The Winter of Discontent. Shadow over Rhudaur V

[General Nimruzir]

Morning of November 28, Cameth Brin

The morning of November 28 dawned bright, clear and amazingly warm for November. No one could ever wish for such a day to begin a campaign. Carpenters and workmen had spent several days building a special review stand for King Tarendur and his court between the stables and the tower. There had been complaints from the more conservative members of the court that the project had been far too expensive and totally unnecessary, especially in these dark days which the kingdom now faced. Jarl Broggha, the Count of Pennmorva, as supreme commander of the Northern expedition, had had his way, however, and the temporary structure was surprisingly impressive. There was one unusual object which puzzled the Rhudaurians - a small altar of black stones piled one atop another directly across from where the king would be sitting.

A benevolently smiling King Tarendur, Queen Eleniel by his side, led his family and entourage to their places in the honored "King's Box." He nodded and waved to the large crowd which had assembled in the tower square, hoping to catch a glimpse of the royal family, though just as many were there to see for themselves the famous Jarl Broggha.

The Jarl did not disappoint anyone. Announced by a flamboyant fanfare of trumpets, the standard bearers rode into the tower square, carrying aloft the flag of Rhudaur and the banner of Broggha, a great red bear on a field of blue. With the blaring sound of trumpets still in the ears of the crowd, the impressive sight of Jarl Broggha and his escort came into view. Formidable looking in his steel war helm embellished with a set of ox horns, his chain mail gleaming in the sun, a great silver fox fur cape trailing over his horse's haunches, and mounted upon a newly acquired black stallion, the red-haired giant inspired awe.

Mounted on his destrier before the king's box, surrounded by his guards, the Jarl made a short speech. "Under the king's banner, my men and I ride north to face a fierce and ruthless enemy. Dol Hithlaer must be freed! We go to serve king and country! I pledge upon my honor that we shall not return until we bring back with us the head of its commander and the standards of Dol Hithlaer as trophies to present His Majesty." Broggha waited for the great ovation which sounded from the crowd and those assembled in the king's box. "We are pious men, though, and know that to win any battle, we must honor Tulkar, the God of War, and implore him to grant us victory! We call now upon the priests of our people to perform the sacred ceremonies." There was a low murmur from some in the crowd but not enough of a protest to portend any trouble. After his announcement, Broggha rode his horse to the side of the king's box and waited.

The steady beat of drums echoed in the cold morning air as old Hrani, shaman of the hillmen, followed by ten other priests, marched into the square. The drummers intensified their throbbing beat, some of them going into ecstatic frenzies as their hands summoned an ancient tune. Hrani and all the priests marched around the square, chanting in some dialect of the Hillmen incomprehensible to the Rhudaurians, who watched in shocked silence. A young man, his face colored with blue paint in strange arcane symbols, led a large white bull into the review area. Not a spot of dark hair to blemish him, the bull's coat had been brushed into gleaming whiteness. Around his horns, which had been buffed until they gleamed, was a garland of holly, its berries red, its leaves a dark, glossy green. Hanging about his shoulders was a similar garland.

The queen looked at the king and gripped his arm. "My lord, my blood chills in my veins at the thought of what they are about to do. Can you not stop this?"

"No, my lady queen, to do such a thing now would alienate the Hillmen, anger Jarl Broggha, and destroy all hope for a coalition between our people and theirs. I am sure the ceremony will be harmless. Withhold your judgment, please," he replied in a mild voice.

After more chanting and dancing, Hrani, his eyes wild, his lips continually moving, drew the ceremonial dagger from his belt. Holding it in his open palms, he lifted it up towards the heavens. Then he quickly brought the blade down and sliced across the bull's throat. As the blood gushed from the beast's neck, the priests bathed themselves in the gore. Filling a goblet with steaming red liquid, Hrani went to Jarl Broggha and presented him with the sacred chalice. First lifting the cup above his head and dedicating it to the God of War, the Jarl brought it to his lips. Beaming broadly, he drained it in one long swallow. This gesture set the priests into another wild fit of frenzy. The bull was soon bled, chopped into pieces, its parts put upon the altar, and the oil-drenched wood torched. The crowd watched in disbelieving silence, many of them looking away.

While the stench of smoke and burning meat wafted into the sky, trumpets blared, signaling that the grand review was about the commence. First came the standard bearers with Broggha and his officers riding behind. General Nimruzir and his escort came next, followed by the troops which could be spared from the Rhudaurian cavalry for this undertaking. Lord Belzagar and his contingent rode by next. Though he was smiling and waving, his eyes were their usual chilly gray. After they had all passed by the review box, the hillmen cavalry rode by, screaming their battle cries and lifting their weapons in the air to salute the king and court. After they had made their impressive gallop by, the long pack train came into view and passed by the review box.

Soon all the army was winding its way down the great hill to the resounding cheers of the people who had assembled along the route. They crossed the Cameth River and rode through the western part of town to more shouts and ovations from the people. The crowd thinned after the army had crossed the moat, and except for a few well-wishes, the great throngs had thinned away by the time they came to the bridge over the tributary to the stream of the Hoarwell.

General Nimruzir, Grand Marshall of the army, thought his own thoughts as he listened to the discordant trumpet blasts, the jingling of bits and chains, the creak of leather and the staccato beat of the horses' hooves. As they neared the Long Waterfall, he was surprised to see Lord Belzagar draw his horse up beside him. The man had never sought him out before, and Nimruzir wondered what was the occasion today.

"My lord," Belzagar greeted him in a friendly enough fashion, "quite auspicious weather for the beginning, would you not say?"

"Not everything that begins well ends well," the general commented dryly.

"I see only success, my lord, in this campaign. Broggha seems a competent leader."

"Of his own men, I would say you are correct, Lord Belzagar, but he has never led what I consider a disciplined army. Aye, certainly they are brave, but they have little discipline."

"Perhaps what Rhudaur needs is new life, General, a fresh raw force which will send our enemies fleeing back to the north," Belzagar commented snidely, and General Nimruzir bristled beneath his barb.

"Any demagogue can lead a pack of rabble, but it takes a military man to lead a disciplined army, and, Lord Belzagar, it is the disciplined army which wins campaigns," General Nimruzir replied brusquely as his face began to flush with an angry red.

Realizing his mistake, Lord Belzagar turned apologetic. "General Nimruzir, I was merely making an observation, not attacking your policy. You must know that I am not a military man, and really I should not comment upon the subject."

"No offense taken, Lord Belzagar," the General smiled politely, apparently mollified. "Now perhaps you would like to discuss the campaign while we ride together. During our strategy meetings, Jarl Broggha announced his plans for the northern probe. During the first part of the journey, the army will travel north along the east bank of the Mitheithel, taking approximately two days. Then we will turn east to your fortress, Dol Duniath, and rest our men and horses there." The general turned to Belzagar. "Though I have been in that area many times, I have never had the privilege of staying at Dol Duniath. I look forward greatly to seeing your keep."

"And," Belzagar smiled his most pleasant smile, "although I would wish for you to see my home under other circumstances, General, I look forward to extending you my hospitality. I take pride in the reputation my home has earned in providing the best food and drink for my guests. I am sure you will enjoy your stay."

"Lord Belzagar, I am sure I will, too, but for an old soldier like me, it is often a luxury just to have a warm blanket for a bed on the ground and a campfire." The thundering crash of the waters of the Long Waterfall had become oppressively loud, obliterating his words. Silent, the two men rode on past the huge volume of water flowing under the bridge. General Nimruzir could not help but see the strange gleam in Belzagar's eyes as he looked at the waterfall in awe. "A strange man," the General thought, "though he hides it well."

[Gellam the Tavernkeeper]

Hare and Thistle Tavern, November 30th

As the short winter day drew to its close, the public room at the Hare and Thistle was almost deserted. The proprietor, Master Gellam, dispiritedly polished the already spotless bar. Sighing, he put the rag down on the bar and gazed out the window, where a few snow flurries were sprinkling down from the gray skies.

"I might as well close early," he grumbled as he looked over to the large orange striped cat sleeping at the end of the bar. "I said I might as well close down early!" he raised his voice and the cat slowly opened its large green eyes and blinked. Then yawning and arching its back, the cat stood up and stretched. "Merow?" its mew seemed to be a question.

"Not that it would make any difference to a mangy fat-kidneyed, sway-bellied old cat such as yourself!" The innkeeper renewed his attack upon the immaculate bar by furiously polishing an imaginary fly speck at the edge. Ignoring his master's irritation, the large orange cat rubbed against his elbow and tickled the proprietor's nose with the tip of his tail.

"You did that on purpose, didn't you, Puss?" he blared as he picked the cat up under his arm and carried him back into the kitchen. The cook, three barmaids and the scullion boys looked up quizzically at him as he set the cat down on the floor. "Fetch some milk for Puss. He seems to be our only patron of this afternoon."

"Why, Master Gellam," one of the serving wenches exclaimed as she rose from the hearth where she had been warming her back by the glowing flames, "I know that business has been slow, but surely it will recover in a few days, will it not?" She smiled, emphasizing the dimple beside her mouth, and pushed a stray lock of brown hair back under her cap.

"With so many gone to the north, I don't expect business to get better until spring," he grumbled. His dour expression improved noticeably when the young barmaid, Laereth, took a pitcher of milk and filled up a saucer for the cat. The girl was young and very pretty, and was far cleaner and tidier than either Fainwen and and Aruinel, two of his other serving wenches. She had never gone upstairs and sold her favors to patrons as both Fainwen and Aruinel often did. "Must be holding out for a better paying customer," he thought with just a trace of a lecherous smirk. Perhaps he would see if he could cajole her into his bed. He certainly had more than enough money to make it worth her while. While such thoughts were far more pleasant than worrying about the state of his business, he had to be making plans.

Things might continue to deteriorate until the army returned in the spring. Perhaps he would have to dismiss some of the scullions and maybe even one of the barmaids. He decided if he had to do that, it would have to be Aruinel, who was a fat and not too attractive woman, who often smelled of sweat and whose missing front tooth made her smile look displeasing. No, no, he could never dismiss her, for in spite of her faults, her abundant amatory skills had become almost famous in the tavern.

Fainwen? Should she be the one? No, no, never her! Gellam thought with a feeling of alarm. She was the woman of Heggr, one of the hillmen, a close friend with Griss, one of Broggha's trusted captains. If he terminated her employment, the whole wild barbarous lot of them would be angry at him. Knowing their violent tempers, he might lose much more than just their patronage. They might riot and burn him out! He sighed. If he had to let any of them go, it must be Laereth, who had been there the shortest time. He sighed again, deeper this time, and bent down and stroked Puss along his backbone.

"Mew?" The cat arched his back as Gellam ran his hand over his fur. Then the cat looked up at him and bit his finger.

"Ouch! Damn you, Puss! Stop that!" Gellam swatted at Puss but missed. Puss gave him an evil look, raised his tail up high and flicked it twice, turned, and walked regally back into the public room.

"Damned arrogant cat!" Gellam muttered as he watched the cat walk around the door post.

"Oh, he hurt you!" Aruinel simpered comfortingly.

"It's nothing," Gellam grumbled as he wrapped a handkerchief around the bleeding wound. The sound of the door opening in the main chamber had Gellam instantly on his feet and smiling. "Business at last," he beamed in spite of his hurting hand. "Laereth, you take care of these gentlemen. Be sharp now, and on your toes. As you know, that one pays very well."

"Indeed he does, sir," she giggled, and straightening up, she smoothed back her hair and tidied her dress. Aruinel and Fainwen, who were sitting on the hearth, glared at her as she and Gellam walked into the public room.

"Well, for my part, I'm just as glad she's to be the one to serve him. My feet have been hurting today, and I'd just as soon sit here by the hearth," Fainwen grumbled.

"Aye, but it's Master Authon, and you know how wealthy they say he is." A calculating expression came over Aruinel's face. "That's one gentleman I wouldn't mind having upstairs with me at all. You can be sure he'd pay a pretty penny for my services, and he is a very handsome gentleman!"

"Ha!" Fainwen laughed sarcastically. "Sure as anything, you'd have to pay him! Fine gentlemen of his social station don't have anything to do with the likes of us, dearie! Besides that, I've heard he's not interested in the ladies, if you take my meaning." She winked knowingly.

"I don't believe that at all! He's flirted enough with Laereth to prove that idea wrong. You're just jealous he never flirts with you! And what do you mean that I would have to pay him? You say another thing like that about me, Fainwen, and I'll slap your face!"

"Oh, do shut up!" Fainwen exclaimed angrily. "I do not mean anything! It's just sometimes you think a little too highly of yourself, Aruinel, that's all!" She rubbed her eyelid, then looked away, obviously eager to change the subject before the other woman could carry through with her threat. "Let's talk about something else. That tall, tawny man who's with him this evening... I don't think I've seen him before. Who is he?"

"Well, dearie, he was in here the other night when you were ill. His name is Faron, and he's a friend of Master Authon. Since Lord Belzagar - poor, dear man - had to leave for the north with the army, he named Master Authon his steward in his absence. I believe Master Faron must be helping Master Authon in his duties of steward."

"Did you notice that scar on his cheek? Wicked looking thing, isn't it? Still red, like he got it recently. I wonder how he received it." Fainwen's eyebrows furrowed as she looked into the public room.

"Fainwen, you think about the silliest things. I think it makes him look dashing. Now if I could only figure out a way to entice him into my bed..."

"Forget it, Aruinel! Gentlemen like that have a reputation to uphold and they are not going to consort with common women like us! Besides, since Heggr and I became so cozy, I've hardly looked at another man! Well, sometimes..." she giggled.

"Fainwen, that's a lie! You do more than look, and you know it!" Dismissing Fainwen from her thoughts, Aruinel stood up and warmed her hands by the fire. "You know, maybe if I tried wearing some sort of fragrance and used more lip color and rouge, the gentlemen would find me more comely..."

The two tavern wenches did not have the opportunity to finish their conversation, for at that moment, the front door opened and three workmen walked in the door. Down the street, a new three-story shop was going up to replace one that burnt in a fire last summer, and they were part of the crew which had been employed to construct it.

"Men at last!" Aruinel exclaimed. The two quickly headed for the small, distorted mirror that hung on the wall. Fainwen reached it first but Aruinel, being far heavier, pushed her aside with a bump from one well-padded shoulder. When they finally reached the public room, Master Gellam was happily drawing ale from a keg behind the bar. To their shocked eyes, they saw Laereth sitting on Authon's lap, smiling seductively at him and running a finger through his long, black hair.

"Well, I never!" Aruinel blustered as she flounced her way to the table of the three workmen.

"What did I tell you, dearie? They're not for the likes of us!" Fainwen chuckled smugly.

[Witch-king of Angmar]

Written by Odaragariel



November 28th, Cameth Brin

Odare surveyed herself critically in the mirror. Tarnendur had agreed to let her go back home - but only on the condition that she traveled in disguise. She had to agree that it would not be at all fitting for her to travel abroad as her own self with an army of rowdy Hillmen - and so, here she was, dressed as a man, a page in Nimruzir's entourage. Her hair, which normally reached her elbows, she had cropped to her shoulders, and tied in a strict ponytail. Her breasts were bound as flat as could be, and she had donned plain brown trousers, and a white tunic. A longer coat went over this - both to protect from the cold, and to further hide her body. Boots; a short sword, worn at the waist, and a cloak completed the ensemble. The slightly humiliating fact was, she looked much better as a man than she had ever done as a princess.

Only around half a dozen people had been let in on the secret - Nimruzir, and three of his loyal men, who were instructed to be her guards throughout the journey. And the doctor - to keep up the illusion, for some time at least, that the princess was sick and keeping to her chamber. She had already, in the last few weeks, stayed shut up, not least because she was keen on avoiding Daurendil, or indeed any of the royal family. None of them were happy with her, and even Tarniel, who most understood her point of view, did not see the necessity of her haring off to Imlad Mitheithel. There was a definite sulk in the Palace, and between the frequent lectures she received, to her own misgivings, and Daurendil's confident statement that she would never really stir out of the Palace, but would back out at the last moment - she was actually quite glad that her last day here had come.

She picked up a bag of her belongings - not that she could take much, but she had managed to fold two of her least fluffy dresses and some jewelery as well into it. She stuffed the top of it with a few bundles of parchment, and some writing supplies, having some vague idea that the duties of a page included something of that sort, and hoping it would conceal the dresses that lay beneath.

As she left her room, she peeked into Tarniel's to see if she was there - but everyone had left to see the review of the army. The Palace was unusually empty, and as a result, she did not run into any of the servants who might otherwise have wondered at her walking around in the princesses' apartments. She left through the back entrance, where her three guards were waiting for her, holding a horse. She mounted, and they rode past the review stand unobtrusively. The Hillmen were then in the middle of their sacrifice, and no one noticed the four of them in the crowd. They joined Nimruzir, who had a glare to spare for them being late. Heart pounding, every moment expecting someone to recognise her, Odare joined the ranks and tried to look as manly as possible.

The blare of trumpets announced that the review was about to begin, and soon they were riding before the royal family. Odare gave a little salute, catching her friend's eye - it was hard to see at this distance, but she thought both Tarniel and Amantir returned it, one with a smile, and a nod, and the other with a salute back at her. Daurendil did not even look at her, and the King and the Queen looked as if they had not recognised her - and they were not the only ones. For the first time, perhaps, Nimruzir attracted more eyes than she did. She felt a wave of relief wash over her - so far, no one had recognised her. Her spirits rising with every bump of the road, she began her - possibly cold, dangerous and tiring, but at the moment, promising - journey to the north.

[Saakaf]

November 17, on the road about 40 miles south of Dol Hithaer

"All right, lads, you've rested long enough! Time to get off your lazy bottoms and start marching again!" Corporal Boshok's gravelly voice ground out the order.

Grumbling, the orcs rose from where they had been sitting on their haunches around the campfire and hoisted their packs over their shoulders. Another night of marching was ahead of them, and if they had any luck at all and the weather held reasonably fair, they should make twenty-five miles or more before dawn. The journey from the camp near Brochenridge had gone well with the men averaging almost twenty-five miles a night, a good speed considering some of the territory they had gone through and the weather conditions. True, Corporal Boshok was a harsh commander and had kept them marching unmercifully, but he was determined to get them over the Pass of Dol Hithaer before the weather turned worse and they faced even greater chances of blizzards. He had been successful in his goal; tomorrow they should be nearing the fortress.

After marching six hours, Boshok ordered the men to pull off to the side of the road for a brief rest and the opportunity to eat. The place he chose lay in the shelter of a tall grove of conifers and provided some protection against the biting wind.

"Don't get too comfortable," he snarled. "We're only going to be here a few minutes. No fires! There's no time for it!"

Corporal Boshok, Private Saakaf and the other three privates were all that remained of their patrol after the failed attempt to kidnap Princess Gimilbeth. By pure luck, as Saakaf's patrol was making their escape, he had chanced to come across Elessya, the emerald necklace of the House of Dauremir. In the time since, he had managed to keep its whereabouts secret from his commanding officer and the other men.

The orcs brushed the snow off a fallen tree and sat down to eat. Not hungry, Saakaf was dreaming again of Princess Gimilbeth, and this time he let his imagination run free. He imagined that he had just captured her for his own and was holding her deep within in a giant cave. He had taken all her clothes away from her, consigned them to the flames, and replaced them with sumptuous fox furs. With queenly dignity, she draped a cloak of silver fox furs sewn together over her shapely shoulders.

"You know you cannot keep me here indefinitely!" She looked down her nose at him in distaste. "The soldiers of Rhudaur are at this moment scouring all this territory, and it is only a matter of time before they find me! When they do, you will pay and pay dearly!"

He laughed at her as he tore away the luxurious fox cloak from her body. She stood there with nothing whatsoever to cover her lovely form. Shocked and exceedingly wroth, she refused to let him see it. Regal in her bearing, her eyes as cold as ice crystals, she faced him unflinchingly until he was forced to look away.

"Please, Your Highness, forgive me, but I was so eager to see you unveiled in all of your beauty!" He kept his eyes directed away from her as he picked up the robe and placed it about her shoulders once again. "I have a gift for you, and I hope you accept it."

"What is this bauble?" she asked him imperviously, arching her brows.

"A necklace of priceless beauty, a treasure that would pay a king's ransom! This necklace is for my mate!" he exclaimed as he held the emerald up before her.

She stared at him. "I cannot accept this from a foul creature like you!" she spat out. "And I surelly will never consent to being your mate!" Every word of her rejection fell like daggers.

"You refuse me?" he snarled. "We'll see about that!" He was quickly behind her, placing the necklace about her neck and fastening the hook. "You will wear it," he said menacingly, "for if you don't, I will send you out to freeze in the bitter cold with nothing to keep you warm save the cold stones of the necklace!" Saakaf was certain that the look in her eyes bespoke her acquiescence.

Sighing, she said, "Then I will wear it." Saakaf was about to kiss her creamy white shoulder when his pleasant daydream abruptly vanished.

Corporal Boshok had begun to bustle around in that officious way of his. He barked out the order, "On your feet, men! It's time to march!"

As the orcs resumed their trek, Saakaf could push neither Princess Gimilbeth or the emerald necklace out of his mind. With every step that he took, he could see her face before him, and always she was adorned in that necklace and nothing else. By the time Corporal Boshok halted the men for the evening's rest, Private Saakaf was a panting, salivating mass of unrequited desire and hopeless longings. He must hold the necklace, touch it, and pretend that it was caressing her smooth neck.

When the campfire had burnt to little more than embers and he was sure that all the others were asleep, Saakaf quietly slipped out of his bedroll, took the packet that contained the necklace from his knapsack, and crept from the camp. The fact that the moon was in the third quarter and the way was dark was no hindrance to Saakaf, for he could see almost as well as night as he could in the day.

Making his way a good distance from the camp, he came to a cliff, one of the many which lined the small valley deep below him. Almost reverently, he unwrapped the necklace, brought it to his lips and kissed it. "Someday, Princess Gimilbeth, you will be my mate! This will be my wedding gift to you."

Lost in his fantasies, his sharp ears did not detect a slight noise back in the woods, but he still sensed the presence of another creature. Leaping to his feet, he drew his sword and challenged, "Who goes there?"

"Private Saakaf, I've been wondering about you for some time. You've been acting strange. Now I know the reason why." Corporal Boshok's irritating voice was smugly accusing.

"Corporal, you didn't need to sneak up on me, did you?" Saakaf hedged.

"It was the only way I could catch you, private. I knew you were hiding something, probably illegal booty, but I didn't have the proof. Now I do." Saakaf heard the swish of metal as Boshok drew his blade. "Now give it to me, and things will go easy on you."

There was something coniving and crafty in the tone of Boshok's voice. "Probably wants to kill me and keep it for himself," Saakaf thought.

"No, I don't think so," the private growled. "I think you want the prize all for yourself!" He had hardly gotten the words out of his mouth when Boshok charged him, his wicked, curved scimitar slashing furiously as he darted forward. Parrying his thrusts, Saakaf backed away. Again, Boshok charged, driving forward with a savage attack, and this time Saakaf met him blow for blow.

Closer now to the edge of the cliff, Saakaf threw the necklace at Boshok's eyes. Not expecting that move, Boshok instinctively threw his hand up to his face, giving Saakaf a chance to lunge forward and plunge the scimitar through his stomach. Boshok looked at him in shock as Saakaf grasped him by the shoulder, pulling him deeper into the scimitar. As Saakaf twisted the blade in the wound and then pulled it back out, a rush of black blood spewed out from the wound. His adversary fell to the ground, gripping his bleeding stomach and moaning.

Wiping his scimitar off on Boshok's tunic, he sheathed the weapon and slipped the necklace inside his tunic.

"Help me! Help me!" the corporal mumbled weakly, reaching his hand upward.

"Sorry, my old friend, it looks like now we come to a fork in the trail, and we will no longer be taking the same path." Bending down and putting his hands under Boshok's arms, he dragged him to the edge of the cliff and let the body drop. A long interval passed before Saakaf heard the splash as the body hit the water. "Farewell, old friend."

When Saakaf returned to the small camp, he called for the other soldiers' attention. "Lads, there has been an unfortunate accident. The good and noble Corporal Boshok and I were having a drink of draught and talking about old times together. He drank far too much, and in his cups, he grew morose and melancholy. Before I could stop him, he threw himself off the cliff in a fit of depression. I'm sorry. I tried to save him but he was mad with drink."

In shock and surprise, the other orcs looked at him. "What do we do now, Saakaf?"

"We continue on our journey to Dol Hithaer, lads. I do not know how many of our original company survived, but for all we know, we are the last. Someone needs to report to the garrison commander the fate of our mission so he can send it to the higher ups."

"Aye, Saakaf," the men concurred. "That's all that we can do."

"Lads, as you all know, I am the soldier here with the highest seniority. It becomes my privilege to take command of this patrol. You follow my orders now." Placing his hand on the hilt of his sword, he looked at the other orcs, waiting for any to challenge him for his position. When it was apparent that none dared challenge him, he shoved his sword back in his scabbard and ndoded.

"All right, men! Let's hit the road! We'll make Dol Hithaer by tomorrow!"

[Belzagar]

The Fortress of Dol Duniath
December 4

Lord Belzagar was tired. Nay, he was more than tired. He was exhausted. The journey from Cameth Brin had taken six days, six days of hard riding in harsh weather and sleeping in a field tent whose amenities were less than perfect. The cold seemed to penetrate into the very marrow of his bones, and his muscles ached from long hours in the saddle.

All these days past, he had observed his companions on the journey. Jarl Broggha, riding at the Vanguard of the army, seemed to thrive in the cold weather. Lord Belzagar had learned quite a bit about the hillman during this expedition. Broggha enjoyed singing, and at any moment, he might launch out into a lusty song. The songs were inevitably about the same thing - fighting, drinking, wenching, and a warrior's glorious death on the field of battle. Belzagar had noticed that these honorable deaths automatically ushered the fallen into the golden paradise of the afterlife, where the warriors did exactly what they had done on Arda - fight, drink, wench and once again die honorable deaths. He found the ballads depressing, but he could not escape Broggha's loud, boisterous voice, which often was whipped by the wind and carried back far down the column to where Lord Belzagar rode with his guards.

General Nimruzir sometimes moved his charger up to ride beside him, and though the old man was taciturn, he seemed almost eager to talk to him. Belzagar resented the old general, who, though he did not laud the exploits of dead warriors in the afterlife, was as eager to talk about war and battle deaths as any of Broggha's men. Still, even though many of the younger nobles were eager to see the old man retire, General Nimruzir remained a powerful man in the kingdom, a friend of the king. It always paid to know which way the political wind was blowing, and Belzagar prided himself on managing to remain friends with all sides. After all, his real loyalty lay with none of them, but with a king whose realm lay far to the north.

At least today he had not had to listen to the old man as he dogmatically lectured on strategy and droned on and on about old battles. Today, Lord Belzagar rode beside Jarl Broggha in the vanguard, for this was the day that the army would arrive at his keep, Ravenscroft. Cresting a steep incline, there his fortress lay below them, grim and foreboding. From the main tower and battlements, the standard of the Lords of Dol Duniath - the profile of a black raven on a yellow field - snapped proudly in the wind.

The outer walls had been laid in the days of his ancestors, and they built them thick and deep. As his forefathers had grown richer from the rents of the tenants who farmed their lands, a small town had grown around the base of the fortress. Then as the orcs' bellicosity had increased over the years, the lords of Ravencroft had found it necessary to expand the walls of the city. In those times of pillage and raiding by the orcs, a larger place of safety was needed when the folk came streaming in, begging sanctuary. And so Dol Duniath had grown.

Broggha's army cheered at the sight of the fortress and town, knowing that the army would rest there two days. The prospects of more and better rations provided at the expense of Lord Belzagar had greatly increased their morale. While places would be found for the higher ranking officers inside the castle - though some would be forced to share beds and others sleep upon the floor - common soldiers would bivouac in the village. For this, soldiers were grateful, for at least there would be shelter with warm fires and food.

At the first word of this "insane fool's errand to the North" - one of the derogatory terms that Belzagar had dubbed the campaign, he had sent couriers ahead to advise his people at the castle of what they should expect within the next week or so. There was a delegation of elders from the village to meet them as they rode towards the fortress, all cheering and extoling the largess of the lord of Dol Duniath.

"That should impress even Broggha and the old fool the general," Belzagar thought with satisfaction.

Once inside the fortress, their horses were led off by grooms. Broggha and his officers, Lord Belzagar and his guards, and General Nimruzir and his small escort were greeted by the steward and ushered into the great drafty halls of the chamberlain and his assistants.

Ravenscroft had a long honored tradition of the finest of hospitality, and at the evening supper that night, the trumpets sounded as servants brought out great silver platters filled with roast goose, beef, boar, mutton, a great variety of breads, pies, fruit tarts, cheeses, condiments, apples and pears. Lord Belzagar's honored guests - Broggha and his captains and General Nimruzir - had their own messes and feasted upon gold plates. They sat at the high board, which was raised above the other tables and covered with a tablecloth of finely crafted linen. The other guests at the lower table ate from trenchers - a great slice of stale bread which soaked up the grease from the food. Goblets and tankards were filled with wine and ale, and servant boys were kept busy attending to the needs of the guests.

For entertainment, there was a small group of musicians from the village whose abilities, though not of the quality of those in the large cities, were adequate. An elderly village man, who was renowned for his vast selection of tales, told stories while a young minstrel provided the background music. All the entertainers were pleased with the generous offerings of copper coins which they received from the Lord and his guests.

At the honored high table, Jarl Broggha sat at Lord Belzagar's right while General Nimruzir sat at his left. Though he was a man of early middle age, Lord Belzagar had never married. Since he had two elder brothers, he had never considered that there was a need for him to wed, provide an heir, and carry on a title for the family name. Indeed, his elder brother, Caegaran, had inherited the position of Lord of Dol Duniath after their father had died. He had held this position for five years until he met death at the hands of a tenant. The man's father had been caught hunting in Lord Caegaran's private preserve, and the lord's foresters had relieved him of his head which they had set upon a pole upon the road leading to the preserve. Swearing vengeance, the peasant's son and some friends laid in wait for Lord Caegaran while he was hunting, and an arrow to his heart sent him into the waiting arms of Námo.

The next Lord of Dol Duniath, Noreg, had been far too young for the lordship when his brother had died. A rash and intemperate youth, given to fits of anger and foolish behavior and drinking far too much wine, he had taken issue with the comment of one of his men at the supper table. Though the man had been unwilling, Noreg had challenged him and, forced to answer a call of honor, the man soon found himself fighting for his life at the hands of his lord. A far better swordsman, an opportune blow from his sword to Noreg's stomach had ended the young lord's life.

Lord Belzagar still did not consider it necesary to marry, for he had a younger brother who stood to inherit the title should he pass without issue. He had named him as his heir in lieu of a son of his own.

Savoring a goblet of the finest imported Dorwinion wine, Lord Belzagar surveyed the hall and looked over his 119 men-at-arms whom he supported and housed at his hall. All were fine stalwart men, some grizzled old graybeards who had been in the service of his father, and others young men barely more than youths, all loyal to him, more loyal to him even than they were to their own king. After all, at whose board did they eat and whose family did they hold allegiance to all these many years?

Jarl Broggha's men had let up a loud cry, demanding their lord favor them with a song from his mighty lungs. With a great roar of laughter, the jarl had agreed, and stepped down from the high board to the floor. "I must have a harpist for accompaniment!" Motioning to the young man who had provided the music for the old storyteller, the jarl soon launched into a lament about a brave Hillman who had been betrayed by a common strumpet into the hands of his enemies. His men were yelling wild accolades at the conclusion and demanding more, which the Jarl graciously acknowledged his agreement with a sweeping bow.

After several goblets of wine, Lord Belzagar, feeling mellow, was beginning to feel that Broggha was more talented than he had thought him. General Nimruzir leaned over to him, and speaking in a low voice, tactfully broached the subject of his bachelor state. "I have a grand-niece, a beautiful girl, just reaching the age of marriage..."

At that point, Broggha launched into a rousing chorus of a battle song, and Lord Nimruzir's words seemed to meld into the whole. His chin supported on his hand, Lord Belzagar studied the remainder of his wine in his goblet. A vision was just beginning to materialize before his eyes and he could see the great dark king on his throne far away. After that, he no longer heard Nimruzir, Broggha or anyone else. His bedazzled eyes were fixed upon the King. Belzagar heard the words ,"It is well," as the king nodded graciously to him while he stroked the glossy feathers of the great black raven Âmbal, who perched on his arm. At last the question that had haunted him for days had been answered. The messenger with news of Broggha's move north had reached the king in plenty of time and he was well pleased with Belzagar.

The liquid in the bottom of his goblet turned to gold and, smiling, Belzagar collapsed upon the table in a drunken stupor as the goblet went crashing to the floor.

[Witch-king of Angmar]

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[Witch-king of Angmar]

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[Udûnabâl]

Carn Dum, Angmar, December 4, 1347

Udunabal, the High Priest of Melkor, his grey beard jutted angrily forth, walked briskly across the great courtyard of Carn Dum, heading towards the main tower. He was an old Numenorean from Umbar, tall and gaunt, but still vigorous for his 220 years. The guards, especially the Umbarians, gave him a wide berth and bowed in awe and reverence as he stalked by. The priest’s wrinkled face was contorted in his permanent scowl, but today the old man seemed even more forbidding than usual. Strangely enough, the guards noted, the High priest was clad in the grand robes of his office that were only worn during the most important ceremonies in the Cave Temple: a black velvet cape with yellow and red flame tips embroidered upon it.

Ten minutes later, after the wearisome climb to the upper levels of the Tower, the Priest’s scowl deepened even further as an intimidated servant told him haltingly that the King had refused him an audience and that he had to talk to the Steward instead.

When Udunabal entered Alassar’s office, he was nearly spluttering from anger. “Ah, Steward,” he hissed sarcastically, “I am sooo deeply grateful that you deigned to spare me a moment of your most precious time! What do you think I am - a peasant? A lowly petitioner haggling with his neighbor over a borderline? Is the God’s service so unimportant to His Majesty to treat the High Priest of Almighty Melkor like that?”

“I apologize, Your Eminence,” Alassar replied humbly, as he was a devout Melkorian and somewhat in awe of the formidable High Priest. “No doubt the King would have granted you a personal audience, had you but requested it beforehand. As it is, I will do my best to hear your grievances and report them to His Majesty at his earliest convenience”.

The High Priest was not mollified in the slightest. “My grievances?” he hissed. “The God’s own grievances, more precisely! The grievances of all the devout people of Angmar!” He turned and started pacing, emphasizing his words with eloquent sweeps of his arms. “For long years in the conquered Umbar we had to hide in shadows, to worship Melkor but at night in secret temples, to pay lip-service to the accursed false gods! Upon coming to Angmar a decade ago, I have been assured that henceforth it will be otherwise, that the barren wastes of the North will be a sanctuary for all the devoted Numenoreans and that Melkor’s worship will not be hindered but conducted openly and officially!”

The priest rounded on Alassar and smashed his fist hard on the oaken table. “I see now those promises were nothing but deceit! And yet again we have to hide! Why do we pray in this subterranean temple known only to few when there should have been a Great temple of Melkor built right in the middle of that square yonder?”

Alassar sighed unhappily. “I understand your concern, your Eminence, but please, do have patience. Angmar is still too weak to sustain the combined assault of all the Dunedain Kingdoms and the Elvish realms of Lindon and Rivendell that is sure to follow, once the worship of Melkor becomes the official religion of Angmar.”

“A temporary measure you say? How long do I have to wait? I will die and go to my cold tomb before seeing the northern sun glitter on the silver roof of the new Temple!”

Alassar hung his head at a loss for words. What could one say to a man of 220? He would die soon enough anyway, much sooner than a temple could possibly be built, even if the construction started this very day…

Meanwhile, the priest produced a scroll out of his sumptuous robes and threw it to Alassar. “Here are my terms, Steward. Firstly, I demand that the keystone of the new Temple should be laid during this year’s Winter Solstice celebration by the King himself, with all the population – Numenorean or not – witnessing it. Secondly, all the pagan cults should be prohibited immediately - under the sentence of death.”

“But, Your Eminence,” Alassar tried to reason, “The local cults are mostly harmless… The simple folk honor their ancestors, or their totem animals, or some idols that they believe could help them out – there is nothing there to compete with the Holy worship of the Dark Lord.”

Udunabal’s eyes blazed with hate at the mention of the other cults. “Do you think me a fool?” he cried. "Do you not see yourselves that Hillmen worship the accursed Powers? Manvur, Yavaya, Tulkar – what are they, I ask you, Steward? The very treacherous spirits that have executed our Only True God and guard Him beyond the Gates of Night even as we speak! What will He say to ye when He returns? Will He look kindly at such practices? Trice accursed ye are to tolerate such heresy!”

Here Alassar knew that the other was overreaching. High Priest or not, he had no call to fling curses at the King and his Steward. Three weeks ago, Alassar could have been frightened – as the Priest was believed to wield great powers – but now, after learning what sort of being the King really was, he could only grin at the Priest’s impertinence.

Alassar bowed formally in dismissal and said coldly. “Your Eminence, I will transmit your scroll to the King and let him decide the matter.” Deep inside he knew that the Priest had little time left to live, indeed.

[Lord Alassar]

Carn Dum, Angmar, December 4, 1347

"Lord Alassar, High Priest Udûnabâl has made extravagant demands in the past, but the ones which he has presented in this scroll are outrageous! And the utter impertinence of the pompous, slack-jawed old beetle-pate! He had the audacity to call down the curses of the Almighty High God Melkor upon me as ruler of this state!" the King of all Angmar spat out irritably. "The old fool has been declining into his dotage for years, and now it appears that he has reached it! Who does he think he is to attempt to tell the King how to run this country?"

"Your Majesty," Lord Alassar interjected deferentially, careful to phrase his words in such way that he would not agitate the King of Angmar any more than necessary, "he did not actually say that the curse applied directly to you. As I recall, his words were 'Thrice accursed ye are to tolerate such heresy! Perhaps he means the country as a whole and not you in particular!' Alassar nervously tapped his fingers upon the table as he studied the two crossed swords mounted on the opposite wall.

"Alassar, do not attempt to play the fawning courtier with me. I am not some dull-witted petty king who is appeased by pleasantly spoken platitudes! You know exactly whom he means!"

"Aye, sire. Unfortunately, I believe he means your august personage, and to take it a step further, all those connected with your reign." Alassar bowed his head and looked at his hands.

Once again, Alassar felt that his stature in His Majesty's eyes had diminished. It was his own fault, the steward knew. He often blundered and arrived at the wrong conclusions, but he was only a man and he dealt every day with an immortal being of unbelievable power. It was dangerous enough to be the underling of a mortal king, but to be the thrall of a being who was almost a demigod was totally mind-numbing in its ramifications. As he always did when he realized his own unworthiness, he felt terrible pangs of guilt, a sense of miserable imperfection and the knowledge that he was no more than dung.

The King of Angmar slid the scroll across the table to Alassar. Then he leaned back, chin on elbows which rested on the arms of his great black mahogany chair, and stared at the scroll. "He must have taken leave of his senses and slipped into absolute dotage to think that he could order me to build a temple, even laying the cornerstone of it in the presence of all the population. If that were not enough, he demands that I outlaw all the other cults. Does he seek to foment rebellion? For that is what it would be if I tried to impose this upon the population. Aye," the king waved his hand, "I should wish to build the temple myself, but we do not have the revenue to enter into such an ambitious building project. As for outlawing the other sects, the people would rise in open and bloody rebellion and demand my head! The old fool is mad! I will not hear to his demands!"

The King pushed his chair back and rose to his feet and began to pace around the room. "The High Priest has obtained a goodly age and has done many grand and illustrious things in his time. His life has been a good one, spent in a position of high honor and influence. When his time to die comes, he will be greatly mourned throughout the land." The King paused at the end of the table and leaned down, resting his hands upon the surface, studying Alassar's face.

"Your Majesty, what would you have me to do?" Alassar looked up into the stern face of the king. His Majesty appeared to be a man in his prime, still youthful, with dark, black hair and only a sprinkle of gray at the temples. His expression no longer looked as angry as it had earlier. In fact, there was a slight smile upon his lips. From the scroll that he had read in the secret room of the king's library, Alassar was aware that the king's appearance was an illusion wrought by magic. Alassar also had the sensation that His Majesty knew that he knew and was slightly amused that the two of them were sharing a joke that no others in all the world knew. Perhaps Alassar should feel flattered at this privilege, but instead he felt only a chill run down his spine. He was being drawn deeper and deeper into a world of dark sorcery that could lead to unbelievable knowledge, but carried with it the threat of the direst peril. He shook his head. For a moment he had been lost in himself, but now the king was speaking.

"In the morning, you will write a missive requesting an audience with the high priest and send it by your assistant, Galon, who is an astute and dependable lad. Then when His Eminence grants you audience, you will go in all deference and humility and inform him that his terms have been accepted. The temple will be built and all the other cults and sects will be outlawed and any who practice their teachings will do so under penalty of death."

"Your Majesty, I do not understand... you would grant him all his requests? Alassar was flabbergasted at this disclosure.

"Until this day, High Priest Udûnabâl has been a wise and sensible priest, a devoted follower of the Two Gods. For his long and steadfast service, I should wish him to die happy." The King walked closer to Alassar's seat.

"I see, Your Majesty," Alassar nodded, assuming that the king would kill the old priest with some dark spell. "And all you wish for me to do is deliver the message?"

"Nay, Alassar. You are to have much more of an active part than that. I know how eager you are to prove your worth and serve me..." Sliding a golden ring with a large emerald from a finger on his left hand, the Witch-king handed it to his steward. "You are familiar with this sort of ring. It has a hidden compartment just under the stone, filled with poison which kills gently, quickly, and leaves no trace. After you have told the High Priest the good news, he will be ebullient. Propose a toast to the great temple and to the wisdom of the high priest in conceiving the idea. You are a clever person. I am sure you can find some way to put the poison in his drink without calling suspicion to yourself."

"Aye, Your Majesty, I understand, and everything will be taken care of as you desire. I thank you for this opportunity to serve you." Gratefully, Alassar bowed his head to kiss the Witch-king's signet ring.

The king returned to his seat. "Now that that business is completed, you will join me in a drink. You prefer brandy, do you not?"

"Aye, Your Majesty, I would enjoy that very much, but if I may so be bold to ask - have you selected the next High Priest?"

"Nay, Alassar, not yet, I shall have to think on it." The King replied.

[Agannalo]

Carn Dum, Morning of December 5, 1347

Alassar had just finished composing the missive requesting an audience with the High priest, when a servant tapped on the door and, being granted permission, slipped quietly in. "My Lord Steward," he announced, "the lord Silmadan is at last awake!"

That was some news, a long expected one, indeed. The King's nephew, who had arrived to Carn Dum three weeks ago, has not emerged from his room ever since. He slept and slept ... and slept. After a week, everyone became concerned: the servants, Alassar himself, the royal healer, lady Gelireth - everyone except the King. "Oh, let him sleep," His Majesty laughed, "for, while slumbering, he is definitely up to no mischief!" Alassar went to check on the sleeping Silmadan twice or trice and could only confirm the servant's reports that the golden-haired royal kinsman seemed quite at peace, a blissful smile playing on his lips and his breathing shallow and even.

Shaking his head, Alassar sealed the message to the priest and gave it to Galon to deliver. He then decided to pay a visit to the King's nephew. After all, he had never seen a man who had slept for 25 days straight! Somehow the thought sent shivers along Alassar's spine - he had a sick feeling that, just like his uncle, the nephew was no mere Man.

Alassar found the freshly bathed, combed and dressed Silmadan admiring himself in a full-length mirror. Upon the bed, chairs and benches there was a rich collection of clothes on display, some coming from the King's own wardrobe, some from the steward's and some newly tailored for Silmadan himself, on the express orders of the lady Gelireth, who had undoubtedly decided to take the stray King's relative under her wing. The Steward observed that Silmadan had chosen one of Gelireth's garments: a long pale blue robe worked in gold thread over a cream tunic.

"Greetings, my Lord," the Steward offered bowing. "I am glad to see you well rested and in good health. Was the breakfast to your satisfaction?" He couldn't fail to notice the barely touched tray of food on the table.

"Yes, quite..." Silmadan replied absently, turning and squinting his eyes to get a side-view of himself in the mirror. "Don't you think, Steward, that this robe is a bit too long?"

"I don't think so." Alassar replied, wondering at the king nephew's vanity. Handsome as he was, still there was something upsetting about his appearance. "It fits you perfectly, in my opinion, but you would need to wear one of those fur capes as well - it is chilly in here". Alassar's eyes strayed to Silmadan's bare feet shod in elegant gilded leather sandals with intricate crisscrossing thongs.
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"Chilly?" Silmadan seemed genuinely surprised. "I haven't noticed....Anyway, good Steward, show me now this library of yours - I am eager to see what rarities you have got there."

The Steward bowed, recalling the King's express orders to give his nephew the free rule of the library. Whatever mischief Silmadan might be capable of, according to the King, right now he was behaving well, thought the Steward.

As if guessing at Alassar's thoughts, Silmadan fixed the steward with suddenly melancholy eyes and added gravely. "What the temptation of flesh is for most Men and the yearning for riches is for Dwarves, the seduction of knowledge is for me."

Impressed, Alassar led Silmadan up a few flights of stairs, then through a short hallway, and unlocked a tall oaken door inlaid with geometric patterns in nacre and tortoiseshell. Inside lay a huge darkened room: this floor of the Tower was not divided in sections like the ones below and above, and therefore it appeared to eyes in all its immensity. In darkness one could barely make out rows upon rows of bookshelves and trays with precious scrolls. Against the walls stood huge cases, laden with neatly arranged books. Silmadan looked around and whistled appreciatively.

Alassar went to one of the high windows and started to pull aside the heavy velvet drapes. "We keep the drapes shut when the library is not used, as many of the ancient scrolls would suffer from exposure to light. Only one candle is permitted, because of the risk of fire."

"I need no candle." Silmadan said disdainfully. "And leave the drapes alone - there is quite enough light as it is."

The Steward only nodded, the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach returning. "That won't do," he chided himself, "I have to grow used to such oddities". He knew, however, that he himself wouldn't be able to make out a single letter in this gloom.

"And what is in there?" Silmadan pointed to a small door barely distinguishable from the wall.

Alassar turned, knowing already in his heart what door had attracted the other's attention. Of course, it had to be the very door leading to the secret compartment of the library where Alassar was once foolish enough to venture, where he had found the scroll on the Morgul blades- the scroll that had opened his eyes and nearly proved his undoing.

"This door is locked". Alassar grated, trying to appear calm. "I think only the King has the key. You will have to ask His Majesty's permission to go in there."

"I see." Silmadan sounded much amused. "Tell me, Steward, why are you so afraid?"

Alassar's breath caught in his throat at such impertinence. Was he that obvious? Was his soul an open book for this man ... this wraith to read?

At a loss for words, the Steward bowed morosely and stalked out.