence in the dungeon."

"What?" Lieutenant Hyarion waited nervously to hear the answer.

"One of the guards took a fancy to the new prisoner's harp and was playing a tune to entertain us. Suddenly he fell to the ground, gasped for breath, twitched a few times, and then died! Considering as how he was only eighteen years old and one of the strongest men in the guard, it is unlikely that his heart failed him. That harp killed him! The thing is evil! No one will touch it and the harp just lies there near the dead man's body!"

His eyes wide, the lieutenant gaped incredulously at the soldier. Clutching his forehead, he was silent for a time as he considered what should be done. Not only was Silmadan a thief and an assassin, but he was also a very dangerous sorcerer. Who had employed him to attempt the life of the king? Who else but one of the three kingdoms of Arnor! Which one? Though he was confident that his own dungeon master could get the information out of the prisoner, he thought that the matter was best left to the king. Carn Dum knew methods of torture that would oil even the tongue of a stone statue!

"Captain," he finally spoke, "have the body of the fallen guard removed. The prisoner is to be ready in two hours when he is to be taken to Carn Dum under heavy guard." The lieutenant caught the apprehensive look in the Captain's eyes. "The harp, you wonder? Do not fear. I have some knowledge in spellcraft and neutralizing evil incantations. Have my horse saddled, for as soon as I notify my second in command and prepare a few things, I will be going to Carn Dum with you. We will soon see if this rascal is truly a kinsman of the king!"

[Merendil]

Nov 4, 1347 – late afternoon, on the road between Cameth Brin and Brochenridge

“Captain Merendil!” called Barund from the top of the ridge. “You need to see this.”

Merendil took a last look over the remnants of the recent hanging; the cut rope, the marks of a heavy object being dragged over the ground, into the woods just off the road the grisly scene with what little was left of the hung thief, and not surprisingly, a few Orc bodies close by. They had done part of his work for him, he thought with a satisfied smile. Then he turned and headed up the ridge to join Barund.

When at last he reached the top, Merendil let out a low whistle. He was more fighter than tracker, but even he could read the unmistakable signs that Orcs had been there.

“Barund – good work! I thought the smell must have come from about this general direction, though the breeze was shifting a bit that day.”

“Yes Captain,” replied Barund, trying to conceal the frustration of having been sent to look in a wrong enough general direction twice before making this find on the third try.

“So…” continued Merendil. “Looks like more than twenty anyhow. What do you make of it Barund? Fifty? Sixty?”

“At least a hundred, Sir. More likely two or three times that.”

“Really now!” and Merendil was honestly surprised. “Were they here for very long?”

“Less ‘n a day, I’d guess,” answered Barund, “about two to three days ago.”

“But they’re clearly all gone now,” said Merendil, his mind going back-and-forth between thoughts of having had so many Orcs over his shoulder two days back, and trying to keep his attention on where to go from here. “I suppose they all scattered from here then, going different directions to disperse?”

“No sir – that is to say, you may have observed that there’s clearly signs of movement about, but it appears just scouts coming and going, and keeping the perimeter, and the one excursion down to the stand of trees down there…” began Barund, “But after that, they clearly left this place all together, sudden-like – off west and a bit south.” And Barund extended his arm in a path that crossed the road a little south below them and on up the wooded hills beyond. “Straight as an arrow sir, sure as daylight.”

“Two days ago?”

“Yessir – two days ago.”

“Really…” and then a sudden realization struck Merendil. This was no accident, for if it was, it was a double-accident. An Orc band assembled right at this spot while his escort passed below two days’ since – and then making straight for some point that would cut them off further along. It seemed inconceivable – but he suddenly feared that his charge, the King’s eldest daughter, was in great danger.

After a few seconds to take it all in and order his thoughts, Merendil began bellowing orders. “Everyone down to the road! Assemble men of Rhudaur! Barund, get your men down there! Sergeants, assemble the guard of Cameth Brin!”

The plans were quickly made. Merendil dictated a short note to King Tarnendur about the presence of an Orc band on the roadside, their probable attack on Gimilbeth beyond Brochenridge, and his own intended pursuit. Once finished, the man who took down the words mounted his horse and rode north as hard as he could, leading a spare horse behind. As the messenger sped away, Merendil thought, “Oh – I should have given him as well the note from the young wagoner to his wife – but it’s too late now. Anyway – better to get to his rescue than to notify his wife he’ll be away.”

Once more a sudden thought struck him. How was it that the commotion in the caravan started just as they passed the Orcs? That wagon driver seemed like such a trustworthy sort too…

There was time to sort all that out later though, he thought as he swung himself into his saddle. Barund was starting up the other ridge, on foot, with his 20 men, and 30 of Merendil’s. That left two horses for each man still on the road. That was good – the moon was waxing toward full, so they could travel most of the night, if they and the horses held out. And Barund could follow the trail for long as well.

Still… Merendil knew there was little hope to catch up before Gimilbeth’s troupe ran into trouble – if trouble there was going to be. And in his heart, Merendil felt that trouble was coming.

[The Wandering Dwarves]

11 o'clock in the morning, November 4th

She could not stop from gasping - it was so sudden, so uncanny the way the elves suddenly appeared before them; it was frightening... much the way her nightmares had run in the past few days.

There were two of them; their hands were before them, gesturing the dwarves to stop... or was it a gesture of peace? One of them smiled, however, and Gere took heart from that. Hroim came forward, and spoke for them. Suspicion was etched across every dwarf-face but his; the memory of the last stranger they had encountered fresh in their minds, many hands felt for the axe resting comfortably at the waist. Gere herself drew little comfort from the cold steel but she fingered it all the same, ready to pick it up if necessary.

"Greetings, strangers," said Hroim in his deep voice, "I see you come in peace. I am Hroim, leader of this tribe, and I speak for them."

This was more or less a friendly greeting by Hroim, so the other dwarves let their hands slide to the side. If he was going to be friendly, they would emulate him. The smiling elf said, "I am Alagos and this is my friend, Tyaron. We come from Rivendell... that is to say, that was our last home. For months now, we have been wanderers and travellers."

"So have we." Hroim had travelled much in his youth, and had seen much more of the world than many others in their tribe, which explains, perhaps, why he was so much readier to be friendly with them. He did not feel the same cold he had felt from the other elf from these two. Their was a brightness about their eyes, a sincerity about their smiles, and they professed to have been at Rivendell. They may have heard much news of the world in that place, or during their travels. He called for a halt, and invited the elves to partake dinner with them, which they graciously accepted. There was some small grumbling - his son, Truin, in particular, did not look pleased, but they did not complain.

Gere watched them eating from a safe distance, hardly hungry herself. The serious-looking elf - Tyaron, that was his name - heand Hroim were deep in some tale or other. Where was the smiling elf, Alagos? He must have got up when she hadn't been looking. She got up from the log she was seated on, and nearly fell back again when she saw Alagos standing beside her.

"Forgive me, did I startle you?"

"No." she looked straight at him, to show she was not afraid of him. Hmmm... he did not look so frightening close up.

"I have been observing you for some time, but I thought you knew I was here, too." she did not reply to this. She had just remembered that she had to speak in a gruff voice around him, even though there was the beard on her chin - after all, the beard was nowhere near as fine as what most dwarves had, but the fact was, no one was willing to sacrifice quite so much of their own beards to give her a convincingly fake one. Still, as long as she spoke gruffly, and looked threatening, it ought to work.

"May I ask you something? I do not even know your name, so it is probably rude of me to ask such a question, but I have lived many hundreds of years and I have never yet had the oppurtunity to ask it."

"Ask away, lad." she said as deep as she could manage.

"Is that a real beard? I mean, I am not insulting it, it is a very fine beard indeed. But do dwarf-women really have beards?"

Gere blushed. How come these elves had such a penchant for penetrating her disguise? She really needed a better one, it was just not good enough.

"You ask grave secrets of me. I can only answer if you make me a promise."

His lips twitched, but he kept his composure.

"You can not tell anyone you... well, that you found out I am a woman. I do not know how it is amongst elves, but if the others think my disguise is insufficient, they may ask me to stay in a wagon the entire journey."

"You have my promise, lady. But... you answered my question in asking my promise. For you are a woman, are you not? And that beard is not yours, as you owned it to be a disguise."

"Oh. I suppose I did. But then, I only answered your first question. Maybe some of us have beards.... or maybe they don't. Maybe I am too young to have grown one yet. You have promised not to divulge what you found out on your own - but I don't know if I should tell you anymore."

He was quiet for a few minutes. Then he asked, "Why are so many of them afriad of us? Or so distrustful? your chief talks heartily enough, but I have got so many unfriendly glances and mutters that I do not know what to impute it to."

"I can not help being both fearful and distrustful myself. You are only the second elf I have met, and the first we met was... so unlike you. He looked the same, I mean, he had golden hair and blue eyes, not like you, but he was just as tall and slender, and the thin chiselled features. A beautiful harp slung on his back. But... there was something else about him. Something that called to mind rot and death. And you are full of life. There is that difference between you and him. And yet, when I see you, suddenly - I see him in you, and I forget all the differences and fear is near at hand." Her voice was almost a whisper. Suddenly she realised to whom she was spilling her thoughts to. "I have said too much, and maybe it makes little sense to you. It is the answer you seek, however."