The Winter of Discontent. Shadow over Rhudaur V

[scribe]

December 8th, night, 1347, Dol Mithlad

Weak with relief, Odare followed the page Brannon. The less said, and the less thought about the last ten days, and her journey here, the better. In a fit of anger she had come on this journey, and she had had plenty of time to rue her decision. She had never been so tired, so dirty and so cold, and so afraid. Each step she took she feared detection. The clothes, she grew easy and familiar with soon, but oh, how hard it was to walk and talk like a man!

She had been so afraid of being betrayed by her voice, that she had developed the habit of answering in monosyllables, and in a whisper when she could for, after all, a whisper from a man or a woman sounds much the same. Many times she had been afraid that she would collapse from the strain of keeping up with the trained soldiers, and the only thing that had kept her going was the thought that such a collapse would lead to inevitable detection. Now, thankfully, she was back - in a place that she scarcely remembered, that in her heart of hearts she did not consider home, but she was welcome here, and she could drop all of her silly worries and be herself again. In silence, unnoticed, the two pages walked past dark corridors and silent rooms, and up a long, winding flight of stairs, and Odare felt herself growing more relaxed every moment.

Suddenly Brannon stopped.

Odare, out of breath from all the climbing, asked, "Are we at the top yet?"

"No. Are you the General's page?" he asked her curiously.

"Yes," Odare replied.

"Uh-huh. And what's your name?"

"Od-Dolenmir. What's yours?"

"Brannon. So you are just a lowly page, like me?"

Odare just nodded her agreement.

After a pause, "I don't believe a word you're saying."

"Well, no one cares what you believe or don't." replied Odare, as cheekily as she could. Detection, by a slip of a boy, when she had fooled the whole of the army, would be unpardonable. "You have your orders, you might as well follow them."

"Well, why would Lord Dinen and the General have a secret meeting, where I'm not allowed to stay, and then why would I be sent, with instructions to be discreet, just to fetch a page? You are surely more than you look."

"Perhaps, it is dangerous for two such prolific characters as your Lord, and my General to have too many secret meetings, and perhaps thats why a lowly page such as myself must act as an intermediate. And perhaps, those who give you orders do so for a reason that you are not meant to question, but follow. Now, are you going to show me to those rooms or not?" Odare said in a furious whisper.

Brannon, sulkily, led the way once more to the top of the flight. Once there, he knocked twice at a thick wood door, and then descended down again, leaving her there in the dark without a light.

“Come in.” shouted someone from inside.

Odare pushed the door open. The room inside was shaped like a semicircle, with wide windows spanning the curved wall and giving a view that went across many miles – though all she could see was the dark glom of night. A desk had been positioned facing them, and this was filled with books, papers, pens and an inkbottle. Tall bookshelves lined the walls on either side of the door she had entered through, and the only other exit to the room was from another door, hidden from her view, between two of the bookshelves. A harp lay on a cushion in one corner, looking rather out of place. The Seneschal himself was sitting on a hard-backed chair beside the fireplace, trying his best to look like he was warming his hands and thinking heavily, but he rather spoiled the impression by jerking his head wildly to look at her, and then by springing to the door and pushing it shut.

Once this was done, he seemed to be altogether more at his ease, but not quite, as after a hesitant pause, he bowed deeply and formally to her. “Welcome to Dol Mithlad, my lady.”

She could not resist – “Oh, but, I am only her lady’s servant. She sent me here to make sure the rooms were ready.”

For a split second, Dinen looked as if he would explode with the embarrassment of having bowed to the wrong person – then, reason asserted and he smiled and said, “I have seen you before, Princess Odaragariel, though you may not remember it, and in your disguise, you remind me very much of your esteemed father. I am sure I am not mistaken, whatever you say.”

“Well, then,” Odare laughed, “I am glad no one else noticed the resemblance and caught me out. And I am glad of the chance to thank you, for your hospitality – despite the lack of warning, and my unorthodox manner of arriving.” Dinen murmured something about it being her home, after all, which Odare did not hear, being busy taking stock of the room around her.

“And is this the room I am to stay in? The books look inviting, and I suppose the view will be interesting in the daytime, and I hate to complain, but where am I to sleep?”

“This is actually my study, and I often come up here to be private, so you will not be disturbed here. If we take the proper precautions, you may put aside your disguise in the few days that you are constrained to remain here. I did not think it wise to change much about the room, as that would cause some suspicion to arise, but sometimes, I like to stay in my study overnight, so a bed has been installed in this room here,” he opened the small door between the bookshelves to reveal another room with almost no furniture except for a very neat bunk bed. He sounded rather apologetic at how simple everything was, so Odare hastened to reassure him.

“It looks very comfortable.” She went and sat down at the desk, and asked, “So what precautions are we to take then? I would be very relieved to be able to take off my disguise.”

“I will come to see you everyday, and have meals sent up at the same time. And when I leave, I will lock the door from the outside, so no one suspects that anyone else is inside, and if anyone does try to enter, they will be barred,” - Odare looked quite dismayed at this – “but I will leave you a key, so you may go out if it is absolutely necessary. And I think we should pull all the curtains to, and keep the light to a minimum when I am not in the tower, just in case someone notices. At any rate, we need not keep this up more than a couple of days or so, and then, my lady,” and he left it unfinished, to imply all the luxury and grandeur with which she would be treated then.

Odare thought it over, decided it seemed reasonable, and had only two requests to make before Dinen left. “I would be obliged if you will ask one of Nimruzir’s men to send my things – they’ll know which pack it is in – over here. And do something about that page of yours.”

“Brannon?”

“The very same. He’s getting suspicious. If you could just have all his duties arranged in a way that he is not able to snoop around here, that would be fine.” She smiled rather mischievously, and Dinen found himself grinning as well. With the fort full of an army of soldiers to tend to, they could both think of a multitude of ways to keep busy the nosy Brannon.

“As you wish. I will see you tomorrow morning, then.” He bowed again.

“You forgot to leave me the key.” Odare said, in an absent-minded unconcerned tone, supposedly engaged in leafing through a book on the desk.

“Oh, yes, of course, my lady,” Dinen handed her a large key from a pocket in his coat, and did not notice the careful way she secured it in her own pocket.

[scribe]

Jarl Broggha



Dol Mithlad, Northern Rhudaur
Shortly After Dawn, December 9, 1347.

"Jarl Broggha, is that not Lord Belzagar over there across the courtyard?" Captain Gris asked his chief as Broggha and two of Broggha's other companions - some called them his "henchmen" - walked down a short flight of steps that led from the fortress of Dol Mithlad into the bailey.

"Aye, it is," the hillman chieftain replied, his breath steaming in the frosty air. "Who else could it be out here at this time of day with two servants and a crate of mail pigeons?"

"Oh, yes, the birds," Gris laughed, rubbing his bristly chin with the back of his hand. "I have heard about those pigeons of his, but never had I seen one before."

"Aye, who else would be mad enough to come out in the chill, frosty morning to fly these worthless little birds? A high-ranking lord such as Belzagar, he ought to be hunting with falcons, not playing with birds which would be best used cooked in a pie," Corporal Gufi, a tall, stocky man with a long, drooping blond mustache and a bristling blond beard, laughed derisively.

"Gufi, Gufi, how naive you are! You backward fool! Do you not know what he does with those birds?" Corporal Asgautr, a broad-shouldered, muscular blond hillman only an inch shorter than Gufi, shook his head and gave him an incredulous look.

"Corporal, how would I know?" Gufi bristled. "I am a soldier by profession. My interests lie elsewhere and surely not with doves and pigeons! Such things as that are for womenfolk and for such men who are affeared to be soldiers! And I resent being called a 'backward fool!'" he growled as he gripped his sword hilt. "Perhaps we should go over yonder way near the stable and see who is the ignorant one!"

"Silence!" Broggha's deep voice rumbled. "Damn it, there will be no fighting! We are here to add Lord Dínen's hundred men-at-arms to our numbers! The Rhudarians think little enough of us as it is; we do not want to prove true their bad feelings about us by shedding blood on Lord Dínen's cobbles! That would be considered a grave breach of protocol and good manners. If you are going to duel, go outside the gates of the fortress to do it!"

Amused at Gufi's chafed pride, Asgautr looked to Broggha. "The corporal is merely suffering the ill effects of all the draught he swilled last night."

"Not to mention the poor man is rankled at being rejected by that pretty serving wench last night. I saw the whole thing. When the girl bent over to serve the tankards, the oaf's hand was wandering to her broad backside. He startled the poor wench so soundly that she spilled the ale! And the tongue-lashing she gave him! The wench was surely no lady!" Gris added, laughing uproariously.

Broggha's warning did little to settle Gufi's wounded pride, and the more that Gris and Asgautr nettled him, the angrier he grew. His face now a crimson fury, the tendions on his thick neck bulged as he clenched and unclenched his fists. Though both were cup companions with Broggha, neither man liked the other. Their grudge went back a long way, and those who knew them considered that it was inevitable that sooner or later one would kill the other.

"Take those words back!" Gufi spat out between tight lips. Though his hand no longer rested on his sword hilt, his light blue eyes glittered like sun rays glinting off a glacier.

"Why should I take back the truth?" Asgautr shrugged.

"I think perhaps you should do it," Gris cautioned in a low voice to Asgautr, who stood beside him. When the two had first met several years before when Asgautr had come into Broggha's service, they had not gotten along well. After carousing and drinking together for two years, though, they had become good friends.

"All right," Asgautr muttered begrudgingly, his voice an undertone. "I will do it to keep the peace but I do not guarantee anything when we are away from here!"

"That is all I ask," Gris whispered.

"Gufi," Asgautr turned to the other man and put his hand on his shoulder, "I talked out of turn a while ago. I take back what I said: you are not a backward fool," adding in his own mind, "but you are still a fool."

Not quite sure that this was an apology from Asgautr, Gufi looked at him uncertainly. Then deciding it was better to accept this partial concession than it was to anger Broggha any more than he was already, he decided he would be magnanimous. "Asgautr, I accept your apology." He reached out his hand and Asgautr took it, gripping his elbow as the other man clasped his forearm.

Giving little heed to his bickering underlings, Broggha's attention was on Belzagar. "You men go go the stables and look about our horses. I wish a word with Lord Belzagar," he ordered them as he took the short flight of steps and strode across the courtyard. Belzagar had just strapped a thin tube to the leg of a male rock pigeon and then released the gray bird into the air. Intent upon watching the pigeon as it soared over the walls of the keep, Belzagar did not notice Broggha as he came up behind him.

"My lord Belzagar, I see you are at work early this morning," Broggha's deep voice boomed out, causing Belzagar to start.

There could only be one man with a voice like that, Belzagar realized. "The barbarian Broggha." Before the army had left Cameth Brin for the north, the spymaster was planning to have a meeting with the hillman chief, but with all the preparations entailed in settling his affairs in the city, he had never found the time. With this fortunate chance meeting, there was no better opportunity than now.

[scribe]

Belzagar




Dol Mithlad, Northern Rhudaur
Shortly After Dawn, December 9, 1347.

Both Lord Belzagar and Lord Broggha were members of the king's privy council, but other than exchanging polite formal greetings at meetings, the two had never had an actual conversation. Lord Belzagar watched until the pigeon had flown completely out of sight over the fortress' high wall before turning around to face Broggha.

"Aye, my lord count, the pigeons have a long way to fly, do they not?"

"I assume they will be traveling to Cameth Brin. Will you be releasing any more birds this morning?"

"Then, Count, you are correct in your assumptions, and, no, this one was the last for the day. They must get there before darkness falls, lest they lose their way."

Wanting to speak in private with Broggha, he dismissed his two servants. Now that the two men were alone, Lord Belzagar did not quite know how to begin the conversation. He had little regard for Broggha, considering him a half civilized savage, so far beneath Belzagar's social station that it would be absurd to think of conversing with him under any other situation. But converse he must, for Belzagar had come to the conclusion some time before that for his own well being on this most unwelcomed foray into the north, Broggha and he must come to an understanding.

As it stood, Belzagar was puzzled enough at why the giant had sought him out this morning. Surely a man with his background would have no interest in such things as the fine sport of falconry or any comprehension of the value of pigeons in carrying messages, two subjects dear to the heart of Lord Belzagar.

"My lord," Broggha said, his eyes looking towards the flight which the pigeons had just taken over the walls, "while my men have a dim view of such things as pigeons for anything other than eating, methinks they might have some use for the military."

Belzagar's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Perhaps the hillman, for all his crude habits, is not as big of a fool as I had thought him to be." Belzagar had been dreading the inevitable encounter with Broggha, but this was going far better than he had ever hoped.

"Aye, Count," Belzagar replied, warming slightly to the man. "These birds can travel much faster than a courier on horseback. For spywork, they can scarcely be beaten, for any information that the scout needs to convey back to his superior can be written on a thin sheet of paper placed into a mail tube, strapped to the bird's leg and sent on its way, and reach the man's contact in a matter of a few hours!"

Broggha shifted his ponderous form. Even though Belzagar could trace his descent back to the ancient Numenoreans, still Broggha was at least two inches taller than he was and outweighed him by many pounds. "Lord Belzagar, since learning of your mail service, I have been entertaining these same thoughts. Perhaps tonight we might discuss it over a draught of ale." The giant's ruddy face beamed in a broad smile, and much to Belzagar's discomfiture, the rough hillman goodnaturedly slapped him over the shoulder.

"Aye, I would be pleased to drink with you, Count Broggha. Lord Dínen's chief chamberlain knows how to lay out a fine table, and his ale is exceptionally good." Belzagar surveyed the courtyard; there was no one within twenty feet of the two of them. There would never be a better time than this to discuss the matter which presently absorbed Belzagar's thoughts, but he was uncertain how to approach it. If he were incorrect in his feelings about the hillman, anything he might say could be dangerous. He fell into a silence, considering how to begin.

Broggha, thinking that the meeting was over and that the two men had an appointment that night for drinks, offered his hand in a handshake. "Lord Belzagar, no doubt both the kingdom and I will profit by your great knowledge of these birds. I look forward to our meeting tonight."

Belzagar's dark eyes bored into Broggha's bright blue ones as he tried to read the man. He had always had some power of seeing into other peoples' minds, and the training that he had had years ago only intensified that gift. As his mind tried to probe that of Broggha's, he met a resistance that blocked his delving. He was certain that with more concentration he could breach the barrier and read the man's thought patterns. However, that took time, and he had none, and so he contented himself with the knowledge that Broggha's mind held no hostility towards him. He smiled his cool smile. "He, too, has had training, but he is certainly not an adept, nor is his skill as great as mine," he thought to himself.

He shook Broggha's hand and held it a moment before releasing it. "My lord Broggha, do not be so eager to leave. I think we should talk a bit longer."

"Why, certainly, my lord, I would be happy to talk to you but I cannot imagine what it might be about." Broggha looked puzzled.

"I could be wrong, but I believe we might have interests in the North."

"What sort of interests?" Broggha asked in a suspicious undertone.

"The future lies to the North!" There, he had said the fateful words! This was the key phrase exchanged by those who were in the service of the Witch-king. There was no going back now. Either Broggha was the man whom he thought him to be - the chosen one selected by the king of Angmar to usurp the kingdom of Rhudaur and add it to his growing realm - or he had made a grave mistake that could bring him to his doom. But who else could there be? No other man had risen almost overnight from a hillman chieftain to one who now possessed such tremendous power, power so great that he could intimidate the king into authorizing a military expedition under Tarendur's own banner. Surely Broggha was the one!

"Indeed," Broggha grinned. "The future lies to the North!"

Belzagar breathed a sigh of relief. If he had been wrong... He would not think about that.

"And you, Belzagar, are the famed spymaster of Rhudaur. For a long time now, I have been waiting for you to approach me." Broggha laughed loudly, and then it dawned upon Belzagar that Broggha had known about him all along.

A muscle under his cheek twitched. "Why did you never tell me?" he asked weakly.

"Quite simply, my lord. You have been too close with your assistant Authon, trusting him far too much. We have ascertained that he has been your only confidant. Do you not know, my friend?" Broggha placed a large, meaty paw upon his shoulder and looked straight into his eyes. "A man in your position can trust no one except his proven friends. Authon has access to all your papers and knows everything that you do. The rogue made contact with the North through couriers, elaborating in these dispatches upon baseless lies which we knew were untrue. If he could have established the charges against you, he hoped to gain the king's approval to have you assassinated. Then he hoped to take over your entire espionage establishment. Until his allegations against you were proved false, I was under instructions to have no contact with you."

"Authon?" he gasped in disbelief. "Surely not Authon! He could never betray me! He has been with me for years and I thought him close as a brother!"

"My lord, he would have had you assassinated by one of his henchmen, or perhaps he planned to do it himself. If he had had his way, you would have already be interred into your family's tomb at Dol Duniath. This is what I had planned to discuss with you tonight over our tankards of ale."

"Authon would have had me assassinated? I can scarcely believe it!" Belzagar felt ill, clutching at the wall behind him for support.

"Aye, my lord. Authon betrayed you all right, but you have nothing to fear from him anymore. A dispatch rider rode in late last night, bringing some interesting news. Two days ago, your assistant, Authon, wishing to give his horse more exercise than was possible in his small stable yard, took him out on the road to Pennmorva. When his mount returned riderless later that day, the constable sent out a search party. They found his body caught in some roots along the bank below the High Waterfall. His horse was known to be high strung and unruly, and it was conjectured that something startled the beast, driving it frantic, and it threw him off into the swift current below the bridge."

Jarl Broggha watched as Belzagar's body went limp, sliding down the wall behind him to land in a crumpled heap upon the cobbled pavement. "Men!" Broggha shouted in his booming voice. "Take this man into his room and call the healers! He seems to be having some sort of fit!" He smiled to himself as his guards came rushing towards them from all over the courtyard.

[Eryndil]

December 9, 1347 – mid morning, before Cameth Brin’s outer gate

Some of them had been waiting since before sunrise – certainly Eryndil had, along with Narwaith and Norumar. The other five young noblemen had joined them soon after, and then they had all waited, their collective silence little broken by idle talk of any kind. But Narwaith and Norumar had kept themselves busy at their pre-arranged task.

The sun had climbed nearly halfway to its zenith when Daurendil and his two cronies, Celemir and Raglas, at last made their appearance, shuffling forth from the gates, laughing and joking with one another. Eryndil strode forth before the rest to meet them.

“Gentlemen… you’re LATE!” said Eryndil sternly. Daurendil’s friends attempted to make weak excuses for them all, as had been the routine, but Daurendil was silent this time, staring defiantly at Eryndil.

“Nonetheless,” continued Eryndil, “your anticipated tardiness has allowed us to complete our preparations to deal with it. From this day forth, all who come late shall wear these…” Narwaith and Norumar came forward bearing plain-looking, long vests. “These are weighted with stones, to serve as reminders to arrive early for future sessions. Now… put them on!”

Daurendil’s friends were uncertain whether to comply, but as Norumar went right up to the Prince, and stood before him with his hulking form, holding forth the vest he had earned, the Prince nodded to them both, and allowed himself to be adorned with the one designated for him.

Eryndil breathed an inward sigh of relief. He more than half expected some kind of revolt today, so it was good to see compliance at the first challenge. The Prince and his minions had come a bit later each successive day – but were much later than yesterday morning this time – likely, a response to the incident at the market yesterday afternoon.

“First, we run!” he went on. Daurendil’s expression kept no secret of what he thought of that. He was clearly contemptuous of the running and tracking and outdoor survival aspects of the training – but they all might serve him in good stead one day. “Only two leagues this day. It should be more, but we’ll have other hard work to follow. Know this though,” he added pointedly, looking especially at the three late-comers, “Tomorrow’s run shall be FIVE leagues, vests or no vests, before you get your Friday off!”

So they ran, none too happily, for the most part. Down hills and up hills, over streams partly frozen and through woods. At last, as their course took them back to the vicinity of Cameth Brin they came to a clearing, and Eryndil signaled them to stop. At the far end of the clearing – a good 50 rangar off, was set up a crude target; a round slice of a log nearly a ranga in width, propped up with two stout staffs of about two thumbs breadth each, crossing behind the target like an ‘X’. At the center of the target itself was a mark inscribed with ash, as from the end of a burned stick – like another ‘X’.

“Narwaith!” called Eryndil, “take your five arrows and show these boys how a woodsman shoots.”

The trainees stood watching, knowing and respecting Narwaith’s skill as an archer from previous demonstrations. But they all laughed at once when Narwaith’s first arrow unexpectedly missed the target itself, just barely passing over the upper left corner and sticking into the staff on which the target rested.

Eryndil looked blankly at the young men in their laughter, then at the target, then back to Narwaith. But Narwaith, unaffected, drew his second arrow, seemed to take more careful aim and let go. The laughter died away as the viewers watched for what would come of this shot. But the second arrow just missed the target and stuck to the staff outside it, this time just to the upper right. One man only laughed, and just briefly – for the rest saw that something was up.

The third and fourth arrow came in quick succession; striking the staff to the lower right, then the staff to the lower left – both just skimming the target’s edge. Narwaith then drew his fifth arrow, looked significantly back to his audience, then turned and let it fly. This last lodged fairly in the center of the mark in the target. Narwaith did not look again at the stunned noblemen, but stepped aside to take his place beside Norumar, evidently trying to keep a smile from spreading over his face, as Norumar greeted him with a wink.

“That,” said Eryndil, walking before his charges, “is what a woodsman calls ‘shooting about the mark’. Now – which of you will be the first to try it?”

“That’s mad!” protested one of them, and another, “How can any man – save maybe Narwaith – draw bow and shoot like that?” until at last Daurendil’s voice sprang forth, tauntingly hollow, “Why don’t you show it to us… teacher?”

Eryndil stood still for a moment. At last he answered, “All right, I shall!” He had not shot before them yet, and was inwardly glad that his reputation had not preceded him. “Narwaith, retrieve your shafts, Norumar – hand me five arrows, if you please – and my bow.”

Eryndil waited for Narwaith to retrieve his arrows from the target. Then, he motioned for the young men to all stand aside as he turned to walk away. He measured off 50 rangar more away from the target, then turned. After inspecting each arrow and stringing his bow, he addressed the young men.

“Gentlemen, this is how we shoot in the north woods – at such a mark as this at 100 paces.”

At that, he fired off his arrows in quick succession, and the young noblemen watched in stunned silence as they retraced, in turn, the strikes made by Narwaith, hitting first the upper left staff, and then the upper right, the lower right, the lower left, each no more than a thumb’s breadth from the target’s edge. His final shot hit square on the mark in the target, dead center.

On firing the last shot, Eryndil strode briskly forth, declaring, “When you can shoot like that, you can call yourself an archer! But for today, advance to 25 rangar from the target and do your best, in turn. A woodsman will not shoot at the next mark until he has hit the one before it, but you may shoot at each after the other, so that we may hope your last shot at least might strike its goal.”

Somewhat awed, the young nobles each took their turn and fired a round of five arrows at the target. A few shots among them struck a staff, and a few more aimed at the staffs struck the log. All managed to at least get their fifth shot onto the bigger target – even rather close to the mark. After that round, Eryndil moved them to 40 rangar from the target and let them shoot at the round part itself. Here they separated themselves a bit more, and Prince Daurendil managed to show himself the best of the lot, but they still had a ways to go if they would ever be proficient.

At last they finished up their archery for the day and ran the final leg of their prescribed course – ending at the small field where they practiced their swordsmanship, near to the place where they met outside the outer gates of Cameth Brin. There they paired off and began to perform the drills, and then the scrimmaging, that marked the final part of each day’s training session.

Eryndil noted that three of the pairs stroked away quite lustily, but the fourth was very lackadaisical in their movements. It was none other than Daurendil and Celemir.

“Alright you two… pick it up!” shouted Eryndil.

Instead they stopped, and the Prince replied, “What do you mean?”

“Come on now!” answered Eryndil crossly, “you’re going at it like two old women with broomsticks – or two dandies mocking good swordplay. Now… fight like your very life depends on it!”

Daurendil still stood, glaring defiantly at Eryndil, and the other pairs let off their blows to see what was happening. Daurendil looked over his shoulder, his eyes grazing over each of his fellows and at last turned back to Eryndil and said with a smirk, “YOU show me… teacher.” And then, after one more look behind him and now a broader smile, “or is an arrow the only shaft you can handle?” Those behind the Prince chuckled, one or two laughed loudly, but a couple others seemed rather nervous.

So this was how he would have it, thought Eryndil. The fool! He had never been NEAR a fight for his life, and would cross swords in earnest with one who had seen combat?

In one motion, Eryndil swept off cloak and hood, and drew his sword with a loud ring. Daurendil raised his sword up high and charged at him with a cry. Eryndil’s sword met Daurendil’s with a great clang, and the match was on.

Eryndil had watched Daurendil’s sparring for nearly two weeks now. The younger man had polished techniques, and a slight advantage on him with leverage and reach. But Eryndil judged that in addition to his experience, he outmatched the younger man in strength and endurance, and was at least as quick. More cunning too – he hoped. At first he parried all of Daurendil’s strokes - not countering, but stepping back – not retreating, but always circling. He got the rhythm of Daurendil’s strokes, and allowed him to pound away, letting him tire himself out a bit.

“Ah – that’s more like it Daurendil!” he taunted with a grim smile. “THAT’S what I like to see!”

Daurendil’s anger rose, and the rhythm of his strokes quickened as he grimaced and swore. Soon he would make a mistake. Pressing the matter, Eryndil slipped a jab from the conclusion of a parry, and Daurendil was forced to the defensive for the first time. Now Eryndil turned the tables on Daurendil, advancing on him quickly, piling on sword strokes almost faster than Daurendil could parry them – shorter, faster strokes than Daurendil had dished out, by a measure of three to two.

Eryndil wouldn’t let Daurendil circle, but forced him straight back, with thrusts and strokes both left and right. And Eryndil had chosen the time to make this charge when Daurendil’s back was to his fellow pupils. His purpose was twofold. He didn’t intend to allow a chance at treachery, and this kept them from coming up behind him. But also, he knew that Daurendil would be conscious of them, as he was driven back toward them. He would steal a glance back at them.

There – he looked, and it was done. In an instant, Eryndil’s left hand grabbed Daurendil’s sword arm and pushed it outward as he swung his whole body toward him. His right foot he planted between Daurendil’s legs and just behind the Prince’s left foot. He pulled his sword in tight and drove his right shoulder hard into Daurendil’s chest. The Prince fell. Eryndil landed right on top of him. With his own weight and the chainmail, he knew that had to hurt.

And there they lay – Eryndil’s left arm outstretched, still holding Daurendil’s sword arm, his body across the Prince’s chest, and his sword across the Prince’s throat.

“This then,” began Eryndil, “is a method fit for single combat, when one wishes to offer quarter to the vanquished. Of course, in a larger engagement, or if an offer of quarter is not to be extended, one remains on their feet and simply runs the other through. Most effective, is it not?” and he waited, holding his sword there until the Prince should answer. There followed a long silence, devoid of motion.

“Yes” answered Daurnedil weakly at last, when he saw that he would not be released until he had spoken.

“You would receive quarter, then?” asked Eryndil, still holding the position.

“Yes… YES!” shouted Daurendil.

“Then you must release your own sword. Norumar, come relieve the sword from my young charge.” The giant complied, first knocking it from Daurendil’s clenching hand with a great staff he bore, then lifting the sword and taking it aside. He and Narwaith had stood by through the contest, watching with their staffs at hand, and bidding the other pupils to sheathe their own swords.

His student disarmed, Eryndil sat up and announced to all, “That will conclude our lesson for this day. I shall see you all once more tomorrow. Remember to be on time. Sunrise is when we meet, no later. Good day.” He jumped to his feet and extended a hand to the Prince. Daurendil eyed the outstretched hand suspiciously at first, but at last reached out his own and took Eryndil’s hand, and allowed himself to be lifted to his feet. They looked for a moment into one another’s faces, and Eryndil watched as a confused jumble of emotions played across the Prince’s features. The rest were already heading back toward the gates, when at last the Prince turned to go, but Eryndil grabbed his arm.

“Your Highness,” he began, “you have learned much in your short life, but I can teach you more. You must learn quickly, for you will come to the throne a much younger man than many… and in more dangerous times than all but a very few.”

Daurendil’s face became thoughtful, but his eyes drifted from Eryndil’s to fix upon some other point, low and off to the side. He stood thus for a few moments and then turned, and trudged slowly back toward the city gates, pausing only to take back the sword which Norumar held out for him.

[Daurendil]

Cameth Brin, December 9, 1347 – afternoon.

With long leaping strides, Daurendil almost ran to the City Gate, Celemir and Rhaglas trotting unhappily behind. The two minions were able to catch up with the Prince only when he had to slow down in the crowded street by the market place.

Panting, Celemir tugged at Daurendil’s sleeve and said trying to sound cheerful. “Here, my Prince, let us turn right at the yonder corner and go to the Piglet. We all need a goodly cup of wine after this morning’s exertions!”

Daurendil rounded on the minion, his eyes suddenly ablaze with anger and frustration. “Leave me ALONE!” he yelled. I am not interested in your company! Can’t I have at least some privacy, for Eru’s sake?”

In a blink of an eye, a knot of on-lookers formed around them, but this time Daurendil was past discretion. He pushed Celemir aside and, cursing, roughly elbowed his way through the crowd towards the gates of the fortress.

The two courtiers followed the Prince with concerned looks. “Should we hurry after him?” asked Rhaglas. “He behaves like a madman and, anyway, it is no good to leave him unguarded in the street.” He made as if to follow, but Celemir stopped him.

“He is safe enough in plain daylight. He will be home in a matter of minutes – to sulk and suffer in solitude. Well, ‘tis his own choice.” Celemir shrugged and led the way to “the Cock and the Piglet”.

Rhaglas hesitated for a moment, then followed suite, observing humorlessly that his throat was as dry as sands in the Last Desert. The two minions rounded the corner, crossed the Market Place and reached their destination – a squat building of local stone with a flashy sign by the entrance, depicting a fierce fighting cock with an abnormally large crest and a merry little blue-eyed piglet. They nodded to the landlord and took their usual places at a table in a corner where a flagon of Dorwinion and an enormous larded pie awaited them. Sighing happily, the two friends settled to wolf down their dinner.

A long time later, when the pie and the wine were finished and the friends were at the second goblet of brandy, the conversation finally resumed.

“I don’t know what to do about our Daur…” Rhaglas mused. “He is not himself ever since the little redhead strumpet has stolen his heart…And he is even worse since Eryndil directs our training. He believes himself betrayed, abandoned by everyone… but it is not so. We have to do something to help him.”

“I am glad that you came to understand it at last, Rhaglas,” Celemir sneered in reply. He bent forward looking intently into the other’s face. “Sure we must help him – and we are able to, if we have the guts for it.”

“Are you talking about murdering Eryndil again?” whispered Rhaglas worriedly. “I thought along the lines of finding the Prince a new sweetheart – a simple girl, more amenable to his advances. But murder?...I think the Prince put it quite clear the last time. He is a noble man - our future king - and for him a murder is revolting, even if his happiness depends on it.”

“Nonsense!” Celemir’s voice was low and urgent. “Revolting, you say? Are you so naïve as to believe that the Kings of Elendil’s line have never resorted to bloody murder? Take Tarondacil the Treacherous who slew the whole Cardolani delegation during a parley – wasn’t he Daurendil’s own great-great uncle? And his uncle Ermigil was not much better, they say – he well deserved his violent death at the hands of his subjects. And isn’t Daurendil’s own sister an evil witch? I tell you, he may be young and soft now, but he will thank us himself soon - when he becomes King.”

“How…how do you propose to do it?” Rhaglas asked hesitantly. Celemir drew even closer to his friend and whispered “Remember those poisoned orc weapons in the Tower cellar? The late Nauremir found them and tried to use one such dagger against Broggha. Well – he paid for it. But we can have more chance with Eryndil, during a training session. An accident…an infected wound…nobody would blame us”

Rhaglas’s plain round face contorted in a scowl at the mention of poison. He shook his head. “I will have no part in it! And you – please, forget it, Celemir! If you go along with this, I shall warn the Prince …I won’t move a finger without his consent.” With that Rhaglas rose and stalked hurriedly out, leaving Celemir alone to ponder his choices.

As he departed, Rhaglas at last worked out in his head that Daurendil was actually Tarondacil's first cousin-thrice removed - and that it was Tarondacil's father Histendil who was Daurendil's great-great-great uncle. Not that it mattered to his point, but Celemir was generally negligent with the matter of relations.

[Caelen]

December 9, 1347 – afternoon, before Cameth Brin’s outer gate

Narwaith finished cleaning the fletching on his last arrow and looked over at his leader with a thoughtful expression on his face. Was he just being over-cautious, or should he say something to Eryndil? He reflected a few moments more and then decided that in matters like these, there was no such thing as "over-cautious". He put the arrow back in his quiver and stood up, intending to go over to Eryndil, when he was brought up short by the extraordinary change on Eryndil's face - the smile that Eryndil's men had never before seen on their leader's features until a few weeks ago suddenly lit up his features. That could only mean one thing...

"Caelen!" exclaimed Eryndil warmly as she ran up to him. He held out his hand to her, but she ignored it and threw herself into his arms instead. Eryndil looked momentarily taken aback by her characteristic abruptness, which knew very little difference between public and private behavior, but soon genuinely joined in the affectionate greeting, holding her close to his body with his head bent protectively over hers. Narwaith turned his face away to hid a smile; this little country girl, with her honest, true heart and affectionate ways, was going to be a good thing for his master. And Eryndil would be good for her, too, he added to himself, thinking back on how different she had looked during their time on the road and comparing that to the radiant expression he had seen on her face as she ran up to Eryndil.

"And what are YOU doing here?" asked Eryndil affectionately, playing with the wind-blown curls around her face with his forefinger.

"Oh, nothing," answered Caelen with a mysterious smile. "Never you mind! You just better get back to work, because your mother left for the market a little while ago..." she added impishly, referring back to the talk they had last night where Eryndil had shared his money woes and they had laughed ruefully together over his family's spending habits with other people's money.

"Then I better work late today!" he said in mock seriousness, pursing his lips together in frustration that was not altogether feigned.

Caelen reached up and gently touched his lips with her finger. Eryndil's heart gave the now-familiar bump in his chest. She asked him with her eyes for a kiss, and suppressing the urge to see how close Narwaith was, he complied - lightly kissing her finger first, then briefly, her mouth.

Caelen smiled happily and then nestled into his chest, moving her head around against his neck in the way that always reminded Eryndil of a dog settling down into its favorite spot by the fire. Memories of her frightened face with its large, grey eyes and pale skin came into his mind, and his heart warmed at the thought that his love and his trustworthiness were responsible for this dramatic change in her.

After a moment or two, she pulled back and looked up at him again. "I have to go now," she said, her finger playing with his tunic. "I have to ... get some things ..." She pulled back from him and raised her finger in warning. "Now don't you follow me - it's a surprise!"

Eryndil nodded his agreement, and, smiling a greeting to Narwaith, who bowed back, Caelen left them and passed into the marketplace.

Narwaith watched his master watching Caelen walk away. "There's no mistaking his feelings about her, that's for sure!" he thought to himself, now sure that his decision was the right one. Eryndil turned back, a faint trace of a smile still on his face, and they finished packing up.

Narwaith decided the time was right - the other men had already left, and there was no one else about. He took a breath. "Sir, may I have a word with you?" he asked.

"Certainly," answered Eryndil, and waited expectantly. Narwaith was a good man and Eryndil valued his opinion - perhaps there was something he had observed with the prince and his friends that he might have missed? Whatever it was, it was bound to be something helpful.

"If you will pardon my frankness ..." started Narwaith, and then hesitated.

Eryndil's expression changed ever so slightly. This was unusual - had he made a mistake about something? Certainly he couldn't have been too hard on Daurendil - on the contrary, Eryndil thought that he had given him more than enough chances to show up on time. Curious, he encouraged Narwaith, "Please go ahead - I appreciate frankness."

"Well then, sir, I can tell you set great store by that young lady," said Narwaith firmly.

Eryndil nodded, surprised, a faint feeling of uneasiness coming into his head. What was Narwaith getting to? Would he have to fight through disapproval from his men now, as he did with his mother? He waited, rather uneasily now, for Narwaith to continue.

"Well, sir, if I had a young lady like that, who meant a lot to me ... " He paused, and, leaning over, picked up a handkerchief of Daurendil's that had fallen, forgotten, to the ground. It was now trampled, dusty, and useless.

"The Prince put up quite a fight today," said Narwaith thoughtfully, fingering the handkerchief. Eryndil nodded, a grim expression now crossing his face.

Narwaith crumpled up the handkerchief and stuffed it into one of the equipment bags. "Well," he continued, "If I had a young lady like that, I'd figure it wouldn't be a bad thing to have someone just keep an eye on her when she went out - just for the next couple of weeks, at least ..." he trailed off, hoping he wasn't being too presumptuous. "She wouldn't even need to know about it."

"I've been thinking about that myself," said Eryndil quietly.

"The Prince put up quite a fight today," repeated Narwaith meaningfully.

Eryndil nodded his head decisively. "Thank you, Narwaith - I think that is a very good idea, and I appreciate you bringing it up. I need to head up to the palace now, and there's no one I would rather have on that job than you - will you start now?

Narwaith nodded his head, relieved that his master had taken his advice. "Shall I put these away first?" he asked, nodding towards the equipment, glad to change the subject back to something he felt more comfortable about.

"No, I'll take care of that," said Eryndil. "You go ahead. And ... thanks again - I appreciate it."

"Man's gotta be careful these days," mumbled Narwaith, embarassed. He hadn't liked Daurendil's expression, nor that of his cronies. And he had heard some rumors that he hadn't liked the sound of ... yes, he was glad he had spoken to Eryndil, and soon Eryndil and Caelen would be glad that he had spoken, too.

But the first bit of trouble wasn't going to come from the quarter they had thought it would ...

-------------------------------------------------------

Caelen sighed, frustrated, wishing she had more money. A stray bit of wind blew her hair into her face. Impatiently, she pushed it back. "I wish I had as much money as I do hair!" she grumbled, looking into the window at the item she wanted to buy for Eryndil for a wedding present.

The shop owner walked up to the counter from a back room. His assistant was looking at something outside - it was that redheaded lady that the whole town had been in a buzz about! After apparently turning down the advances of the prince (what had she been thinking?!), she was now engaged to the King's new advisor. And the merchant grapevine on him was very favorable - not extravagent, unfortunately, but dependable - although his brother was to be avoided! And the man was in the best possible stage of life, as far as merchants were concerned - he was engaged! And here was the man's financee looking at something in his window!

Never slow to act on something to his advantage, he quickly walked over to the door and opened it. "My lady, come in out of the wind!" he said graciously, beckoning Caelen inside.

[Caelen]

placeholder

[Agannalo]

Carn Dum, Gelireth's rooms, evening of December 9, 1347.


"Oh, please, Lord Silmadan, play the last tune again!” begged the Lady Gelireth. “The melody is so hauntingly beautiful and sad… it brings tears to my eyes.”

Agannalo stole a furtive glance at the gorgeous, richly clad woman, swore silently, and explained in a silky voice, “It is an old song of my country, Lady. Pity I don’t recall the words anymore. It was something about a mariner’s wife waiting for her husband’s return.”

Perched on a low stool in the lady Gelireth’s sitting room, Agannalo adjusted the harp on his knee and plucked the strings reflectively. He had been lucky in avoiding the lady for almost a whole week, but this afternoon he was caught right in his lair by two of Gelireth’s maids and virtually dragged to her chambers. It seemed the lady had overheard him playing his harp on the tower roof last night and now begged him to play for her.

Agannalo took a goblet of wine from a low table and sipped. The room was cozy, the wine was rich and soothing, and Gelireth and her two maids who watched him admiringly were a pleasant sight to behold and nice to smell too... Only one thing was out of tune – by the wall behind Gelireth stood a truly horrible apparition. A semi-transparent emaciated figure now sported battered laminated fingers and a bloated tongue as if he had perished of thirst and wicked torture. Which was exactly the case - Noldekano, the Houseless Elf, had once died in Angband, leaving his wretched soul to wander alone across the longsuffering Middle Earth.

Noldekano's shadow followed Agannalo ever since the nazgul arose from his long sleep. Sometimes visible, sometimes not, he was always there, the red-hot hatred in his burning eyes unmistakable. The Houseless had no body to show, but the images of himself he projected for Agannalo’s sake were quite varied and unsettling: sometimes missing limbs, eyes, teeth and ears, sometimes rotting wounds and rusted chains. To say the truth, the images would have been unsettling to anyone not as well acquainted with the dungeons of Barad Dur as the nazgul had been.

Still at the moment the sight of the apparition disgusted Agannalo and prevented him from enjoying in peace Gelireth’s beauty, which was a shame, really. Not that the Houseless had any physical power against the nazgul, but, set as sentinel, he would have immediately reported even the slightest indiscretion to the Captain – the thing Agannalo wished to avoid at all costs.

This evening the Houseless had grown too arrogant – staring hatefully at the nazgul he stood in plain view - so that his dark presence became noticeable even for Gelireth who shivered and glanced apprehensively behind her back a few times.

Annoyed, Agannalo sent a mental order. “Begone, foul apparition!”

A silent reply came, like faint whisper on the wind. “I am not yours to command, wraith! I serve your Master, not you.”

“I nave no Master” the nazgul hissed back. "The lord of this place is my kinsman and friend!” In reply the Houseless laughed in sarcastic glee.

Angry now, Agannalo touched the Ring on his finger ans uttered a word of Command in the Black Speech: “BEGONE!”

The specter writhed in pain and melted into the wall – but was not gone for good: the unseen eyes still watched out with malice.

Gelireth now appeared slightly frightened. “What… what were you saying, Silmadan?”

“Forgive me lady, but I have to go,” he said and stood. “I have long disregarded my studies. Thank you for the most pleasant evening.”

The lady looked disappointed, but chose not to argue. Agannalo gently brushed Gelireth’s hand with his lips, reveling in the smell of warm blood coursing through her veins, and hastily made his way out – away from the temptation.

[Witch-king of Angmar]

Carn Dum, later in the evening of December 9, 1347.

Working alone at his table that night, the King of Angmar scrutinized a parchment scroll which had been delivered to him earlier that afternoon. The report concerned the conditions of the various fortresses and their garrisons throughout the kingdom. Finishing with the parchment, the king looked up, a pleased expression on his face. All seemed well. All the fortifications had plenty of food and other needed sundries in storage for winter; the morale of the troops was good; and no incursions of any enemy forces had been noted. There was a short footnote at the bottom of the report which told of a cavalry patrol which had come across a stranger recently, an old man, thought to be a wandering beggar. Although it was uncommon for such vagrants to be traveling the roads this late in the season, the officer in charge of the patrol concluded that, while the old man was probably mad, he was harmless, and let him go on his way. That supposedly inconsequential bit of information was the only matter which gave the king of Angmar any cause for concern.

Quickly he dictated a dispatch to the silent scribe who sat across the table from him. There was no necessity to use any words in his dictation, for the servant was one much like his king, and they both spoke by mind-speech. It was emphasized that all patrols should be on the lookout for a man fitting the beggar's description, and when the man was apprehended, he was to be brought forthwith to the fortress at Carn Dum for questioning. After he was dismissed, the scribe quickly departed to pass the message on to the officer of the day.

When he was alone once again, the king began reading another scroll, this one a letter from Pizdur (Captain) Shakhatrogal, the commander at Dol Hithlaer, concerning Jarl Broggha's advance to the north. Since only the commander and his top aids knew of the plans concerning the false siege and subsequent surrender of the fortress to Broggha, he had written to ask for further clarification.

The king had just taken a sheet of parchment and was dipping a raven-quilled pen into the inkwell when he felt another presence approaching. Raising his head, he looked towards the opposite wall. The wall looked quite ordinary, the grayness of its stones turned slightly ruddy by the light of the candle on the table. Then the stones seemed to shimmer, rippling like the waters of a stream when a small pebble is tossed into the depths. From out of the wall emerged a spectral figure of translucent ashen gray which moaned in anguish. The phantom was bent over, as though from great agony.

"I suffer!" came a horrible groan. "I suffer!" With much effort and moaning, the apparition straightened his bowed spine and stood erect. The ragged tunic which he wore was split down the front, exposing a fleshless chest cavity, a faintly beating heart visible behind the ribs. With each feeble throb of the organ, blood oozed out, the rich red liquid cascading down over the ghastly pale bones like a waterfall tumbling over a rocky course. The blood dripped down over the phantom's body to fall in crimson droplets upon the costly Eastern carpet.

"O ancient one, what griefs assail you this night?" His Majesty asked him in mind-speech. The King knew that only extreme vexation would cause the spectre to present himself in such a state.

"I am in great pain, for this Silmadan, who claims to be your kinsman, has dealt me an evil blow!" Burning like two brands of fire, the fell shade's eyes gleamed with malice. "He has pierced my heart with a wicked arrow, adding more sufferings to my many others! He dared speak a word of Command to me, and it almost wrenched my very heart from my chest!" He reached a bony hand through his ribs, clenching his heart in his fist and sending a gush of blood flowing over his skeletal fingers.

The King frowned. "Silmadan does not have any authority over you. How dare he overstep his boundaries!"

"Master, he grows more arrogant every day, taking powers and liberties for which he has no right! When I find him out in his perfidies, he is vengeful, retaliating against me in his hatred!"

"What did he do, besides assume mastery over you?" The King's voice was low and cold.

"The puffed up rogue was in the Lady Gelireth's chambers, where he has been forbidden to go!" At this point, Noldekano gave a long, keening wail which reverberated off the walls of the chamber. A guard down the hall heard the terrifying sound, and though he had always thought he was immune to the horrors of Carn Dum, he trembled in his boots.

"Peace, Noldekano!" The King held up his right hand and the spectre's grimace of agony softened, his jaw slowly dropping open in the manner of corpses. His fiery eyes gleamed in an expression of happiness... as much as a wandering spirit could feel. "After I have finished speaking to Silmadan, he will neither trouble you again nor return to the lady's chambers! Now go back, my faithful servant, and attend to your duties."

Soothed now, the spectre's leathery lips pulled back, revealing a smile of elongated teeth and the remnants of gums. "My King," he sighed, pressing his hand to the ribs which housed his heart and bowing low from the waist. Then he slowly sank back into the stone wall until nothing was left showing except his gleaming eyes, and then they too vanished away.

Scowling, the King walked to one of the tapestries on the wall, and, drawing it back, he touched a certain stone. Sliding silently on its hinges, a section of the wall moved back, revealing a darkened stairway.

Lady Gelireth was restless as she sat upon a long, cushioned couch spread with rich, colorful pillows and cushions in the Eastern style. She longed to see the King, but he had not called her to his chambers for some nights. "No," she thought, "he has been spending his evenings with that insipid little Lossoth girl, who has caught his fancy. What does a man like His Majesty ever see in such a drab, uncivilized barbarian like Elína? She is nothing but a commoner, while the royal blood of Arnor flows through my veins! Perhaps she has bewitched him with some magic with which I am not familiar! If the King does not tire of her soon, perhaps she will find that there are ways of dealing with her that do not involve magic," she thought vengefully.

Her mind full of thoughts of revenge, Gelireth watched as two of her maids quietly worked on their embroidery. They were simple girls, quiet and unassuming, and she had chosen them for their plainness. Gelireth would not endure any pretty girls who might compete with her own beauty and catch the King's attention. One of the maids laughed softly at a comment from the other girl. Gelireth was in no mood for their tittering, and silenced them with a stern rebuke.

Smiling smugly, she picked up a looking glass from the nearby table and admired her own exquisite face. Perhaps some would think she applied too much kohl to her eyes, too much powder to her cheeks, and too much coloring to her lips, but to hold the king and keep him interested, she would do anything and use every feminine wile at her disposal.

Satisfied that her makeup was perfect, she put the mirror back onto the table and stood to her feet. She noticed that the maids were staring at something behind her, and she wheeled around to face the King.

"Your Majesty!" she gasped, putting her hand to her throat. "I did not expect you! What a delightful surprise this is!"

The King looked past her to her maids. "You are dismissed," he told them coldly. The surprised girls rose to their feet and then bowed their way to the door.

"My love!" Gelireth exclaimed, affectionately touching his arm. "Please sit down on the couch and allow me to pour you a goblet of mulled wine. We both could do with a bit of warmth, for the night is chill."

"Nay," he replied, never moving. "Whatever I have to say can be said here."

Gelireth looked at him in alarm. "Why, my lord, what is the matter? You seem so cold and distant!"

"I understand you had a visitor today."

"Who, my lord?" she asked nervously. "No one called on me!"

"Do not lie to me, Gelireth. Silmadan came to play his harp for you." The Witch-king knew that his steadily growing anger would soon cause his eyes to burn a glowing, angry red. That must be avoided, for the lady had never seen him as he really was. He concentrated his will, and the image he projected on the lady's mind was of himself before he had been changed - a dark-haired, gray-eyed man whose mouth was set in a grim, sarcastic smile.

"Oh," she tittered, her laugh sounding constricted in her throat. "I thought his visit so innocent that I had completely forgotten all about it. My lord, he is your kinsman, after all. What could be the harm in it?"

"You are never to see him again," the King replied icily.

"But why, my lord?" her pretty voice rose higher. "I very much enjoy hearing him play!"

"You are too big a distraction for any man, my lovely Gelireth." His voice softened as he lightly touched her cheek. You must understand that the young man is a shy aesthetic whose only goal in life is to keep his soul free of all corruption. He has taken a vow of chastity, for women would only disturb his concentration. He is an admirable young man and devotes all his time to studying philosophy, and I fear that you might cause him to weaken in his oath. It is for his own good that I forbid him to see you."

A sullen expression on her face, Gelireth drew in her lower lip and pouted. "I certainly would not want to keep him from his studies, my lord, so in spite of the fact that I will miss his beautiful playing, I will not invite him back."

"I knew you would listen to reason, Gelireth," the King smiled, touching his fingers over the contours of her lips. "Now I have other matters which I must attend and will take my leave of you." He clasped her hand and brought it to his mouth, lightly brushing his lips over the top of her hand.

"You mean you are not staying!" Gelireth gasped. "You only just arrived, my lord! Please, it has been so long since you spent any time with me, and I thought perhaps tonight..."

"Not tonight, but soon, perhaps. There are too many important matters of state which press on me right now, and I would be negligent in my duties if I ignored them for my own pleasure."

Gelireth stared disbelievingly as he bowed, then turned and strode through the passage which was just opening in the wall. Rushing to the table where she had left her looking glass, Gelireth picked it up and hurled it against the wall, where it crashed in a loud explosion of breaking glass.

"Seven years' bad luck!" came a frail, disembodied voice. "Seven years' bad luck!"

Shivering, Gelireth turned and looked over her shoulder, but no one was there. "Your Majesty!" she screamed. "Your Majesty! Where are you?" Screaming, she fled to her bed-chambers, where she slammed the door behind her and leaned against it, breathlessly terrified.

[Nauremir]

Dol Mithlad, Northern Rhudaur, night of December 9, 1347.

Torches set in sconces along the stone walls cast a muted amber glow upon the vast hall of Dol Mithlad. In the northern end of the chamber, the Hillmen still feasted and revelled, but in the southern end , the Rhudarian soldiers tried to sleep. The torches provided just enough light for the men to move about without tripping over their sleeping fellows, but not enough light to distract the weary from their rest. Or for certain persons to see a familiar face.

Of course, he considered with a wry smile, amused by his sudden pang of apprehension, very few would recognize him, even those who once had known him, back in better days. "Death" had changed his appearance greatly, although not by the slow decay of time. Life in exile had been harsh, and his once clean-shaven face now sported an unkempt beard. His hair, which had been shorn close to his scalp by Gimilbeth, was starting to grow out. No longer did he wear the rich clothes of a noble, but the plain garments of a vagabond.

Ever since he had fled into the woods around Brochenridge, Helmir, once known as Nauremir, had been a man upon a quest for vengeance. However, this quest and a bird with a broken wing had much in common – neither one could get off the ground. Almost all of the month of November, he had spent slinking around Brochenridge and residing with old friends, nursing his wounded pride. He had considered returning to his parents – how his heart had grieved for them, how miserable and guilty he had felt to see them mourn needlessly – but he knew that they would never approve of his scheme for revenge. Many times he had picked up a pen, dipped it into the inkwell, and started to compose a letter assuring his beloved mother and father that he was well, but he had drawn his hand away at the last moment, telling himself that to reveal the truth about his death would be a mistake, at least at the present time.

Yes, he knew that his parents were wise, and would therefore counsel him to reside at Brochenridge in secret, or to flee to Gondor, in order to escape the wrath of Broggha. Therefore, he sought sanctuary with those less wise, friends of his own age and possessing the same impetuosity and hot temper as he. And, angry at the growing power of the Hillmen in Rhudaur, they plotted.

When the men of Brochenridge learned of the planned attempt to take Dol Hithlaer back from the orcs, many of them traveled to Cameth Brin. There they would join the army, adding their numbers to the force which would free Dol Hithlaer from the orcs. Nauremir was one of these men, along with two of his friends, Hammadhael, the son of a wealthy merchant who tailored rich garments for lords, and Ruscon, the son of a prominent furrier, a dealer in pelts. While their fellow soldiers had the most honorable of intentions, theirs were far less noble: to wreak their vengeance upon Broggha and ensure that Middle-earth was plagued by one less Hillman.

When he arrived in Cameth Brin, Nauremir had the surprise of his life: the villainous Broggha and his rabble were to march with the Rhudaurian army, alongside good and honorable soldiers. How proud the Hillman seemed, sitting atop his mighty charger, the smug expression on his face reminiscent of the pampered cat who eats its owner's pet sparrow and gets away with the wicked deed! King Tarendur must be in his dotage ever to allow the Hillmen to help liberate Dol Hithlaer from the orcs," Nauremir thought bitterly. "That is like asking a band of brigands to recapture a lost treasure; truly, they shall regain the treasure, but will keep it for themselves!"

Nauremir should have killed the Hillman right there with a well-aimed arrow to the heart. But to attempt such a thing in broad daylight and in the midst of so many people would be folly. The arrow could miss and strike an innocent person, or a not so innocent Hillman, but not the Hillman who was his target.

For days Nauremir and his two comrades had marched with the army, but an opportunity to assassinate Broggha had never presented itself. There were always too many people, too many guards. If they were caught, they knew that the law of Rhudaur would not be on their side. After all, were not the Hillmen now the allies of Rhudaur? Even if the two peoples were still enemies, doubtlessly the assassination of a lord of the opposing side during a time of peace would be considered murder. Nauremir and his friends would be executed for doing a deed, which, although treacherous, was, in the long run, beneficial for their own country. Broggha was as treacherous as an adder and would turn on the Rhuduarians at the first chance he got. Middle-earth was better off without his kind. But the challenge of ridding the world of this scoundrel was presenting itself more difficult than he had imagined.

...Which brought him back to the present. Nauremir glanced over at the sleeping forms of Hammadhael and Ruscon. Hammadhael was snoring loudly, his chest rising up and down with his loud, raucous breathing. Ruscon lay on his back, occasionally muttering something incoherent in his sleep. Both were exhausted from another long day of marching and another day of futility. The three men had set their bedrolls at a distance from the others, so they could have a small degree of privacy in the crowded hall. They had debated on whether they should strike tonight, but again, situations did not lend themselves favorably to assassination.

"Are we ever going to kill the villainous Hillman, or are we going to follow him around from now on like shadows, furtively dogging his footsteps?" Ruscon had asked impatiently.

"We will kill him sooner or later, even if we must disguise ourselves as orcs and slay him in the battle for Dol Hithlaer," a brooding Nauremir had replied.

"I hope sooner than later," Hammadhael had grumbled.

Now the great Hillman sat at the high board, surrounded by all of his fellows. Their crude laughter was loud and boisterious, the sounds grating on Nauremir's ears. These grunting, squealing pigs had made Dol Mithlad their sty. If there was only some way to kill their loathsome leader! Nauremir glowered at Broggha and clenched his fist in anger.

Silently raging, Nauremir idly studied the layout of the great hall. There were two sets of stairs which hugged the east and west walls and led up to a balcony where trumpeters often stood when heralding some great event. If someone could sneak up there with a bow and arrow... It was a possibility, but how could such weapons be carried in the hall unnoticed? Perhaps there was another staircase in the back of the building that led to the upstairs. Maybe tonight he would do some exploring of the fortress and surrounding grounds. Yes, that sounded like a wise choice.

Nauremir awoke the others and discussed his plans with them. Anticipation banished sleepiness, and they were eager and ready for some excitement. Nauremir was the first to rise and make his way carefully around the labyrinth of sleeping bodies on the floor of the great hall. Any who were awake would pay him no heed, and assume that he was merely answering the call of nature. Some time later, Hammadhael and Ruscon arose and crept away, slinking along walls and keeping to the shadows. Perhaps fate would deliver the Hillman to their hands.