The Winter of Discontent. Shadow over Rhudaur V

[Agannalo]

Carn-Dum, late evening of December 9, 1347


“I have an urgent matter to discuss with the King. Let me pass!” Agganalo said icily to an old usher who dared to bar his way to the doors of the King’s study.

“I apologize for the inconvenience, but the King is currently occupied dictating orders to his scribe. Please, state your business, Lord Silmadan, and I will ask His Majesty’s permission to let you in.” The old distinguished usher, clad in sumptuous robes, sounded uncomfortable, but seemingly was not going to cede any grounds.

Agannalo's temper was extremely short this night. “I said “URGENT matter! Have you not heard?” He gritted his teeth.

“But…” The usher watched in disbelief as Agannalo made a step forward, his face a mask of icy fury. Without a word, Agannalo grabbed a handful of heavy robes on the usher’s chest, lifted the old man off the floor and put him on his feet by the wall. The way was now free and Agannalo slipped inside the King’s study.

The old usher’s jaw dropped and for some time he stood opening and closing his mouth like a beached fish. “Guards!” he grated weakly, but then thought better of it. The King was more than capable to look after himself, and whatever punishment this Silmadan deserved would be dealt quickly and mercilessly. The usher resumed his place by the door.

Once inside, Agannalo was much disappointed to find the King gone and the room empty – well, almost empty. By the table there stood a lone thin figure in a dark hooded cloak – most likely this scribe the usher had mentioned.

Narrowing his eyes, the nazgul studied the figure – it was one of his own kind, no doubt, but weaker, much weaker. Agannalo was able to look beyond the black wrappings and to see the pale, drawn face, invisible to mortals, plain brown clothes ripped on the chest, and a glowing silver mark above the heart where a Morgul blade had been plunged in.

Agannalo approached and clapped the lesser wraith on the back. “Hello old chap,” he ventured, grinning broadly. “Who are you? How is the life on the other side? What have you done to deserve the honor to join our immortal company?” In truth, Agannalo felt far from cheerful, but it would be bad policy to show his weakness to the lesser being.

The other looked at him sideways with solemn fearful eyes. Agannalo hardly perceived a hesitant mental reply. “I used to be one of the King’s scribes. His Majesty approved of my neat clerkly hand, so he… ” the wraith fell silent, shivering.

“I see…” Agannalo drawled, perching nonchalantly on the edge of the mahogany table. “And what is your name?”

“My name is Scribe, naturally” replied the other.

“I see…” repeated Agannalo. The conversation was far from entertaining. Lesser human wraiths were dull and witless as a rule, so it had to be expected. Neither was Agannalo a pleasant interlocutor – not at the moment, worried as he was for his own hide. The two wraiths lapsed into a long uneasy silence.

Suddenly there was a faint grating sound and Agannalo’s eyes darted to the wall. A whole section of it moved back on invisible hinges, revealing a darkened passage. The King was at the threshold, his eyes burning like two red-hot coals. Agannalo unconsciously dropped his nonchalant poise and found himself standing rigidly at attention. The Scribe fell to his knees and crouched on the floor, then, at a gesture from the King, he crawled silently on all fours out of the room. The King approached the table, his angry gleaming eyes fixed on the other nazgul.

Agannalo bowed. “A-hem, good evening, your Majesty,” he ventured with what he hoped was a warm disarming smile. “After this night’s unpleasant incident I hurried here to be the first to report to you, Sire, but I see this houseless ghoul has beaten me to it. It’s a pity, for the one who reports first gets a lot of advantage. But – what could I do? – I had to take the usual route, as, unlike him, I can’t pass through walls…”

“Yet…” the King added ominously.

This comment made Agannalo waver and break off. Was the King threatening to slay him? To make him a specter like Noldekano?

“It was not my fault at all!” he cried, forgetting all pretence. “I only played my harp as I was bid, nothing more! I didn’t even want to go to her rooms. It was her own idea and she has sent two maids to drag me there, harp and all. I couldn’t refuse – you know, I am polite and too well brought up to refuse a lady!” Agannalo stole a glance at the King – at least the other listened and perhaps his red eyes looked a shade duller.

Heartened, Agannalo continued petulantly. “And you, my Captain, – you should have told her to leave me in peace... She has too much free time on her hands, so she looks for entertainment wherever she can find it. And the fact that I am so handsome doesn’t help the matter, you know…”

Agannalo stopped at the unexpected sound. The King was laughing. Agannalo couldn’t fathom what it was that the other found so amusing – not his appearance of course, for Agannalo was handsome, everyone agreed on it – was he not the “Jewel of the House of Hador”?

In fact, the King mused laughing, it was quite beneficial for Agannalo’s ego that he could not see himself the way he now was – the way the King saw him: a haggard gray specter with evil hungry eyes of a prowling cat, gaunt face, and cruel downturning mouth. The years spent in debauchery and vice, while Silmadan was still fully alive, made short work of his former beauty: he was not old by the time he has become a wraith, but he was worn out. The images of himself he conjured for the benefit of silly mortals sadly had little in common with his real appearance.

[Witch-king of Angmar]

Carn-Dum, late evening of December 9, 1347

Agannalo's complete look of incredulity caused the King to laugh even harder. "Of course, he has no idea what I find so humorous, but if he knew, he would not find it so amusing as I do."

"Your Majesty, I confess I am mystified as to why you are laughing," Agannalo said in an offended voice. His haggard face and wearied body would have been pathetic were it not for the cruelness in his eyes.

"He always was an arrogant, self-centered fop," the king mused, "and the years have not changed him, except to make him even more haughty. If it were not for his vanity and temper, both liabilities, perhaps I could put him to some real use here in the kingdom. As he is now, he could be a real danger, both to my kingdom and me. Perhaps I should rid myself of him, before he has an opportunity to do some mischief." Agannalo, of course, had no idea of these thoughts of the King, for there was still a cool smile upon the King's face, and he was chuckling.

"Perhaps I have missed some bit of humor in our discussion," Agannalo asked petulantly. "I considered our discussion quite serious." The fact that the King had not answered his question added to his irritation. Agannalo wondered at the thoughts that might be going through His Majesty's mind, for he was impossible to read. The longer the King laughed and did not reply, the more uncomfortable Agannalo felt. His tension began to accelerate and he had the feeling the King was tormenting him before springing something unpleasant. He began to feel fear, the same kind of fear that he relished seeing in his victims. If he were forced to fight the King, he already knew the outcome. He could never hope to defeat His Majesty. He was in a cold panic by the time the King decided to speak.

"Silmadan, you alarm yourself unduly. My laughter was brought about by an insignifcant matter of no importance. Ah, yes. Now back to what you were saying... Your handsomeness is a fact appreciated by all who know you," the King said without any trace of sarcasm, and his eyes had at last faded to a dull red.

His Majesty was not angry at him! Agannalo felt as though he might collapse in relief. The younger wraith would never know how close he had come to being punished, but the Witch-king had decided to let him off easily this time. The other wraith was, after all, the only one of his kind there, and they did have a certain kind of brotherhood that only beings such as they could share. Any more indiscrentions on Agannalo's part, however, and the King would be swift in retribution.

"Your Majesty, then you understand that I am not at fault?" Agannalo asked hopefully, almost too hopefully, he realized too late. After all, he did not want His Majesty to think he was weak. He was not some cringing mortal.

"It is neither's fault," the King offered diplomatically, immediately calming Agannalo's strained nerves. "The Lady Gelireth is young and here she must live an isolated life with only her handmaids for company. Unfortunately, she is very jealous and does not get along with the rest of my concubines and companions. For this reason, she is often lonely, and it was only natural that she sought diversion by listening to your marvelous harp playing."

The King smiled benevolently as he walked over and put his arm around the other wraith's shoulder. "Now, my kinsman, you know it would be best to avoid the lady, and so we will speak no more of this matter. I have a bottle of the finest Dorwinion wine which is yet to be opened. Come join me for a goblet and we will talk of matters which concern us both."

[Saakaf]

Kala Migulûrz (Dol Hithlaer), night of December 9, 1347

It always seemed that no matter where he was, Private Saakaf drew the worst of duties. Here it was, the coldest part of the night, and he was on guard patrol, endlessly marching up and down the wall walk facing the southern approach to Kala Migulûr. March, march, march, monotonously marching. Oh, it was punishment, he knew, punishment for being one of the few who had survived the ill-fated attempt to kidnap Princess Gimilbeth.

Private Saakaf thought back to November 18th, when he and his small patrol presented themselves before the gatehouse, requesting entry to the fortress. They had been forced to wait - but was that not always the way it was? Everything had to go up through the channels, passed up and up until it reached the officer in charge of that section, and then on to the commander of the fortress himself, Mautor Nûlthrakal.

Although Mautor Nûlthrakal would hate to admit it, the true commander of the fortress was not an orc at all, but rather a man. Since arriving at the fortress, Saakaf had learned that a few months back, Captain Coruon and his staff had been dispatched to Kala Migulûrz as "advisors." Even though the Gundabad orcs were more or less independent, when an order came from Carn Dum, anyone who did not abide by it was a fool, and soon enough a dead fool.

"Mautor Nûlthrakal," Saakaf sneered as he thought of the title. "He can call himself anything he wants but he is no more a mautor than I am. He should use his true rank, head chieftain of his clan." Oh, to be sure, the Shatûpalu Clan, of which Nûlthrakal was the head, was the largest among the Gundabad orcs, and Nûlthrakal's sire had been the leader of the orcish forces when Kala Migulûrz was captured forty years before. However, to term the leader of the rowdy, poorly disciplined garrison of Kala Migulûrz as a "lieutenant" was a mockery.

When Private Saakaf and his men were finally granted permission to enter the fortress and see Mautor Nûlthrakal, they were quickly disarmed and taken under guard to the grat hall. There any grandeur that had rested with the great hall when it was occupied by the men of Arnor had long since fallen into decay. Now the great hall was nothing more than an orc den, its floor scattered with the debris and the bones of both men and animals. The once magnificent tapestries of Dol Hithlaer had long since been torn from the walls and either burnt or used as bedding by the orcs.

Brought before Mautor Nûlthrakal, Saakaf and his men were accused of being deserters and sentenced to death. Captain Coruon, however, advised that since Private Saakaof and his men were from Carn Dum, the final disposal of the case must come from there. The captain further advised that Saakaf and his troop should be sent under armed guard to Carn Dum for judgment. However, in view of the approaching combined force of Rhudaur and Broggha's hillmen, no men could be spared at that time to escort them to the North. Therefore, Saakaf and his troop were detached to Mautor Nûlthrakal until a convenient time when they could be taken north. Ever since that day, Saakaf and his troop had been separated and reassigned to duties in the fortress.

"It is beastly, bloody cold," Saakaf shivered and stamped his feet. He licked his lips as he thought of the flask of orc draught slung over his shoulder. It was strictly against rules to drink while on duty, but few of the men abided by the rules when they could get away with it. No one would ever know, he thought, as he moved to stand by the parapet. He looked out over the surrounding countryside to the grim and foreboding mountains of Angmar illuminated by the full moon. Far away he heard the sound of a pack of wolves on the hunt, and a little later, the dying shriek of a deer as the pack brought it down.

The fiery drink burnt his throat as it went down his gullet, but he felt the warmth course through his body. On such a cold night, another drink would be welcome, and then there was another, and another and another, until Private Saakaf was feeling warm and comfortable, and more than a little bit tipsy. With a feeling of melancholy, he thought of the emerald necklace wrapped in the cherished piece of cloth from the Princess' dress. Visions of her beautiful face and lush, shapely body filled his mind, and he knew that he must touch the beloved memento.

No one would ever see him, he thought as he reached into his cloak and drew out the small bundle. He brought the cloth up to his nostrils and deeply inhaled her scent, which still permeated the material. His hands trembling, he unwrapped the magnificent necklace and stared at it, transfixed. Instantly, the tears sprang to his eyes when he thought of her and how beautiful she would look as he fastened the necklace about her neck. In this extreme cold Northern temperature, the tears froze to his lashes before they could ever drip down his cheeks. In the matter of a few seconds, his eyes were frozen shut, and he was blinded. Cursing himself for his sentimentality, he brought a hand up to his eyes and tried to brush away the tiny icicles, but his lashes were tightly frozen together.

Suddenly he heard approaching footsteps and scented another of his kind. Blindly, he fumbled with the necklace, but in his haste, the necklace slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor of the walk.

"Broshan, Private Saakaf," came the gruff voice of Corporal Dâgalûr, a member of the Shatûpalu Clan and a kinsman of Mautor Nûlthrakal. "Ho, what do we have here?" he asked excitedly as he bent down and scooped up the necklace and cloth.

To be continued

[Valandil]

Posted by Saakaf


Kala Migulûrz (Dol Hithlaer), night of December 9, 1347

Saakaf tore at his frozen eyelids, but his frantic efforts could not dislodge the ice which was tightly frozen to his lashes. As he heard Corporal Dâgalûr's mocking laughter ringing in his ears, he managed to pull free a tiny section of one of his lids. Reaching for his scimitar, he struggled to see his opponent through a tiny pinpoint of vision. Corporal Dâgalûr appeared as a fuzzy blur, and when he moved quickly to the side, he was lost to Saakaf's vision.

Holding his scimitar before him in a defensive position, Saakaf searched blindly in the darkness. A shiver of terror went up his spine as he felt the sharp point of Dâgalûr's scimitar pressing against the small of his back. "Damn," Saakaf cursed to himself. "In my blinded state, the scoundrel has gotten behind me! How stupid I was ever to shed sentimental tears for anyone or anything!"

"Drop your weapon, maggot!" Corporal Dâgalûr sneered as he prodded Saakaf's back with the point of his scimitar. "Don't do anything foolish, or I'll cut a hole right through your guts!"

A snarl of frustration tore out of Saakaf's throat, but he dropped his weapon on the floor of the walkway. "What do you think you'll gain by killing me?" the Corporal grated out through clenched teeth.

"Shut up and maybe I'll let you live," demanded the Corporal as he picked up Saakaf's scimitar and shoved it in his own belt. "Now walk over there to that merlon before you and stand face forward, arms raised above your head, and don't do anything tricksy."

Muttering wicked imprecations, Saakaf stalked over to the battlement and leaned against the tall stone merlon. Corporal Dâgalûr was deriving sadistic glee from Saakaf's discomfort, for he laughed raucously as he flicked upward with his scimitar and tore a small rent in Saakaf's uniform. "If I get out of this alive, I'll kill him one day," Saakaf silently vowed.

"Now we'll talk! I don't know how such a misbegotten scum like you ever came to possess such a dainty trinket, but I know it wasn't honest labor," he jeered. "It's unreported booty, isn't it, Saakaf?" As Daâgalûr pushed the tip of the scimitar into Saakaf's back, a trickle of black blood oozed down his skin. "Tell me the truth!"

"I guess you wouldn't believe me if I told you that my own dear grandmother gave it to me," Saakaf retorted sarcastically.

"Har! Har! A real bright wit, ain't you? Of course, I wouldn't believe balderdash like that. Come on, Private, let's not make this any more difficult than it has to be. You and I both know the necklace is unreported booty that you have secreted away," Corporal Dâgalûr gloated.

"So what if it is?" Saakaf growled back.

"So maybe I am going to keep it for myself, and there is nothing you can do about it, because that necklace is going to 'disappear.' Then it will be your word against mine that it ever existed. Who do you think Mautor Nûlthrakal will believe? A stinking prisoner like you who is already condemned to death, or a corporal of this fortress in good standing, who is," Corporal Dâgalûr chuckled evilly, " a close kinsman of the general himself?"

Enraged and frustrated, Saakaf dug his claws into the stone of the merlon and raked them around the rock. "I'll kill him!" he raged to himself. "I'll cut out his liver and eat it!"

"Oo! That one got your bowels in an uproar, didn't it?" Corporal Dâgalûr laughed in triumph.

"What if I go to General Nûlthrakal and tell him anyway?" Saakaf hissed.

"He will just have you tortured for lying against my good name. Any way you look at it, Private, you've lost!"

"You have not heard the last of this, Dâlgulûr," Saakaf threatened.

"Sure, sure," the Corporal laughed sardonically.

"Why do you not just kill me now and have it done with?"

"Even though you are an arrogant little piece of filth and deserve to die, I am not going to kill you. When the enemy marches up here in a few weeks, we will need every man we can get. Maybe you'll help keep me alive, Saakaf. Your body could always make a useful shield." Corporal Dâgalûr laughed evilly.

"You venial piece of rotting filth!" Saakaf shouted. "Curses upon you!"

"Har, har! Spleeny, ain't you? I have to be getting back to the hall, and you have to be getting back to your patrol duty. Tell you what I'm going to do, Saakaf. You wait here ten minutes like a good soldier and after that, if you go down the wall walk, you will find your sword lying on the embraisure closest to the entrance of the northern guard tower. I have to be leaving so I can get a closer look at this prize I found. Burz zark, Private."

Saakaf listened as the other orc's footsteps gradually grew fainter. After ten minutes, he made his way to the guard tower, where he retrieved his scimitar. Still being blinded by his frozen eyelids, he went inside the tower, and after warming himself for a few minutes, he was at last free of the tiny pieces of ice which had been his bane.

"O, my lady Princess," he anguished as he resumed his patrol, "the villain has robbed me of the only mementos I had of you! No more will I be able to kiss the green stone and bring your lovely face to remembrance! The churl even took the piece of cloth which once hugged your fair form! What am I to do? How can I bear my harsh existence bereft of all links with my only true love?"

As he marched towards the spot where Corporal Dâgalûr had robbed him, he caught her scent on the gentle breeze. Bending down, he picked up a scrap of material and brought it to his lips. "My lady," he sighed.

***
"A merlon, in architecture, forms the solid part of an embattled parapet, sometimes pierced by embrasures." - WIkipedia

"An embattled parapet - a short wall with holes cut in it, for the discharge of arrows, other missiles etc. The holes are called embrasures." - compiled from Wikipedia for those mystified by the original explanation. ;D

[scribe]

Odaragariel of Mitheithel



Night of December 9th, Dol Mithlad

The first night up in the tower, Odare spent sleeping soundly, luxuriating in the feel of sleeping in a proper bed once again. The next day was spent in lazing around, in a dress once more, and waiting for her kind gaoler to bring her food and divertion. But, all the same, by day's end, she was feeling her captivity keenly. Dinen's conversation ran on topics such as Broggha, politics, Tarnendur, Broggha, Daurendil (which topic made her clam up) and some more general wonderments, suspicions and questions relating to Broggha. The man was quite obssessed, and in his polite, formal way, he harried her until he had pretty much gotten everything about her. The only things she did not reveal were the exact circumstances in which she had decided to leave Cameth Brin, and also the actual fate of the unfortunate Nauremir.

The books lining the wall she found out were dull treatises on history, politics and battle strategies, and the view out of her window attracted her more. She felt herself itching to go down and explore - but she did not dare during the day. But come night, and when she had heard the bell tolling the second watch, she quickly put on her pageboy disguise - which she had thrown off disdainfully just the night before, vowing never to put it on again - and tried Dinen's key in the lock; with a grating sound that made her glad she on the top of a tower the lock turned, and she slipped out quickly, and once again locked the door behind her, to preserve appearances.

Down the interminable stairs - in the darkness, for she had been too afraid to bring a candle - and at least down in the corridors, there were slices of moonlight, and the occasional torch set in the wall to show her her way. She had not had much time to observe to herself, like she had the night before, that her new home evoked no memories at all in her - when she heard stealthy footsteps somewhere ahead. If she herself had not been walking so silently, she might have heard nothing - as it was, a handy pillar nearby provided a good hiding place.

A man, rough-looking, a hood pulled over his face, was walking so very naturally that he looked as completely belonging to the place, as Odare herself felt out of place. But yet, he was walking so silently, that he drew her attention - and then, something else, something about the way he walked, or the shape of his back struck a hidden chord in memory, and she gasped in surprise. Just how tense the man really was, was revealed by his instantly catching the sound and whirling around. Then, seeing the pageboy crouching in the shadows, he said in, again, a most natural tone, "Well, boy, what are you doing hiding in there?"

But now that she could see his face - changed as it was - her first suspicion of who it was, was confirmed; "Nauremir, is that you?"

***

Nauremir



"No, you must be thinking of someone else," the young man replied with a forced smile and a casual shake of his head. "My name is Helmir, not Nauremir."

Suddenly Odaragariel felt very foolish. What if she had mistaken someone else for Nauremir? Squinting in the darkness, she studied the man's features more closely. "Why it is indeed you, Nauremir!" she exclaimed in a hushed voice. "I can tell it by your eyes. You do not have to lie about your identity; I know you never really died."

Nauremir drew in a sharp intake of air through his nostrils. He had to be very careful here. If he outwardly showed any sign of nervousness, it would be viewed with suspicion. His denial needed to seem plausible, not feigned. If word got out that Nauremir was present in the fortress, he knew that rumors would surely fly... that he had come back from the dead, or, worse, that his body had been possessed by a fell spirit and was wandering around like a barrow wight. He had thought that with a beard and longer hair, no one would recognize him, but apparently he was wrong. He tried to place the young page, but no names came to his memory.

"No, no, lad, you have me confused for someone else." He shook his head, chuckling good-naturedly. But wait – it was difficult to see in the dim light of the corridor – the page looked sort of familiar. Why... he rather looked like a male version of Odare. Perhaps they were related? "Are you a kinsman of Princess Odaragariel?" he asked.

"No, I am Odaragariel herself."

"What? How?" Nauremir was so surprised that he stumbled over his words. "Why on earth are you here? It is far too dangerous!" He licked his lips nervously and looked all around. "There are Hillmen everywhere! You should be back at Cameth Brin!" He studied her face, a look of utter amazement on his own. "How... how did you manage to sneak away unnoticed?"

Smiling, Odaragariel replied, "I did not sneak away unnoticed. King Tarendur, his family, Lord Dinen and General Nimruzir know that I am here, and now you know, too, but you must keep it a secret and not tell a soul! This is my homeland, and I longed to return to it." She did not mention the other reasons why she left Cameth Brin, the whole ugly affair with Daurendil.

"You certainly picked a most inopportune time, right in the midst of war," Nauremir muttered, shaking his head.

"I might ask why YOU are here and not in Brochenridge with your family or Amon Sul with Gimilbeth," Odaregariel retorted, somewhat snappish.

"It is a long story..."

"Please tell me everything!" she exclaimed, glad to see an old friend again, even if he did, like everyone else, disapprove of her going North. "How long were you under the spell of the sleeping draught? Why did you decide to risk your life in the North instead of staying where you would have been safe? If Broggha discovers that you are here, he will stop at nothing to murder you!" Her voice had taken on an urgent tone, and she looked up at Nauremir worriedly.

"I could not sit around idle in the middle of a war, especially when I was condemned to do so by that witch, Gimilbeth." Nauremir clenched his fists, fuming when he thought of the injustices wrought against him. "She wanted me to fawn upon her and simper like a country bumpkin just because she saved my life. She gave me this new name, Helmir, and made me the charge of the painter, Hurgon Fernik. I was to be his 'assistant,' and he was to spy on me and report back to her. However, he is an honorable man, though somewhat timid, and he helped me escape. I remained in Brochenridge for a time, but did not tell my family that I was still alive, for I knew they would try to dissuade me from going North." And from attempting to kill Broggha, he thought, but did not say these words out loud. "Then, too, should I be killed in battle" – or executed for assassination – "I would not want them to grieve for me a second time. When a company of men was mustered to go North, I fell in with them and journeyed to Cameth Brin, where the company merged with the army. And so here I am."

Odaragariel was impressed; she knew that Nauremir was impetuous, but she had never known that he was so determined. "Your secret is safe with me," she assured him. "After all, I have my own secret. Please be careful! Broggha wants your head." A strange light flickered in Nauremir's eyes, and she paused, studying his face. "You are not thinking about doing anything foolish, are you? Like try to get revenge on Broggha?"

"No, no, of course not," Nauremir lied. "Though hatred burns in my heart, the villain will have to fall at the hands of someone other than me. Now I need to bid you farewell, most worthy page, for I have an appointment with a friend that I must keep." He smiled warmly at Odaragariel, a smile meant to alleviate worry and convey a false impression that all was well. Bidding her a good eve, he walked down the corridor and quickly disappeared into the shadows. He drew his hood low over his head. He could not afford anyone else recognizing who he was... especially not the man whom he intended to kill.

The night deepened. One by one, Nauremir and his two friends, Hammadhael and Ruscon, returned to the great hall and their bedrolls. When all three were assembled, each reported what he had found out, and they plotted, scheming and conspiring, weighing what would be the best course to take.

Perhaps tomorrow they would act, Nauremir thought. Or perhaps tonight.

[Agannalo]

Written by Elfhild and Angmar

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

The hour had grown late in the fortress of Dol Mithlad, but the revelry in the great hall was still going strong. The seneschal had excused himself sometime before, pleading that he "felt a bout of ague coming on," and he had taken to his bed. In reality, the man highly resented the invasion of his home by the raw and crude hillmen and, no longer able to bear their ill manners, he had slunk away to his bedchamber. The fact that, as the seneschal had told his chamberlain, "these ruffians are eating me out of house and home" had not brightened his mood.

Broggha and his trusted henchmen still held court at the high board, although some had drunken themselves into a stupor and either lay sprawled across the table or had taken to their improvised beds at the sides of the room. Throughout the evening, all had seemed dedicated to the goal of draining the seneschal's cellars of his dwindling supply of ale and wine before morning came and they marched away. Obviously the cellars had not yet run dry, for the serving maids were still keeping men amply supplied with tankards.

One of these fair wenches had caught Jarl Broggha's eye, and she now sat perched on his lap with her arm around his neck. The Jarl seemed quite satisfied with this arrangement, and was even sharing his ale with the lass. Considering the way the Jarl's eye was more focused upon her plunging neckline than it was his tankard of ale made a few of the men lay bets on how long it would be before the Jarl decided to take her on a tour of his bedchamber.

***

"Look, Helmir, the Hillman is leaving the table," Hammadhael exclaimed softly, gesturing in Broggha's direction with a sideways twist of the head.

"He is unaccompanied by his guards," noted Ruscon. "He only has the woman with him."

Nauremir's steely eyes narrowed, surveying the situation. "This might be my best opportunity to come upon him unawares. I am going to follow him." He rose to his feet. "You two stay here. If you see anyone following me, try to distract them with conversation."

Hammadhael and Ruscon nodded gravely.

Feigning drunkenness, Nauremir swayed unsteadily upon his feet as he made his way through the sleeping area of the hall. When he came to the section of the vast chamber where the celebration was still in progress, he pretended stagger and then laughed foolishly. He smiled to himself when he heard the others laughing and calling out, "Drunken fool! He probably will not even make it to the latrine tower!"

Once out in the corridor, Nauremir crept silently down the darkened hallway, keeping to the shadows where the light of the torches did not reach. Up ahead of him, he could hear Broggha singing a lusty Hillman song as he guided the woman with a large, broad red-furred paw upon her round bottom. Occasionally he bent down so she could whisper something shamefully provocative into his ear as she licked the lobe and then giggled.

"Disgusting strumpet," Nauremir seethed. "She brazenly commits treason against her country by carousing with that ruffian!"

As Broggha and the serving wench walked up the corridor, they began kissing and touching each other more ardently until the sound of their heavy breathing and moans of pleasure reverberated off the stone walls. Soon they came to an intersecting corridor which continued to the right and the left. But yet the Hillman chief did not go either direction, but backed the woman up against the wall.

"Oh Jarl!" the woman squealed as Broggha began kissing her neck. "In public? Someone will see!"

"No one is here," Broggha laughed deeply.

"Oh, you are so outrageous!" she giggled as she flung her arms around his neck.

Nauremir's breath caught in his throat as he watched the scandalous pair. "There could be no more perfect shot than this!" he gloated as he drew his dagger from his boot and calculated the number of spins which the dagger would rotate in the air before reaching Broggha's back. Holding the blade between his fingertips, he drew his arm back and sent the dagger sailing through the air.

"Ohhhhh Jarl!" the woman simpered as she slid one arm away from his neck to caress his back. "You are so strong and manly!"

At that moment, the knife struck her forearm and drove itself deeply within her flesh until the sharp tip pricked the thick, corded muscles of Broggha's back, drawing a small trickle of blood. The woman shrieked in pain as blood poured out of the wound. With her unwounded hand, she clung to Broggha, hysterical with fear and agony.

"Curses!" Nauremir swore. "I have failed!" Drawing his hood over his head, he ducked down low and turned on his heel. Racing back the way he came, he darted into a corridor to the left, where he disappeared into yet another hallway. Recalling the mental map he had earlier made of the castle, he nonchalantly walked down the corridor. He came upon two guards who were rushing up the hall.

"Make haste! Make haste!" Nauremir cried as he pointed down the hall which he had just left. "Someone tried to kill Jarl Broggha! I am going for help. If you hurry, perhaps you can apprehend his assailant!"

"Thank you," the guards saluted Nauremir as they walked by him and then broke into a run. "Never fear! We will have the scoundrel in no time!"

[Agannalo]

Written by Gordis and Angmar

Carn Dum, the King’s chambers, night of December 9, 1347.

The starless night had enveloped the high tower of Carn Dum where only one window at the very top showed a greenish light. Somewhere an owl hooted. The hour was late, but the two nazgul paid no heed to the passage of time. The first bottle of Dorwinion had long been finished and the wraiths had turned to stronger stuff that no mortal could ever consume without falling dead on the spot. The green wine brought color to Agannalo’s pale cheeks and turned his disposition uncharacteristically cheerful. He had long forgotten his fear and reticence and regaled the King with various stories that he told so well, while the king was in the mood to forgive him his usual embellishments.

“But Agannalo, you rogue,” said the King, pouring more wine, “you have never told me how you have spent the last thousand years. I guess you made your way to Far Harad? Did you establish a kingdom there?”

Agannalo choked on his wine, laughing. “A kingdom?” he repeated. “Your Majesty means a land to rule complete with all those counselors, and generals, and a court, and an army, and direct and indirect taxes? - Oh, NOOO!!! You should have known me better than that. I am far too lazy and selfish for such things. Why would I spend my life caring for the well-being of some pox-ridden mortals, who are never grateful in return?”

Agannalo was far too inebriated to notice that the King’s eyes glittered dangerously at such impertinence. Unaware of the danger, Agannalo continued cheerfully. “Nay, nay, there was a Khalif for that, what was his name again? Makhad-something, I think. Or was it his father? It is difficult to keep track of all the rulers who die like flies before you have time to learn their names… And oftentimes there comes a pretender from a different dynasty who takes the throne and slaughters everyone you came to know, so you have to start learning all their names anew. After a time I just stopped bothering.”

“So what better position than a king have you found then?” the Witch-King asked somewhat morosely.

“I was their God!” Agannalo announced with a proud smile. His vanity was somewhat shattered when the King laughed.

“A god? Something like Njamo, the dark god of the Underworld, who devours the unhappy souls? That would suit you just fine!”

“Not at all!” Agannalo cried, much offended. “Not at all. You see, the land of Kialgur-er-Giikh, where I stayed, lies quite far from the Sea, an oasis by the Southern rim of the Great Desert. It is a barren, inhospitable land, baked by sun. The tribes dwelling there are quite barbaric by our standards, but they are monotheistic people, and the only god they worship is the Sun - your humble servant Agannalo.”

That revelation caused the King to laugh so hard that the guards on the walls cringed and trembled in their boots, a wave of cold dread overcoming them.

“Oh… Agannalo … I hate to sound rude, but you don’t strike me as someone who could pass for the fiery Arien. What do these people think the Sun looks like?”

“Just like me.” Agannalo stated doggedly. “A man with golden hair and fair complexion, who shines in the darkness like a star. I have found the right spell and now I can shine quite well. Just look!”

Agannalo rose on unsteady feet and moved into a dark corner. Touching his ring, he muttered a few words. Gradually he became enveloped by a faint greenish radiance that slowly intensified until he appeared as a shining figure of white light.

“Quite impressive,” the king commented appreciatively. “I see you have many hidden talents.”

Blushing from the rare praise coming from the King, Agannalo resumed his seat by the table. “It happened like that,” he explained. “I was trying to cross the Great Desert after a rather unpleasant accident that had happened to me in Near Harad. I was faring poorly – I had lost my horse and had to walk through the sand, day after day, heading South by the stars. By day I walked invisible as it is much cooler this way - the sun doesn’t heat your clothes so hellishly. One evening I heard voices and decided to approach a group of desert horsemen, to ask for directions. I waited till the sun sank below the horizon, and then turned visible to talk to them. Imagine my surprise when I saw them crawling in the dust at my feet chanting praises! My Ring helped me to understand their gibberish and even then I couldn’t believe my ears. The fools had taken me for the Sun!

“So, understandably, I started to play along. They took me to the temple – Giikh Saiwa, the ‘Temple of the Wrathful Sun’ it was called. The priests prostrated before me and I took over their shop. Being a God is not a hard work by any means. With time, I have learned to perform quite well, if I say so myself. By day I was hanging in the sky for everyone to see, but at sunset, when the last ray of the Sun died below the horizon, here I was, magically appearing out of thin air on the roof of the temple – for everyone to behold. All night I walked among the mortals and they worshipped me as best they could, then at sunrise I retired to my private chambers. The knack was not to miss the public appearance at sunset. Twice I had missed the moment, and everyone was crazed with worry.” Agannalo laughed.

“For nine hundred years I have graced the people of Kialgur with my presence. You can hardly imagine what incredible crowds gathered to greet me every sunset! Thousands at first, than tens of thousands – those barbarians breed like rabbits. The Temple of the Wrathful Sun has become the center of pilgrimage for all the desert peoples and for the Eastern and Southern tribes as well. What gifts they brought me! Gold and silver, jewels and weapons and priceless porcelain vases – I have had such a fine collection of art!"

“I suppose they brought you some girls as well,” the King chuckled.

Agannalo nodded, his mouth salivating at the memory. “Yea, human sacrifice was most precious to me. At first they tended to bring oxen, horses and other cattle, but I had stopped it short. I was not pleased to have my altar washed in rivers of worthless blood. I told them that the Sun accepted nothing but comely maidens, and that there was no need to kill them – I could do it myself all right. Thus I got one to two girls every week, and such beauties they were! Ebony-dark ones from the forests of the South, small golden-skinned ones from the desert, plump yellow ones with slit-like eyes from the east, tall Numenorean beauties they got raiding the coasts, and occasionally even a golden-haired northern belle brought all the way from Rhovanion. Those were worth their weight in gold, but nothing was good enough for the Sun God!”

“Hmm…” commented the King. “One to two women to kill every week – no wonder your appetites have grown so unreasonably!”

“Well,” replied Agannalo, “I didn’t really need that many, even in my best times, so I kept most of them. I had a harem of over five hundred heads. What a bliss! I killed a woman only when I grew tired of her, but there were always several others eager to take her place. I had as much blood as I wished, given freely and willingly - in religious ecstasy.”

The King had always known that his kinsman was cunning and ruthless, but this exploit surpassed any chicanery which he had ever accomplished before. If the story were true - and the King had no reason to believe otherwise - Silmadan obviously had a talent for swaying thinking of other people. Still, the King wished to learn more before he formed a firm opinion.

He looked Agannalo straight in the eye, the hint of a challenge in his gaze. "Why then you are here if you have lived in such a bliss in Far Harad?"

***

Agannalo winced at the question and seemed to shrink in his chair, all gaiety suddenly evaporating from his haunted eyes. He took a long time to answer, while the King patiently waited, studying his relative.

In the silence of the winter night, a low anguished moaning was heard, emanating as if from the very stones of the citadel itself – Noldekano the Houseless Elf was venting his frustration to the uncaring skies. From the tower roof came the steady footfalls of the guards on duty. Somewhere in the distance to the east, in the foothills of the mountains, a lonely wolf was howling – a mournful sound matching Noldekano’s laments.

“Well?” the King prompted.

Agannalo shook his head and replied in a sad, grating voice. “Men, living and undead alike, are ungrateful beasts by nature, my Captain. No amount of suffering can change the fact. Gradually I grew bored of my life: of the Temple, of my women, of the duty to perform every evening. I knew full well that I would never find anything suiting me better than my current position – and yet I grew tired and was contemplating leaving it all behind and going somewhere on my own again. I toyed with this idea for centuries, never content and never fully happy. I guess someone out there – maybe Melkor, maybe someone else in charge, finally took offense and decided to punish me.” Agannalo sighed.

“Anyway, one not-so-fine evening about 30 years ago, I was standing on the roof of the Temple, watching the assembled crowd of the pilgrims far below, when I beheld a shining white figure among the crowd – a Maia, blast it!

“I was horrified, as you may well imagine. At first I even thought it was old You-Know-Who in disguise, but Melkor be praised, it was but another one of his kind. Yet, it was bad enough: I saw him, and he, undoubtedly, saw me – right through my disguise. I was too stunned to react, and in a blink of an eye he was gone – disappeared in the crowd. I ordered a search of the Temple and sent riders to scour the city and all the surrounding area – but to no avail. The tall old “man” in white robes had disappeared, as if he were no more than a figment of my imagination.

“For the next few months I fretted, awaiting disaster. I knew the visit of the Maia was a harbinger of doom, but now, when common sense was urging me to flee, I was most reluctant to turn my back on my blissful existence. Kialgur never seemed so sweet than when I was doomed to lose it. I had stuffed my saddle-bags with most valued possessions, kept one of the horses saddled at all times, but still I lingered, day after day, unable to leave. And then it was too late – the disaster had struck."

“What happened? Did the Maia bring an army from the north?” asked the Angmar Lord.

“Worse, my Liege…” Agannalo gasped in awe. “It was a catastrophe of such proportions even I could never have expected! It came without warning in the middle of a summer day. The Earth started to shake and heave, as if a giant beast was crawling right beneath the surface. Fissures opened, swallowing people and buildings. The mighty columns supporting the temple roof broke as twigs, the huge stones crashed down and buried everybody -alive and dead alike. It was over in a few moments: I found myself in a stone tomb far below the ground, along with what remained of my women and priests.”

“You were lucky that the catastrophe found you in the vaults,” commented the King dryly. “Otherwise you could have been crushed like a cockroach.”

“Very true, my King,” replied Agannalo, too shaken to take offense at this comparison. “Yet, my fate was hardly enviable. There was no air coming through the rubble – none at all, you see. So, all my mortal fellows, including my beautiful wives, had died of suffocation quite soon, before they could start dying of hunger. I will never forget the horror and sorrow of it. I was buried with their rotting corpses for long years – before I finally clawed my way out. Yes, it took me several years to dig a tunnel leading outside, I can’t say how long exactly, as I have lost count of time in the darkness of the tomb.

“Finally outside, exhausted and clad in dirty tatters, I looked around. Instead of the thriving city with its Great Temple, its famous fountains, thousands of clay and stone houses and multitudes of people, only piles of stones remained, covered with desert sand. The survivors, if there were any, must have moved away to some luckier place. Kialgur-er-Giikh was no more.”

Agannalo downed another goblet of wine and added in a low voice “That is why I am now here seeking shelter like a common vagabond, my King.”

***

When Agannalo had finished, the King of Angmar did not reply for some time, but turned all which he heard over in his mind. Blood, misfortune and grief had always followed in the trail of his kinsman. From what he had said, it appeared that Agannalo had been unfortunate enough to attract the attention of one of the Maiar. That was a very dangerous position for any one of their kind to find himself. He was also uncomfortably reminded of the great temple on Numenor.

Now Agannalo had come seeking sanctuary in the realm which the King had carved out for himself. The Angmar Lord's first thought was to escort Agannalo personally to the border, banish him and forbid him ever to set foot in his kingdom again. Then he thought, where would Agannalo go? There was no place; he certainly could not return to Harad. He had no friends, and no one would ever accept him, unless it would be his own kind. Then, too, there was a distant kinship between the young scoundrel and himself. The King allowed himself to feel an uncommon emotion - pity. Perhaps it was a mistake, and he would rue the day that he ever felt it, but if payment were ever extracted, he would pay it when that day came and not before. He would allow him to find refuge in his kingdom.

Agannalo's greatest problem was that he had been too long on his own, free to do as he willed, and an eager victim of his own vanity and recklessness. The King considered Agannalo as weak, and such ones as that always became bored when left to their own devices, for they could not direct themselves. Agannalo needed a strong leader and mentor who would not be afraid to break him and then remake him. Upon all of Arda, where was there one more competent to do that than himself? He would take this spoiled fop and turn him into a warrior!

"Agannalo," his eyes bored into those of the other Nazgul, "you have wandered far too long as one who has no goal, no purpose other than yourself and your own desires. You have wasted your existence and squandered your abilities." The King paused, watching the other Nazgul for his reaction.

Agannalo gave him a worried look, fearing that his Captain had at last given up on him. He took a deep intake of air and then held it. He must calm himself.

The King continued. "I offer you the opportunity to change your ways and in so doing, you can be of assistance to the kingdom and to me."

"Anything, anything, my lord!" Agannalo's eyes were pleading. "Only tell me and I will do it!"

The King rose to his feet, his huge height towering over Agannalo. "I offer you the position of High Priest. Choose your answer carefully. If you take the position and you fail me... I need not remind you of the consequences."

Agannalo bowed deeply before the Captain, his eyes happy and eager. “I am honored by your confidence, my Lord. I will not fail you. I will become the best High Priest that you ever have had – as I know how to organize breathtaking ceremonies with real wonders to behold. Only remind me please, which god do you want me to worship?

“Melkor, who else, you fool!” the King sounded outraged.

“Aye, of course, I perfectly understand,” Agannalo replied hurriedly. “How stupid of me…” He pondered briefly, biting his lips. “It is only that my recollection of the Almighty Melkor’s Holy service is somewhat rusty. I would need some books to consult, if it is possible.”

“You will take over the former High Priest’s dwelling in the Eastern tower - it is full of sacred scrolls, books and ceremonial clothes. You will have seven lower priests who would be able to help you with the details of the service. But I warn you, I wish the worship of the Dark Lord to remain secret - for Angmar has multiple enemies. The Solstice Celebration will take place in the Cave Temple, with only Numenoreans in attendance. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly clear, My Lord.” Agannalo managed the most reassuring smile. “Trust me – the Solstice will be unforgettable!”

[Eryndil]

December 10, 1347, early morning - just outside the gates of Cameth Brin

Eryndil went out through the gates at his usual time, a little before dawn broke, with Nimloss and Norumar right behind him. It was a cold morning - very cold! Much colder than yesterday. And it looked like there would be more snow.

The thought of 'yesterday' brought the events of that day back to his mind: the training session, the fight with Prince Daurendil (and though he'd do his best to hide it today, the bruises he took were quite painful - but he was consoled with the thought that the Prince should be feeling it a good deal more than he) - and then going home - dinner with the family, the distance of his older siblings, the warmth of his parents and Hendegil, and... Caelen! He had mixed feelings about last night - but he smiled to think that his feelings about Caelen herself were not mixed at all.

Narwaith was usually with him for these sessions, but Eryndil had given him special duty for today, and Narwaith's brother Nimloss had come in his place. Nimloss seemed up for the task, but Eryndil thought he might have less patience with their young charges than his elder brother. Still... that might be alright.

But now today... what would today bring? Here at training? Tonight, at home? Only time would tell, he thought, as he turned to watch the gray in the east grow lighter over the Misty Mountains.

[Daurendil]

December 10, 1347, at dawn - just outside the gates of Cameth Brin

Daurendil, Amantir and their followers hurried through the gate of Cameth Brin town into the vast plateau beyond. They were much earlier than usual for their training and stopped to admire the magnificent red dawn coloring the rugged white peaks of the Hithaeglir before their eyes. Their breath came in white puffs in the frosty air.

"By Eru, 'tis cold like in Angband!" Rhaglas grunted good-naturedly, stomping his feet. "And still almost no snow!"

"It might be bad for the next year's harvest," ventured the bookish Amantir.

"Come on, let the lowly peasants worry about the crops," jeered Celemir. "As for the cold, we will be all hot and panting soon enough, Sir Eryndil will see to it!" He laughed, baring his white teeth in a wolfish grin.

Rhaglas looked at him worriedly. Celemir seemed cheerful this day - too cheerful for his friend's liking - with a cold wicked gleam in his eyes. Knowing him as Rhaglas did, he was certain that Celemir had a nasty trick up his sleeve and was enjoying it immensely. Rhaglas only hoped it was not as deadly as Celemir's yesterday's idea. Daurendil, however, noticed nothing unusual about his minion's attitude.

"Well, let us go", the prince said gruffly. "Eryndil is waiting for us. I don't fancy to run with those stones again."

And indeed Eryndil and two of his rangers were standing in hundred paces, bows and other equipment lying nearby. The Prince and his company approached and greeted their teacher civilly.

[Caelen]

December 10, 1347, morning

Narwaith held a bit of wood in front of his face and examined it critically. His reverie was interrupted by the sound of a friendly voice.

"Oh, hello, Narwaith! What are you making?"

"Good morning, my lady," he answered, standing up quickly and nodding his head respectfully to Caelen. He had to repress a smile, as he always did, at this new form of address to this young girl. It just didn't seem to fit her! She reminded him of his own younger sister, running merrily up to him, feet bare and hair flying loose, whenever he was able to visit home. He noted with approval that Caelen had taken more pains than usual about her unruly hair, and that she had finally sewn on that top button on her bodice.

He held out the figure he was carving for his sister, and she moved in closer to examine it. He felt suddenly awkward when she smiled up at him from these closer quarters, expressing her approval of his work. She was just so trusting ... too trusting for these times. And she was decidedly pretty - one didn't need a missing top bodice button to see that. Narwaith was glad that he had spoken to Eryndil.

He made a point of letting her see him sit down to resume his carving as she merrily waved her goodbyes to him and headed towards the marketplace, then quietly stood back up to follow her, putting his carving and tools in a little wallet at his side. "Could be a good excuse for me to be in town if she sees me, " he thought. He didn't want her to know she was being followed; he had seen and heard of her stubbornness and independence, and thought her fully capable of trying to lose a guard if she set her mind to it. He smiled and shook his head. Women!

Caelen headed towards the dressmaker's shop with mixed feelings. A note had been sent to her that she was needed for a final fitting and to answer a few questions for preference in trimmings. The tomboy in her rather scoffed at these dresses that had been ordered (understandably, she had left home with very few, and these were very plain - one doesn't pack one's best dresses when one is fleeing from home), but the emerging woman in her rather liked them! Or, more accurately, liked the way that she imagined Eryndil would look at her. Her own evaluation of her figure was rather dry and practical - she seemed to stick out in the right places, and go in at the right places, according to what she had seen of other women. And men seemed to like these things. All the same, she felt rather odd about dressing up more, and looked back at her tree-climbing days with a pang of nostalgia, even though men were becoming more interesting than trees.

An hour of fittings, re-pinnings, and examining trims passed by before Caelen emerged, rather flushed and ruffled, from the dressmaker's shop. Narwaith, watching discreetly from the store across the street, smiled - "There goes her hair again!" he thought, as he paid for a small purchase and moved towards the door.

Caelen turned to her left, her mind on the dresses, and bumped into a woman, making her lose her grip on her purchases.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," exclaimed Caelen ruefully, helping the woman to gather up her bags.

The woman, who had been checking through her purchases, suddenly froze at the sound of Caelen's voice. She stayed motionless for a brief moment, then slowly looked up. As her eyes met Caelen's, they widened in amazement ... and fear. But Caelen, seeing only the face of her longed-for cousin, didn't see the fear.

"Maleneth?" whispered Caelen.

"Little Caelen?" answered the older woman, involuntarily taking a step back.

And then Caelen jumped foward, embracing the woman and her purchases, laughing and crying and holding her tight. For this woman was the family she and Callon had been looking for.