"Shadow I - Runnings" - Final version

[Rian]

List of chapters with summaries


The Shadow over Rhudaur

The Prologue - A Story about the Rescue of Princesses
Gandalf tells the hobbits an old tale...

Story timeline, list of contemporary rulers, notes and maps

Part I "Runnings"

Chapter 1 - Runaways and Outlaws
Made homeless by a fire and harassed by the son of a powerful neighbour, a brother and sister set oot to seek new life and family. But a group of deserters in encamped along their way...

Chapter 2. The Jarl's men
The deserters are "invited" by Jarl Broggha to join his force.

Chapter 3. Ambush on the road
Don't stop for strangers!

Chapter 4. Captured
"Look, lads, what a little dainty we have here..."

Chapter 5. Guests from the North
A delegation from Angmar visits Broggha

Chapter 6. Tarks Are Good for Something
Things turn grim for the captive Caelen

Chapter 7. Troubles in the Royal Family
Finally we meet the King of Rhudaur and his lovely daughters...

Chapter 8. The Witch and the King
Gimilbeth the Witch and Tarnendur the King discuss... the Witch-King

Chapter 9. The Princesses and their Guardians
The peaceful life of the young princesses is about to change...

Chapter 10. Mortal Wounds
An amputation performed by a shaman is not a nice sight...

Chapter 11. Plotting and Suffering

Chapter 12. Surest way to Njamo

Chapter 13. At the Cemetery

Chapter 14. The Jarl's Justice

Chapter 15. The Knife in the Dark

Chapter 16. Scream in the Woods

Chapter 17. The Rangers

Chapter 18. Hanging and Drawing

Chapter 19. The Council of Rhudaur

Chapter 20. The Portrait of the Bride

Chapter 21. Promotion for the Wicked

Chapter 22. Moving on

[Gordis]

The Shadow over Rhudaur

By Northern Kingdom Writers

Description: Northern Kingdom Writers present a RPG-based story set in Arnor in 1347-1348 Third Age. A Dunedain king still sits upon the throne of Rhudaur, but can he endure when faced with both an upstart hillman chieftain and the Witch-king of Angmar? A tale of intrigues and sorcery, treason and loyalty, cruelty and love will take the readers to Cameth Brin, Amon Sûl and Carn Dûm, letting them experience the dangers of 14 century Arnor. Based on LOTR Appendix A, the story is canon-mindful.


The Prologue - A Story about the Rescue of Princesses

October 10, 3019. On the road near the Last Bridge

At last the hobbits were heading toward home. The Ring was destroyed, the War was over and they were eager to see their Shire again. They rode at leisure along the Great Road, which was as empty as ever, so they were grateful for the Wizard's company. There would be frost at night, but the weather was still fine and the autumn sun played merrily on the red and yellow leaves.

A week out of Rivendell, they reached the Last Bridge. The sun was already low over the road in front of them, so they found a nice spot for a camp on the steep eastern bank of the Mitheithel. Sam lit a fire and produced from his saddlebags a large collection of frying pans, bowls and kettles as well as lard, dried meat, honey, dried herbs and assorted vegetables. Fresh from the Last Homely House, the travelers had provisions aplenty. Sam put a kettle of water over the fire to boil and started cooking a nice supper, fit for four hungry hobbits and one wizard.

"Let us go look upon the Bridge, while Sam makes our supper!" proposed Pippin eagerly.

Frodo shook his head, declining the offer. As ever, with the approaching nightfall, Frodo's mood darkened. The horrors of their flight to Rivendell were still fresh in his mind and he had desired to see again neither the Ford, nor the Last Bridge, nor Weathertop, when they reached it. He sat huddled in a blanket, a book bound in red leather on his lap. The text was written in Bilbo's spidery hand, and labeled on the back were the words: "Translations from the Elvish, by B.B. "

Gandalf, followed by Pippin and Merry, ventured on to the Last Bridge. After the day's ride they were glad for the chance to stretch their limbs. Soon they stood in the middle of the sunlit expanse of the bridge that spanned the river in three graceful arches. The Sun played on the ancient blocks of white stone covered with moss and lichen. The place now looked peaceful and almost serene, despite the roar of the water below.

"Do you remember this place, Pip?" asked Merry. "It was right here where we found Glorfindel's green stone and knew it was safe to pass over the bridge."

"Of course, I do, Merry. I think it was a great idea to leave it for us as a token. Don't you think so, Gandalf?"

The wizard shrugged his shoulders. The hobbits noticed he had hardly listened to their conversation at all. Frowning, he was looking absently at the swift foamy water rushing through the stone arches down below.

"Is something wrong, Gandalf?" asked Pippin worriedly.

The wizard sighed and muttered sadly. "Swift are the waters of Mitheithel beneath the Iant Methed...."
He lifted his head and his gaze wandered northward, to the broken crags crowned with the ruins of ancient watch towers.

"I was remembering a tale about a fair maiden who, driven by despair, fell to her death from this bridge. This was then a part of the ancient Kingdom of Rhudaur and the Shadow lay heavily over this land."

The keen eyes of the hobbits burned with interest. "Will you tell us the tale, Gandalf, please?" asked Merry.

The wizard shook his head and turned to start slowly back toward the camp, with the hobbits following suit. "Not now. Frodo has been ill at ease since we passed the Ford of Bruinen on the Sixth of October. This is a sad and violent tale, not fit for his ears so soon after all he had to suffer. I am loath to shatter what little peace he has been able to regain."

"Then perhaps later, Gandalf? asked Pippin hopefully. "After supper, when Frodo falls asleep? I am sure Sam will be happy to hear the tale, he is one for such things, especially if it concerns Elves."

"I am afraid it is not about Elves, Pippin. It is about Men who lived here. Some were Dunedain, Aragorn's people, others were from the native tribes of this land - the Hillmen."

"And the maiden who perished here?" whispered Merry. "Was she kin to our King?"

"In a way," replied Gandalf. "She was a descendant of Isildur as well, but from another line. By some accounts, she was once betrothed to one of Aragorn's ancestors, Arveleg I, the one who would later die at Amon Sûl."

"At Weathertop?" squeaked Pippin. "How exciting!"

Gandalf shook his head sadly, for he had hardly found the death of young King Arveleg exciting – all those years ago. As they approached the camp he made a sign for silence. Supper was waiting for them and Frodo seemed cheerful once more. As they ate they merrily discussed the events they had shared together back in Gondor and Rivendell.

Before they were finished, night began to fall, quiet and starry. Soon Frodo lay asleep near the fire. After washing the dishes, Sam prepared to slip into his bedroll at his master's feet, but Merry stopped him, nodding at Gandalf conspiratorially. Surrounded by three wide-eyed hobbits, Gandalf started his tale.

"This is an old story, old as Men reckon time. And the Shire reckoning had not even started then... As you know, after the Downfall of Numenor, when his sons established Gondor, Elendil the Tall founded the Northern Kingdom of Arnor. He made his home at Annuminas on the shores of Lake Evendim, not far from the Elvish country of Lindon – and just about a hundred miles north of your own homes in the Shire. The descendants of Isildur and their people dwelt there for many lives of Men, but their numbers were slowly diminishing, the memory and learning of Numenor waning...."

Gandalf sighed and reached into his bag to produce a familiar wooden pipe with long stem and curiously carved ivory bowl. He took his time filling it with sweet galenas as if musing on what to say next. The hobbits took out their own pipes: beautiful works of Elven craft, with pearl mouth-pieces and bound with fine-wrought silver - presents from Bilbo. Soon the pipes were lit and the sweet smell of Southfarthing leaf and galenas filled the still night air.

For a time they all smoked in silence. Then Gandalf continued. "And so it came to pass that after Eдrendur the tenth King of Arnor died, the kingdom was divided among his three sons. The two younger ones were too ambitious to be content with the role of Royal princes. They wanted lands of their own to rule. The oldest son, Amlaith, was too weak, some would say, but I think he only wanted to avoid kin-strife and bloodshed. So, fair Annuminas was abandoned, and Amlaith became the first King of Arthedain at Fornost, the Northbury of the Kings. Now it is also desolate..."

Gandalf paused a moment to puff upon the pipe. "The second son took the Southern part of Arnor, calling it Cardolan, and settled in Tyrn Gorthad - you know it as the Barrow-Downs." The Hobbits shivered as one. The memory of the Barrow-wights was not something one recalls lightly.

"The youngest son of Eärendur, Dauremir, was the most conniving of the lot – and took as advisors some who practiced the Black Arts. He became King of Rhudaur, the land between the Mitheithel and the Misty Mountains and also the west bank of the Mitheithel north of the Great Road - as far as Amon Sûl. Dauremir first settled at Brochenridge – just a little way from here." Gandalf gestured with the pipe towards the darkness to the north. "Perhaps you have seen the remnants of the place. I think Aragorn led you close by, on your journey to Rivendell."

Merry nodded thoughtfully. "I believe we saw the crumbled stone walls when we crossed a gap in a high ridge", he mused. "I am not very sure, as it was raining and Frodo... " he gulped and continued "Frodo was too ill for us to look around much."

"Yes, it must have been Brochenridge, or what remains of it. It was a mighty fortress, but soon proved unsuitable for Dauremir’s heirs to effectively rule from there. So, after a few generations, the Kings of Rhudaur moved to a fortress on the River - Cameth Brin."

Gandalf turned from the fire and his sharp gaze seemed to pierce the darkness to the north. "Can he actually see it?" thought Pippin in awe. He was not sure of the answer. The old wizard had strange abilities.

"Cameth Brin, the jewel of Rhudaur..." continued Gandalf almost in a whisper. "The fair city of three waterfalls...I remember it well: the high tower perched on a rock, busy streets and markets, the glory of rainbows over the waterfalls... Everything is gone now, destroyed by enemies, fire and time..."

"You remember?" Pippin chimed in. "Wasn't it very long ago? Were you already here?"

"I had roamed Middle Earth for more than three hundred years already, when our story took place," replied Gandalf. “I arrived too late to see the division of Arnor, but I have been in Rhudaur ere the Shadow claimed it, and even ventured there a few times since - gathering information, or spying - to put it plainly. There are few places in the North that I haven't seen, Pippin."

"Cameth Brin was a mighty fortress, not too big, but virtually impregnable. There, a few days journey north up the river from this bridge, there is a high rocky plateau on the eastern bank. The tower, surrounded by two circles of walls, was built on this rock - the city of Cameth Brin. There most of the Dunedain nobles dwelt. The place could be reached from below only by a single winding road - the King's Road, they called it. There was another town below the hill - Tanoth Brin, the place for commoners, soldiers and peasants. The lower town was defended only by an earthen wall, so if a strong enemy approached, all the people from the lower town abandoned their houses and gathered at the fortress to withstand a siege."

Gandalf paused a moment to puff upon the pipe. "You can't imagine what a dangerous, tumultuous time it was. Vagabonds and outlaws, mercenaries and deserters roamed the land. The Hillmen of Rhudaur were a warlike people, much like the Dunlendings, their kin. They were never content with the rule of the Dunedain. The Kings of the line of Dauremir dwelt in Cameth Brin as if in a besieged fortress, never safe, never secure, ever awaiting a rebellion. The lords of the land warred often among themselves and at times a king would be overthrown by one usurper or other, who would only fall in his turn. And, as if the inner strife was not enough, the three kingdoms, Arthedain, Cardolan and Rhudaur, ever fought between themselves..."

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Gandalf, Sir," started Sam hesitantly, "why would they do such a thing? I mean, they were all kin, Elendil's heirs and all that, why would they fight each other? 'Tis plain unnatural, if you ask me..."

"It was mostly because of the Palantiri, Sam," Gandalf replied sadly.

"The Palantiri?!" cried Pippin. The memories of Dol Baran and Rath Dinen flooded back to him in a rush. "The evil stones like Saruman and Denethor had?"

"I told you once, Peregrin Took, the Palantiri are NOT evil," Gandalf replied somewhat irritably. "The seeing Stones of Elendil helped the Kings to rule their kingdoms, to send orders, to strengthen alliances, to watch the borders. They were quite handy devices, never used for evil purposes, before Sauron stole one of them."

Pippin shrugged his shoulders, once the wizard's piercing gaze left him. He was not convinced. One could hardly be, after seeing the fiery stone in the hands of the fey Steward of Gondor. Not to mention his own encounter with the Dark Lord. He gulped.

Gandalf snorted and continued with his tale. "There were not enough Palantiri in Arnor to divide them between the daughter kingdoms. There was one large stone which Elendil set right in the middle of his Kingdom, in a high chamber of the Tower of Amon Sûl and two smaller stones, like the one at Isengard. One of them Amlaith the King of Arthedain set at Fornost, while the other, the Stone of Emin Beraid, remained at the White Tower of Elostirion. It was of no use to Men as it was not in communication with the others, but only looked West over the Sea."

"The strife was for possession of Amon Sûl, which lay right where the borders of Arthedain, Cardolan and Rhudaur met. Only the chief Stone set there was available for all three to communicate with Gondor. But eventually, every king wanted the Stone for himself. Amon Sûl had seen much bloodshed."

Gandalf sighed again and paused a moment to puff upon the pipe. A silvery cloud of sweet-scented smoke lit by the glow of the fire glittered above his head. Then the wizard continued his tale, his voice suddenly old and weary.

"At the time when Malvegil reigned in Arthedain, about the year 1300 as Elves and Men reckon time, a new evil came to the North. A fourth kingdom arose north of Rhudaur, spanning the Misty Mountains. It was called Angmar, the Iron-Land, and there were gathered many evil Men, and Orcs, and other fell creatures. At first the rulers of Arnor paid it little heed. The first disquieting news came when Orcs, that had multiplied in the caves of the Misty Mountains, drove the Dwarves from their ancient stronghold under the Mountain of Gundabad, the northernmost peak of the Misty Mountains. The Orcs were rumored to be in league with the King of Angmar. Then came the reports of a mighty fortress being built at Carn-Dûm, at the western end of the Mountains of Angmar."

"The king of this land was known as the Witch-King, for he was a sorcerer - that much was clear from the start. Nobody knew whence he came, but all thought most likely from Harad, or Umbar, as there were many Black Numenoreans in the Witch-King's service. These lands had recently been conquered by Gondor, and the Black Numenoreans who used to rule there became homeless and scattered. But it led to further evil, as they spread their Dark Cult far and wide through the lands."

Sam, who was sitting by the fire smoking quietly, suddenly stirred. "Angmar?" he asked. "But I have heard tales of the dread, icy land of Angmar and the Witch-King! My granny told us such tales when we were but children...."Behave, Samwise, lest the Witch-King gets you", that's how she threatened us. But I have thought it to be no more than a tale..."

"I think you have learned by now that old tales often prove true..." replied Gandalf

"Of course, Angmar was no simple tale!" cried Pippin. "My own forefathers, the Tooks, and Merry's ancestors, the Brandybucks, were among those who heeded the King's call and took part in the last battle that put an end to the Witch-King and Angmar! I think your own sires were there as well, Sam, only your family history doesn't reach that far back."

"Anyway", said the wizard, nodding thoughtfully, "the battle of Fornost you are talking about was much later, in 1975. By then, the Witch-King had ruled Angmar for over 600 years. At first, in Malvegil's and Argeleb's times, everyone believed the King of Angmar to be no more than a regular Man albeit a sorcerer. It was not known until much later that he was indeed the chief of the Ringwraiths, Lord of the Nazgûl, shadow of terror and despair."

Sam was on his feet in a blink of an eye. The other hobbits had heard this part of the tale in the Houses of Healing at Minas Tirith, but they visibly paled as well.

"Oh", Sam cried... "Not the one who...?" he stuttered at a loss for words.

Gandalf took his pipe out of his mouth. The pipe bowl glowed brightly, like a star in the darkness. He replied gravely

'You have met him, Samwise son of Hamfast, though he was far from home, veiled to your eyes, when he stalked the Ringbearer at Weathertop. Then he came forth in power again, growing as his Master grew, until he broke the gate of Minas Tirith, that no enemy ever yet had passed, and all fled before his face "

Gandalf bowed his head to Merry, almost reverently. "Thanks to your courage, Meriadoc, son of Saradoc, the world is finally free of the dreadful Shadow. Glad would have been the old Kings of Arnor if they could hear about your deed, as the sorcerer king of Angmar was chief among their foes."

Merry blushed, embarrassed by the Wizard's praise. "It was Eowyn really who killed him, not me," he said. "And you shouldn't praise my courage, becase I was very much afraid. I only moved to save my Lady. And..." he grinned mirthlessly, " had I known then that it was the very same Witch-King my nanny told me about, I could have hardly moved at all, as those tales were so scary."

They sat for a while in silence, puffing at their pipes. Then Merry stirred.

"There is one thing I cannot understand, Gandalf. How can a Ringwraith pass for a regular Man? Back in Bree one of the nazgûl was just passing by, but still I began to tremble all over and felt that something horrible was creeping near. And when one touched me, I just went to pieces... And at the Pelennor I was so afraid I couldn't even think, or look up, or move... Even dogs and horses and geese felt how uncanny they were... And, to top it all, their bodies were invisible, weren't they?"

"You forget that the Witch-King was a great sorcerer in his own right", replied Gandalf quietly. "And at the time he still had his Ring, before Sauron collected the Nine to himself. So the Witch-King was able to control if not his real appearance, but at least the way others perceived him. He could even appear fair, provided the observer had no access to the Spirit World. There are few left in Middle Earth who can see the Unseen: only Lords of the Eldar who had once dwelt in the Blessed realm, the Wizards, or those who wore the Rings of Power. Those would not be fooled. But the rest of Men and Elves...at best they felt something was amiss, but by the middle of the Third Age the Ringwraiths were a tale long forgotten, and no one associated the King of Angmar with them."

Gandalf slowly turned the now empty pipe about, thinking of those long-past days. "And yet again we slept heedless of the danger. The Wise had been lulled by the long peace. Nobody perceived the danger when it lay at our doorstep."

"Once the Witch-King settled in the North and built Carn-Dûm, he started plotting. He wished to destroy all the Dunedain realms, but at first he acted only by stealth and deceit, choosing others as his weapons. He soon perceived that Rhudaur was the most vulnerable of the three Dunedain kingdoms – so it was there that he decided to strike first.”

Gandalf started to fill his pipe again, smiling kindly at the hobbits. "Have patience, here starts our tale. You see, the last Dunedain King of Rhudaur, Tarnendur, came to power after a succession of usurpations and fratricides which had nearly destroyed the royal family – even while their Dunedain subjects had decreased from all the wars and other turmoils of the land. He himself sought to be a man of peace – and yearned for the days of greatness, and goodness, of friendship with the Eldar and the pursuit of knowledge and peace, but his kingdom held none of these. The Hillmen had infiltrated and lived among the Dunedain, and they were always discontented. Tarnendur had far less of an army than his predecessors, and so very few men who were versed in the lore of their people of old – and so many in the land had long followed the Black Arts, he could not imagine turning them all away so suddenly. Tarnendur himself had married a lady from Umbar, for he had once dwelt in Gondor – and they had a daughter, Gimilbeth."

"Was she the one who died at the Last Bridge?" Pippin inquired eagerly. All this talk about politics made him drowsy and he hoped to come to the interesting part again.

"No, not this one", replied Gandalf, shaking his hand. "Don't be so hasty, Pippin Took! It was Tarnendur's youngest daughter, Tarniel, who died here. Gimilbeth, unfortunately, took after her kin, Black Numenoreans from Umbar. Rumor has it she became a witch and the bane of her family."

"How dreadful!" cried Pippin, growing excited. "But what happened next?"

”Well… Tarnendur’s wife died quite young. After many years, he married for a second time – most unusual for the Dunedain, who generally imitate the Elves in these… domestic matters. The new Queen Eilinel, from a noble family in Rhudaur, bore Tarnendur three children: two sons, Daurendil and Amantir, and a fair daughter, Tarniel. But Gimilbeth was not too happy to have her new brothers, as she had begun to hope she would become the first Ruling Queen of Rhudaur after her father's death."

"By the time Tarniel was fourteen, a new leader arose among the Hillmen. He was called Broggha. First a tribal chieftain, he bullied weaker chieftains into yielding power to him. Soon he was considered a rising great power, rivaling even the king of Rhudaur. Tarnendur, trying to placate the Hillmen, named Broggha his Counselor and Lord of Penmorva, in hopes that it would quell the unrest of his subjects. When Broggha came to take his position at the Council, he brought an army with him, rivaling the forces the King himself had. He was acclaimed as a savior by all the Hillmen of Tanoth Brin. Soon Broggha, in secret league with Angmar, put forth his plan to usurp the Crown."

Gandalf paused for a moment, drawing on his pipe in silence. The hobbits waited breathlessly for some horrors to come.

"First he seized the young Princess Tarniel and married her by force. She was but a child of fifteen, gentle and innocent, and he was a fifty year old brutish barbarian. Horrible to think what she had to suffer...Only her friend, Odaragariel of Mitheithel, remained by her side, perhaps only that helped the poor child to survive."

"Then Broggha cunningly eliminated the King's sons and at last the King himself, and claimed the throne as his own by right of his marriage to his daughter. Of the King's family only the Princess Gimilbeth remained alive, and that was only because the Witch-King of Angmar took a fancy to her himself...."

The hobbits listened wide-eyed, pipes forgotten in their hands.

Gandalf smiled suddenly. "Yet not everything was dark in this world of sorrow. Some valiant young men took the plight of the princesses to heart. Beleg, Malvegil's grandson, later known as King Arveleg of Arthedain, vowed to rescue Tarniel. The princess was once his betrothed, although he had never met her. Prince Beleg gathered a few companions and ventured into Rhudaur late in the year 1348, to discover what they might. They stole into the royal fortress and bore away young Tarniel, wife of the hill king, and her companion Odaragariel of Mitheithel."

"And thus the Princesses were rescued. But it proved to be too late for Tarniel. During their flight, she paused at the Last Bridge over Mitheithel and cast herself into it, for she despaired over the hillman’s child she carried within her. But the others safely returned to Amon Sul just after the Yule in early 1349 – where Beleg learned that his grandfather had died, that his father was now King Argeleb, and that he himself was Heir to Arthedain. In later years, he married the young princess Odaragariel whom he had rescued – and she was the last of the House of the Princes of Mithiethel".

The hobbits sighed happily, relieved that such a sad story proved to have a decently happy ending. Perhaps it could still be classified under the category "Stories about the Rescue of Princesses" that Gandalf excelled in telling - so long ago in the peaceful Shire.

The night was turning cold. Thanking the wizard for his tale, the hobbits slipped quietly into their bedrolls, turned toward the dying embers of the fire. Soon they were asleep and dreaming of the wild land of crags and waterfalls, of noble Dunedain and evil Hillmen, fair maidens and brutish barbarians, cruelty and valor, of days long past and remembered by few, that Gandalf's tale recalled for them so vividly.

__________
Written by Gordis and Valandil

[Gordis]

Story timeline, list of contemporary rulers, notes and maps

Timeline: A listing of major events, as given by Tolkien, of relevance to our story.

Second Age:
c. 1600 Sauron makes the One Ring
c. 2251 The Nazgul appear
3319 The Fall of Numenor
3320 Elendil founds Arnor in the North, his sons found Gondor in the South.
3429-3441 Sauron attacks, the War of the Last Alliance and the Seige of Mordor.
3441 The Fall of Sauron, the deaths of Gil-galad and Elendil, High Kings of Elves and Men. End of the Second Age.

Third Age:
2 Disaster of the Gladden Fields – death of Isildur and his three elder sons.
861 Division of Arnor into; Arthedain, Cardolan, Rhudaur
c. 1000 The Istari – or Wizards – appear in Middle Earth
c. 1150 Ancestors of the Shire Hobbits cross the Misty Mountains west into Eriador.
c. 1300 Establishment of Angmar, north and east of Arnor’s daughter kingdoms, by the Witch-King, Chief of the Nazgul. Some Hobbits move to Bree.
1347-1349 The time of our story! (not per JRRT, of course)
1349 King Argeleb I comes to the throne of Arthedain, The descendants of Isildur having died out in Cardolan and Rhudaur, he lays claim to all Arnor once more, but Rhudaur resists his claim.
1356 King Argeleb I slain in battle with Rhudaur & Angmar.
1409 Combined army from Angmar and Rhudaur attacks Arthedain and Cardolan. Amon Sul (Weathertop) is destroyed, and King Arveleg I slain. Last Prince of Cardolan slain. King Araphor holds out at Fornost, to where the Palantir of Amon Sul had been carried. Remnant of Dunedain in Rhudaur flee or are slain.
1601 Argeleb II makes land grant of The Shire to Hobbits.
1636 The Great Plague destroys the remaining Dunedain of Cardolan. Evil Spirits from Angmar and Rhudaur occupy the Barrow Downs.
1974 The Witch-King over-runs Fornost and the North Kingdom of Arnor/Arthedain comes to an end.
1975 King Arvedui of Arthedain drowns in the Ice Bay of Forochel, but the army of Angmar is crushed by joint forces from Gondor and Lindon.
2941-42 Bilbo’s adventure with the Dwarves – to Erebor, The Lonely Mountain – as recounted in “The Hobbit”.
3018-3019 The major events recounted in “The Lord of the Rings.”


List of contemporary rulers

Rhudaur:

King Tarnendur, born 1190; King of Rhudaur since 1307, dwelt in Gondor before he gained the Crown. Descendant of Isildur and Dauremir, 157 years old.
Inzilbeth, Tarnendur's late first wife: (daughter of Serinde) from Umbar. She died in childbirth in 1256
Queen Eilinel, Tarnendur's present wife (since 1324): a Dunedain Lady from Rhudaur. 66 years old

Tarnendur's children:
Gimilbeth (daughter of Inzilbeth) born 1240 in Gondor. 107 years old.
Daurendil, King's Heir (son of Eilinel) born 1327 in Cameth Brin. 20 years old
Amantir (son of Eilinel) born 1330 in Cameth Brin. 17 years old
Tarniel (daughter of Eilinel) born 1333 in Cameth Brin. 14 years old

Arthedain:
King Malvegil of Arthedain at Fornost (b. 1144), 203 years old
Celebrindol, his son and Heir (b. 1226) who later became King Argeleb I, 121 years old
Beleg, son of Celebrindol (b. 1309) who later became King Arveleg I, 38 years old

Angmar:
The Witch-King, Lord of the Nazgul, about 3000 years old at this time

Gondor:
Minalcar (b. 1126), regent 1240-1304, crowned as Romendacil II in 1304, he is the one who built the pillars of the Argonath.
Valacar son of Minalcar (b.1194), married to a Rhovanion princess, Vidumavi.
Eldacar son of Valacar (at first called Vinitharya), b. 1255

The list is based on LOTR Appendix A and on HOME 12. The characters in Rhudaur are original.


Maps and Notes

The map of the four Kingdoms in the North: Arthedain, Cardolan, Rhudaur and Angmar
i14.photobucket.com/albums/a337/Gor-Dis/Map1300-1409.jpg

While writing the story we used some excellent MERP-ICE maps, the links to them will be posted in the corresponding chapters and also here.

Here is the map of Northwestern Rhudaur
i14.photobucket.com/albums/a337/Gor-Dis/Runnings5.gif

We have also made some original plans of places and buildings.

Map of Cameth Brin and Tanoth Brin
i14.photobucket.com/albums/a337/Gor-Dis/CamethBrinGen1.jpg

Plan of the Cameth Brin Palace
Ground floor
i14.photobucket.com/albums/a337/Gor-Dis/PalaceGFv.jpg
First floor
i14.photobucket.com/albums/a337/Gor-Dis/PalaceFFj1.jpg
Second floor
i14.photobucket.com/albums/a337/Gor-Dis/PalaceSFj2.jpg

The roleplay this story is based upon is currently in progress at:
www.northernkingdom.proboards98.com

Welcome! We need more players.

[Gordis]

Part I "Runnings"

Chapter 1 - Runaways and Outlaws

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TA 1347, September 22. Early morning.
The stablemaster's house on the Tanoth Methed estate, Kingdom of Rhudaur
Written by Rian
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"Wake up, wake up, it's time to go!"

Caelen slowly opened her eyes. She looked up at her brother, blinking hard and trying to make sense of what he was saying. Callon grinned, despite the tension he felt, and shook her again.

"Sleepyhead! You never could get up!"

"Did I fall asleep, then?"

"Obviously, or I wouldn't be waking you!"

She sat up suddenly as her mind awoke to the situation. She shot an anxious look at her brother, which he answered with a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"He'll be asleep for a while yet," he said grimly, jerking his chin towards the great house. "He came stumbling home roaring drunk just a couple of hours ago."

Caelen was somewhat reassured, but still got up quickly and put on her riding clothes. Her brother waited quietly, keeping watch out of the window.

"I'm ready now," she said, and he turned to her and gently placed the cloak he had been carrying in his arms around her shoulders.

The brother and sister mounted their horses with the ease of long-time riders. Callon took the lead rope of the third horse that was carrying some supplies, and they rode quietly down the lane, away from the great house.

"So, where are we going?" asked Caelen when it was safe to speak. "Not that it matters much, as long as it's away from ...", and she made the same movement with her chin towards the house as her brother had done earlier. She had never liked speaking that name, and liked it even less since the news that her brother had brought back to her that afternoon.

"Well, let's see ... where are we going? Let's just say we're going to seek our fortune, like in the stories of old," Callon answered with an effort to sound cheerful. "How does that sound?"

"Fine with me," his sister replied with a little smile. "It might take awhile to find, though," she continued with a sigh, "we've had very little of it lately! At least the good type," she added grimly. "So, what direction shall we start looking in?"

"Let's ride by our goodbye-hill so we get a good start, and then just give our horses their heads for a bit," suggested Callon, although he had a very good idea of where he wanted to go, and intended to unobtrusively help his horse go that way if it didn't head there by itself. He had faint memories of a sister of his mother who lived near Cameth Brin, and some merry cousins - it would be good for his sister to be around family again.

Caelen nodded, and they rode in silence until they reached the top of the hill that overlooked their former home. There was no need to rein in the horses; they paused there from long custom.

"Good-bye," said Caelen softly, looking down at the charred ruins of the house as if the well-loved family were there again, smiling and waving up at them. She sighed, and then turned towards the tree under whose spreading branches that family now lay. "Good-bye," she repeated, and bit her lip to keep the tears back.

"Good-bye," her brother echoed, and clenched his jaw. He raised his hand in salute, and then turned his horse eastward, heading towards the faint streaks of light that were just starting to break through the darkness.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Two weeks later (Morning of October 5, 1347) in North-Western Rhudaur.
Written by Gordis
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Five dangerous-looking men were camping by the bank of the Morva River. Their unkempt hair and long untrimmed beards spoke of long days in the wilderness. Men's clothes were worn and faded, except for the darker spots on their chests and sleeves where apparently some badges were formerly attached. However, their long swords and bows looked to be well tended, and even in camp, each wore a vicious-looking dagger attached to his belt. Three horses were tethered nearby.

Algeirr, their leader, sat with his back to the trunk of an oak-tree, wearily watching his companions. Kvigr and Gunni had a kettle boiling over the fire, while Uffi and Meldun were skinning a young deer the men were lucky to shoot for breakfast. The company were half starved after their long hike all the way from Northern Arthedain. The country they crossed was flat and barren, there was little food to be found and the way-bread they have stolen from their garrison mess was finished long ago.

Algeirr sighted and scratched his scalp. His long matted gray-brown hair was crawling with lice...Perhaps he should wash it with that Kingsfoil plant, which his haughty commanders revered so much. "At least one learns useful things serving those Tarks..." Algeirr thought chuckling.

Their six-year service in the Arthedain army proved a disaster. There was very little to gain guarding the Arthedain border at Rhammas Formen on the North side of the North Downs. No enemy in sight, drills day and night, and haughty condescension from their tall Dunedain commanders. And no girls... the squat dirty Lossoth women not counting. One must be really desperate to go for them...

Algeirr swore and spat, aiming at a little buttercup, but missed.

So, one night, not waiting for the end of their ten-year contract, he and his mates from Rhudaur, quietly slipped away from the camp and headed home across country, making for Nothwa Rhaglow. Algeirr grinned. There they have stolen three horses, not enough for five men, but it still allowed them to take turns riding. Now they traveled faster.

"Come, Algeirr! The stew is ready!" called Kvigr, the youngest and the liveliest of the bunch. He was a fine lanky lad, good-natured and clever for his age.

Algeirr's mood brightened considerably. He rose and joined the company. For a long time all were silent, gulping down the stew ravenously. When their hunger was sated, the one-eyed Uffi got out a half-empty bottle of golden root liquor and sent it around. Old Meldun produced his flute and started a merry tune. The others joined in a chorus, frightening birds and squirrels in the trees nearby.

Algeirr got away and sat on the bank of the stream halfheartedly chewing a piece of meat impaled on the tip of his long dagger. He had led the company home safely, but now he had to decide on a course to take. Joining the King's army was appealing to him little. He had more than enough of the Tarks, curse them. Going home to his native village in Eastern Rhudaur hasn't ever occurred to him. His parents were dead, and he cared little about his siblings. Let them look after themselves.

Finally he decided to stay in the camp till dawn, allowing his men and horses to rest, then cross the Morva and head for the city of Penmorva. Algeirr had been in the fortress several times, perhaps he would find something to do there. He had a buddy in the Count's guards, perhaps he would help. If not, then there were always roads, and there were travelers on the roads, and the travelers had money. Algeirr laughed. One only had to ask...


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Broggha's camp at Morva Torch, October 5, 1347, late afternoon.
Written by Angmar
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Griss, scout and spy for Jarl Broggha, was just returning to the sheltering trees surrounding the camp where Jarl Broggha had set up his temporary headquarters.

Not that it was even easy getting back to the camp, for the Jarl insisted upon the greatest of security measures. Heggr, who had been hiding amidst the underbrush, had slithered behind him somehow. Unaware of his presence, Griss had been surprised when he had found Heggr behind him, his knife pressed to his throat.

"Why did you do that, Heggr, you fool?"

"Because, you idiot, you were crashing through the forest like a runaway horse. I could not help but hear you!"

Heggr was enjoying Griss' distress. Heggr was tempted to have a little more fun by letting the knife slip a little. Griss' tunic was as filthy as the rest of the men, and a little bit of blood would hardly be noticeable.

"I will say one thing for you, Griss, you managed to get by the sentry without detection. You are never supposed to do that, you know."

"I just wanted to see if he was alert," Griss snarled, definitely uncomfortable with that knife pressed so close to his jugular vein.

"Sure," Heggr replied in that condescending way he had.

At last Heggr sheathed his knife, but Griss felt like punching the man a good one in the face. He would refrain there, because the Jarl had ordered, "No trouble in the camp, or answer to me personally." No one wanted to answer to the Jarl personally because the giant, red-haired, red-bearded man had a violent temper. One look into the Jarl's piercing blue eyes was enough to chill the blood in many a man's veins.

"I have to get back to my outer patrolling duties, but you go on in."

Heggr had the irritating habit of sticking his finger in his mouth and digging at a tooth that had gone bad. He was doing it at that moment and Griss didn't like it. It would be doing him a favor to knock that rotten tooth out. Maybe, Griss thought, if Heggr kept doing that, he might knock all his teeth down his ugly mouth.

When Griss walked into the clearing where the camp was, the Jarl was just coming out of the doorway of his makeshift shelter of logs. Griss could hear loud weeping inside.
"Sounds like Aewen crying again," he thought. "The Jarl likes to use her hard, and when she complains, well," he smiled to himself, "he beats her. Just what he should do with her, fine airs and all... says she has noble blood, some kin to the Rhuduarian king. She will learn better sooner or later, or he will beat her to death."

Maleneth, the Jarl's other thrall, was tending to the bubbling soup pot. As Jarl Broggha passed, she looked up at him uncertainly, almost cringing, preparing for a blow that never came. The Jarl walked by her with no more concern than if she had been a fly.

Not that they weren't both fine looking women and any man among them would like to have either as thrall... but they were both Tarks. If a woman like that should chance to take your sword some night... Griss didn't like to think about that. The Jarl had no trouble with either one, though, though Griss knew that both women loathed the leader. After all, there wasn't much left of their village after he pulled that raid a couple years ago.

"The Jarl knows how to treat women," Griss thought to himself, proud of his leader, the chieftain who had risen to great power among the hill men. They would do his bidding , follow his orders without questioning. Griss smiled in satisfaction.

"What news?" the big, red-bearded man asked. The Jarl was much taller than Griss and he had to look up to him.

"Jarl, five men camped a few miles up the way... renegades, deserters from the army, maybe. They had a few flea-bitten nags, nothing worth taking. For that matter, they are nothing but transients, vagrants."

"Did you hear any names while you were listening in?"

"Yes, the leader's name, Algeirr. Kvigr, a young lad, but no more. To get any closer might have brought me a lot of trouble."

The Jarl grinning one of those one-sided smiles of his, and you never knew if he was in a good mood or a bad mood. You just had to take your chances. Griss hoped that the information had been pleasing, hoped for his own sake. The Jarl had a nasty side sometimes, and he did more than just beat a man senseless... Griss didn't like to think about that volunteer who had displeased the Jarl. Broggha had ordered him skinned alive. Griss could still hear the man screaming in his mind, but after a while you got used to things like that. They didn't bother you at all.

"Maybe these men could be used. You never know." The Jarl still had that one-sided smile and Griss felt uncomfortable. You never knew when he smiled like that. "I want you and Heggr to take them a little gift... a keg of ale. Talk to them a while. See what their grievances are. Ask them how long it has been since they have seen real silver coins. Do not emphasize the silver. You know that, Griss."

The Jarl was looking at him with those cold blue eyes and Griss felt a shiver of fear run up his spine.

"You know I won't Jarl. I won't say anything stupid. I will just let them know easy like that you might, just might... be looking for some good men."

The Jarl turned and looked back to Maleneth. "Worthless woman! Is that stew ever going to be cooked! Go on now, Griss. I need to deal with her."

Waiting for Maleneth to serve him his meal, Jarl Broggha sat upon a wolf pelt-covered section of log in front of the makeshift hut which comprised his temporary headquarters. The Jarl was expecting some very important guests from the North, and he had a number of kegs of ale which he felt should impress them. He was impatient for his food to be served, and his impatience showed when he rose to his towering height and bellowed, "Maleneth! Where is my food?" When the Jarl was angry, his voice was quite strident and carried far beyond the perimeters of the compound.

Walking into the clearing followed by two other serving women carrying platters of food, the stately, full-figured Maleneth approached the Jarl and inclined her head. Scowling at the women, Broggha accepted their offering. Though his hunger for food and drink was soon appeased by the ample quantities of venison, stew, bread, autumn fruits and ale, his appetite for the woman had begun to stir. He pulled Maleneth fiercely down to his lap and kissed her greedily. Knowing what was in store for her, the lovely woman sighed in resignation and accepted his caresses.
His intentions, however, were interrupted by the arrival of two of his soldiers.

"Jarl," the spokesman explained hurriedly, "the men that you were expecting have arrived!"

Giving Maleneth a push off his lap, the Jarl rose to his feet and turned to the soldiers. "Bring them to my lodgings as soon as possible."

"Yes, Jarl, it will be done as you have ordered." The men bowed and left.

Broggha stood in the doorway to the hut and frowned at the three women. "Much rests on this meeting, so give my guests anything they want."

The Jarl inhaled deeply of the brisk autumn air and saw all Rhudaur spread open before him. He would not always be fighting other chieftains for territory or living in huts in the woods. Someday he would be titled, landed and married to the king's own daughter and establish his own dynasty. Perhaps Maleneth and Aewen could be her ladies in waiting. He laughed to himself.

[Gordis]

Chapter 2. The Jarl's men

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In the camp by the Morva river, early morning, October 6, 1347.
Written by Gordis and Angmar
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Kvigr had the last pre-dawn watch this night. The lad always slept like a baby, so Uffi, the sentry before him, poked him in the ribs repeatedly and then aimed a few vicious kicks at his backside.

"Get up, you, worthless baby!"

Uffi's voice and kicks meant an unpleasant interruption of a sweet dream about home and Hegga, the girl from the nearby farm, who had such full breasts and big innocent blue eyes....

For a while Kvigr just walked around the camp blinking and trying to get rid of the last snatches of his dream. Soon, when the first diffuse pre-dawn light illuminated the camp, his head cleared, and he took in his surroundings. Kvigr had an artistic side to his nature, so the beauty of the first light dawning on golden autumn leaves was not wasted on him. The dark, swift waters of the Morva were swirling with fallen leaves: yellow birch leaves and red aspen leaves, round as coins. Kvigr smiled: there was no better place in the whole wide world than home.

Kvigr stood on the bank of the river singing softly and watching the dance of leaves in the stream, when he was suddenly hailed from another bank. The lad swallowed, startled, and looked across the river at the approaching men, his bow at the ready.

Both looked like dangerous brigands with their long swords and daggers, scarred, weather-worn faces, unkempt beards and dirty clothing. One was carrying a large keg, while the other, older one, was grinning at Kvigr with brown, rotten teeth.

"Hail, lad, aren't there some grown-ups about?" sneered the older man.

Kvigr blushed furiously: he knew he had been a poor sentry to let these men approach unnoticed. Now only the narrow, swift stream separated them. He opened his mouth to answer, when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. Algeirr was now standing at his side, his bow drawn, but the tip of the vicious black arrow pointing downwards. Kvigr sighed in relief: their leader was known to sleep like a cat, ready to spring up at the slightest sound.

"Who are you and what is it you want?" asked Algeirr levelly.

The brigand, who was sucking at his thumb for some reason, muttered in reply " We bring you a keg of ale and a greeting... from Jarl Broggha."

Algeirr paused, thinking quickly. He had heard of this Broggha, even before he left for Arthedain. An outlaw and a brigand he was, but a lucky one. Then when they were already in the Arthedain army, a man from Nothwa Rhaglow told them there was trouble at home, Broggha gathering more and more men to him, raiding villages and small towns.

"What does he want?" Algeirr's voice was hoarse.

The other man put down his keg and replied, smiling nervously, "We can't shout like that across the river. Let us come to your bank. We shall drink the ale together and talk."

Algeirr frowned, but nodded. With a shrill whistle, he warned his men of the approaching danger. Soon Gunni, Meldun and Uffi joined Algeirr and Kvigr at the bank, their long swords at the ready.

Without much ado, the strangers took off their boots and pants and waded into the river. The water must have been cold, as the older one let out an obscene exclamation and gripped his cheek as if his teeth pained him. After much cursing and nearly slipping a few times, the men were on the nearest bank and were led to the camp fire.

As they crossed the frigid Morva River, Griss carried the keg of beer on his shoulder. "Heggr probably would have dropped it in midstream anyway," Griss thought. Heggr was always too occupied with his aching jaw and sore joints. Of course, Heggr's teeth hurt him. "If you could call them teeth," Griss thought. They looked more like decaying kernels of corn. The thing Griss liked about Heggr, though, was that the man didn't complain too much. Griss had also learned that he was a good man to have behind your back.

On the opposite bank, Griss and Heggr quickly dressed and introduced themselves. The five other men's introductions consisted of mumbled replies. They eyed Griss and Heggr as suspiciously as they were eyed in return.

"Then you are the leader?" Griss looked Algeirr in the eye.

"Yes, you could say that. But why do you want to know?" the man asked suspiciously.

Griss and Heggr did not like the way that the young bowman kept his arrow aimed towards them as the three men talked. Gunni, Uffi and Meldun, all alert, spent almost much as much time looking at the keg that Griss had put up against the base of the tree as they did at the two intruders. Maybe they were planning to murder Griss and Heggr, rifle their bodies, take the keg and then disappear into the forest. Griss was growing more nervous, but he was glad to see that Heggr was now grinning. The man liked to keep his mouth closed as much as possible, because the cold air hurt his decaying teeth.

"I will be honest with you... my chieftain knows everyone who comes into this area. We are thinking you might be deserters from the Arthedain army."

Out of the corner of his eye, Griss caught a slight movement from Kvigr and wondered if he were about to let an arrow fly. Gunni, Uffi and Meldun kept their hands close to their weapons, but the leader only moved his head slightly from side to slide.

"You figure it out, but go on," Algeirr stated coolly.

"Then I will get right on with it. My comrade and I are in the employ of Jarl Broggha. Surely you know of this man?"

"I have heard things," he replied noncommittally.

"I don't know what you might have heard, but I will tell you what is true. For the past few years, the Jarl has steadily increased in power until now he is one of the strongest and most wealthy men in all Rhudaur."

Meldun laughed. "As powerful as the king?"

Griss turned to him and looked him in the eye. "More powerful," he quietly replied.

The other men gazed at Griss and could see by his calm look that he probably wasn't lying. Heggr still kept grinning. Gunni, Uffi and Meldun were not too sure, though; you could never tell when the Arthedain army might be sending out disguised men to round up deserters.

"Interesting," Algeirr glanced at Kvigr, who turned the point of his arrow to the ground.

"But what has this to do with us ?" Algeirr looked to Griss.

"The Jarl could always use a few more fighting men with experience who have the good sense to know how the wind blows."

"And what might be in it for us?"

"Possibly gold, positions, and help from powerful friends."

"Hmmm... no, that does not sound too bad, does it, men?"

Nods of affirmation from the deserters put an even wider grin on Heggr's face.

"Then why don't we just openly open that keg of beer and all sit down to discuss this?"

"Sounds agreeable to me," nodded the outlaw leader.

Inwardly, Griss felt very relieved. If these men proved to be of any value to the Jarl, Broggha would be pleased with him. If they didn't - Griss might get a few broken ribs or worse for it - but the five deserters would be very, very dead. Heggr started to grin, but a breeze of cold air quickly had him slapping a hand over his aching jaw and closing his mouth.

In two hours the keg of beer was almost empty, and the bones of the yesterday's deer were picked clean of meat. Heggr and Griss, now relaxed and feeling at ease, told many stories about Jarl Broggha: his famous luck and his cruelty, his prowess in battle and his treatment of prisoners and his own men.

In the midst of a story about an obese tark boiled alive, Kvigr left the company, feeling nauseated. He saw many a cruel punishment, but nothing of the kind of what seemed to be the rule in Broggha's army. "They may be Tarks," thought Kviggr, "but they are our own people, not some orcs or wargs... They made our country what it is".

He fetched a fishing line from his pack, dug some worms and settled at the bank of the Morva, hoping for a good catch. He didn't want to join the Jarl. All he was looking forward to was to return to his village, and see his parents and Hegga. His heart skipped a beat when he thought of the girl. Perhaps, he could find some job in the village, or in Pennmorva town, and start a family...

Meanwhile, Algeirr and Griss, sitting slightly apart from the others, were discussing the terms.

"How many are you now?" asked Algeirr.

"Two or three thousand" replied Griss with a smile. "More than the King has. And his men are deserting all the time and joining us. Soon we will march on Cameth Brin and get rid of the old Tark."

Griss's eyes twinkled at the prospect. He looked at the mercenary, but Algeirr's long dark face was as wooden as usual, the lips pressed tightly together, eyes unreadable. They sat in silence for a while, Griss starting to get nervous again.

"I want to be the head of my men" said Algeirr with finality, his icy eyes firmly locked with Griss's. "And I will answer to no one, but the Jarl himself. And I want more money than I would get in the King's army. Can you promise me that?"

Griss shifted uneasily: the Jarl had been somewhat vague about the terms. He tried to conceal his uncertainty as best he could.

"Let us go see the Jarl." invited Griss. 'You will hear the terms from his own mouth. I bet, he will be mightily pleased to have your men and yourself, the seasoned warriors you are. You will get what you want."

He watched Algeirr nervously, and his heart leapt when he saw the man nod.

Soon the company crossed the river and headed North to the Morva Torch camp.
Kvigr followed, it was just the right direction for home. "I will stay but one night", he decided, "and then I shall be off. The Jarl has men enough, he doesn't need me".

[Gordis]

Chapter 3. Ambush on the road

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Near the Morva river, late morning, October 6, 1347.
Written by Rian
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Caelen glanced at her brother. He was definitely more watchful than before. Since they had left the last inn, where they had been warned about the roads, they had travelled much more carefully and quietly - the feeling of adventure that she had just been beginning to enjoy was now replaced with a looming fear of outlaws on the road.

"Stupid, greedy men!" she thought in frustration, angry at the extra precautions they had needed to adopt. Her mind played over the last two weeks, since idle talking was out of the question right now.

A stupid, greedy man was the reason they were even on the road in the first place. The eldest son of the largest thanehold in the area was rich enough to not have to marry for money, and for reasons that Caelen couldn't understand, had apparently fixed on her. And Brun was used to getting what he wanted.

Both Callon and Caelen had their suspicions about who had started the fire - Brun's family had always seemed to be jealous of their family, especially since Caelen's father had turned down Brun's tentative inquiries after his daughter in no uncertain terms. Then came the fire, and the deaths of their parents and older brothers - but Caelen's mind passed over that and went on to when they had ended up at the stablemaster's house. Brun's father had extended an offer to Callon to run his stables, and he also offered to let them put up their surviving horses for free. He offered a very generous salary, and Callon thought it best to take the job for a year or so, even though they both disliked the family, in order to give their land time to recover and to earn some money to rebuild. If he had only himself to consider, he would probably have chosen differently, but he now had his sister to consider, too, and he thought this path would enable them to be back on their own land sooner.

Things had gone smoothly for almost a year. Brun had been with this girl and then that, and had kept his attentions down to an occasional leer in Caelen's direction. But in September, things changed, and Brun became more pointed in his attentions - even almost polite - which was far worse than his rudeness, because the politeness was feigned - obviously only a cover to try to get something he wanted.

Then came that Wednesday - September 21st - and the overheard conversation. Callon had headed into town to pick up some leather for a bridle he was working on. He had been quietly looking among the pieces in the back, when the door opened and Brun strode in, along with some of his friends. Overhearing their conversation, Callon realized with a sick feeling that this man was determined to have his sister one way or another, and that in order to save her from this brute of a man, he had to take his sister and flee - and soon. Callon stayed frozen in the back of the store until Brun and his friends left, and then quickly and quietly left, formulating his plans to get his sister to a safe place as he walked quickly back to the stablemaster's house.

And so they found themselves on the road, trying to avoid still more greedy men. Caelen bit her lower lip in frustration - what had happened to the safe world she had known growing up? She looked around, trying not to see robbers behind every tree.

The horses picked their way in their delicate, sure-footed manner over logs and around the thicker undergrowth in the forest. Giving in to his increasing uneasiness over the reports of robbers on the road, Callon had decided to make the last part of their journey in a more covert manner. Decidedly slower, but he judged it was the lesser of two evils, especially traveling with a woman. By the grace of Eru, he had been able to save his sister from one brute, and at this point, he wasn't about to ignore any precautions that he could possibly take to preserve her from an even more evil fate. Hillmen were not known for their delicacy in their treatment of women.

The mares (he had left their prize stallion in the care of his best friend; stallions can be inconvenient to travel with if accompanied by a mare) were well-suited to the task, despite their seeming delicacy. Callon's father bred for beauty, yes; but strength and durability were even more important, and their horses were known for their surefootedness and good sense. Horses, like people, come with different amounts of sense.

Although they were trying to be quiet, a horse can't help making more noise than a human, and the strength, speed and heart of the horses were about to be tested as Callon, reaching a particularly dense patch of undergrowth, decided to return to the road.


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On the road near Morva Torch. October 6, 1347, afternoon
Written by Gordis and Rian
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Moving silently through the forest, the company of outlaws soon approached the paved road leading from Nothva Rhaglaw to Morva Torch. Heggr was the first on the road. He sucked in the cold air to say something, but clapped his hand over his mouth instead. At this moment, the others heard it: the distant sound of horses approaching from the West. Both Griss and Algeirr dropped to the ground simultaneously listening to the hoof beats. Rising, Algeirr showed three fingers to the company. Griss nodded. With an imperative gesture, Algeirr directed Griss and Heggr to the other side of the road, while motioning to his own men to hide in the thick bushes on the nearest side.

Algeirr remained alone in the middle of the road, his sword still in his scabbard. When the horses appeared from around a road bend, he was already walking slowly towards Morva Torch, head bowed, and shoulders hunched wearily, as if he were a lonely traveler on a long journey.

Gulping from excitement, Kvigr notched his arrow, watching the road. He never knew whom he supposed to see, perhaps a couple of brigands, or worse, but the aspect of the travelers made him open his mouth and lower his bow.

There was a young man in decent clothes and with a long sword and a Tark girl in her tweens, red-haired and lovely. Both were mounted on a swift thoroughbred horses, still fresh and prancing. A pack horse followed.

Noticing Algeirr, who stopped and was waiting for them, the riders slowed. Algeirr raised his empty hands in a gesture of friendship and hailed them in a weary rasping voice.

"Greetings, my Lord and Lady. I mean you no harm. My name is Einarr son of Hrani. I am returning home from my many travels. But my village is far away, and I am unfamiliar with these roads. Could you tell me if this road leads to Cameth Brin?"

Callon's heart leapt into his throat. This was exactly what he had been trying to avoid, but the dense undergrowth had forced them to return to the road against his will. Turning his head slightly towards his sister, but keeping his eyes on the unknown man, he said quietly but firmly to her, "If I tell you to run, then run for your life, Cae. I mean it - don't look back for me." Algeirr didn't understand the language, but could make a pretty good guess at what was said by the widening of the girl's eyes.

Callon moved his horse so that he was between his sister and the man. "Yes, this is the road, I believe" he answered, making sure his sword was readily available. "But we are far from home ourselves and do not know the area well." His eyes flicked to the forest, where he thought he saw some movement, and he added, "We lost our home in a terrible fire, and are traveling in hopes of finding some family that can take us in," hoping that this would convey, if the man was indeed a thief, that they had nothing worth attempting to steal.

"I am indeed sorry to hear that," Algeirr answered smoothly. "Fate has been unkind to us both." He dropped his hands and took a step towards the pair, feigning sympathy.

"Come no closer!" cried Callon, and half-drew his sword. "I am sorry to distrust you, but in these difficult times, I am forced to be wary against my inclinations." Algeirr raised his hands in an "I understand" type of gesture and took a step back. Caelen's mare tossed her head nervously as some birds flew out of the undergrowth.

"If you are in need of food, we can spare a little out of our slight stores, but we can give you no other aid than that, and we must be going."

"I thank you for your kindness," said Algeirr, his voice suddenly changing, "but I will be wanting much more than food ... as we speak, you and the pretty lady are being covered by my bowmen in the woods. If you don't struggle, then you will probably keep your lives. If you do, well, I would hate to see an arrow through the lady's lovely white throat..."

"Brigand! Coward!" said Callon in contempt. "And I have a hundred men at arms just around the bend of the road, likewise invisible," he said, hoping that the man was bluffing, and if not, hoping to see what strength the man actually had. "I advise that you take our food, generously offered out of compassion for a fellow traveler, and do evil no more, for retribution will come for evildoers, though sometimes it tarries to give a chance at redemption."

"My men may be invisible, but their arrows are not," responded Algeirr icily, and raising his arm, he called out to Kvigr, "Shoot an arrow over the road!"

With a whine and a thud, an arrow flew across the road and sank deep into a tree. He looked at Caelen, and though he saw fear in her eyes, which he had expected, he also saw a fire there, which he had not expected. She saw his look and lifted her chin defiantly.

Callon untied the pack horse's lead rope from his saddle and gave it a push towards Algeirr.

"Take this and be satisfied!" he said contemptuously, and then, betting everything that there was only one archer in the woods and that he would be the target instead of his sister, and hoping the pack horse would be enough of a distraction, said to his sister softly in that same language he used earlier, "Fly, Caelen!" Flight and possible death were preferable to what they were all too likely to find at the hands of these brigands.

Caelen looked at her brother, wondering if she had heard right. Callon took his reins and gave the pack horse a whip that sent him snorting and prancing in astonishment towards the man in the road. He then urged his mare forward and gave Caelen's mare a whip and a shout to get them going, always keeping himself in the line of fire between his sister and where he thought the archer was in the woods.

Algeirr stumbled out of the way of the frightened pack horse, cursing loudly and yelling, "Kvigr! Stop them! Shoot!"

Kvigr had already set an arrow to the string, waiting for Algeirr's next command. He sighted and shot, aiming at the male Tark's horse. He was a good shot and had good position. The arrow sank into the mare's hindquarters, and she screamed and stumbled. It was a beautiful horse, and he didn't like to shoot it, but he didn't want to get blamed for the escape, either. Life was full of tough luck, and he had had his share. Now, perhaps, there would be some rewards for his skill and presence of mind, and he could go home richer than when he left.

Callon was thrown hard onto the road as the mare fell to her knees and then jerked up again, holding her injured hind leg up off the road in distress. Caelen felt her brother and his mare leave her side and pulled up in confusion.

"Go! GO!!" shouted Callon, as he tried to get up and failed, stunned and bleeding from a wound to his head. "Fly!"

Caelen saw the hated Einarr closing in on her brother as he was still helpless on the ground, and she never hesitated. She wheeled her mare around and flew - but towards her brother, not away from him.

"NO!" Callon shouted in agony, his bloodied face distorted with pain, and even worse, fear for his sister. He cared nothing for his own life now - if his sister could get away, let them kill him. Just as Einarr came up behind her brother with a drawn knife in his hand, grabbing his hair and pulling his head back, she ran her mare hard right at him. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw several other men run onto the road, but she didn't care. She could never leave her brother, and preferred dying with him to living without him. She didn't stop to think that they might kill him and leave her alive to live a life worse than death.

Einarr released his grip on her brother and dove to the side of the road. The mare, nimble-footed, avoided Callon lying on the road. The other men ran up to Callon and soon had him immobilized. Caelen wheeled her mare around again and stopped, unsure what to do. It was now 7 to 1 against her, and they had her brother, still alive.

[Gordis]

Chapter 4. Captured


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the road near Morva Torch, afternoon of October 6, 1347.
Written by Gordis, Angmar and Rian
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now all the band was on the road, clustered together around Algeirr and the Tark. Algeirr drew the man's wrists together and secured them with a piece of rope he always had in his pocket, just for occasions like that.

The young prisoner lifted his head from the dirt of the roadbed to shout something to his wench, but Algeirr's backhand blow across the mouth stopped his words. The Tark coughed, spitting blood from his bruised lips.

The woman wheeled her mare around and stopped, looking at them, apparently unsure what to do. Algeirr grinned back at her, and pulled out his long gleaming dagger.

"Get off your horse, wench, and come here," he beckoned hoarsely.

The girl looked back, defiance and contempt in her eyes. She was comely indeed. Algeirr's mouth watered, as he eyed her breasts and tights lecherously. He could show her a thing or two after all these long years in the country of Lossoth...

"Look what I will do to your man if you don't!"

Holding the Tark by his long hair, Algeirr moved his knife across the exposed throat. A thin red line appeared.

"I will cut his head off slowly, small cut after small cut, if you don't surrender immediately. You will do it eventually, you know it already. Just don't let him be hurt more than needed. Hurry up!"

Algeirr was going to use his knife again when slowly, very slowly, as in a dream, the girl slid from her horse and started walking towards them, her anxious eyes riveted to the captive man.

"No, Cae, NO!" the Tark whispered, but it was too late. Griss and Heggr already gripped the girl's arms, while Uffi got hold of her fine mare.

Algeirr gave the Tark a vicious kick with his boot, which sent him sprawling into the mud again, and approached the girl.

"Look, lads, what a little dainty we have here," he grinned. His brown callused fingers found the girl's breasts beneath her velvet tunic and pinched the nipples. "Like ripe strawberries ready for plucking!"

The girl seemed to come out of her stupor and started to fight back feebly, earning much amusement from the company and more pinches on her tights and bottom. Finally she stopped, seeing it was useless, but her eyes spoke her contempt.

"Cowards!" she hissed, as she tried to keep back the tears that she knew would only amuse them more.

Kviggr swallowed, feeling aroused and disgusted at the same time. He had never before been a robber on the road, but, knowing his band as he did by now, he had little doubt what was about to happen.

"There is one thing about it," Griss thought to himself, "Algeirr knows his business!" Griss had watched in fascination as the outlaw's knife sliced across the worthless Tark's neck, drawing a fine line of blood. Griss hoped that Algeirr would slice the fool's head off right there. He had never seen anyone slowly beheaded, bit by bit. He licked his lips in anticipation as he thought of how appealing the idea was.

He knew, though, that it was all a ruse to force the girl to surrender, and it had worked. Maybe this was better than seeing the Tark beheaded after all; that could always wait. He was all too happy to have his hands on some female flesh once again.

Griss enjoyed the way the Tark girl struggled as he held her. The ones who fought always excited him the most. He patted her firm hips just to experience the sensation of touching a woman once again. How long had it been since he had even seen a female? "Far too long," he thought as he experienced the ache once again. He had to stop thinking about how good she smelled and how her body moved as she struggled. He must force himself to stop thinking that way! A woman like this was not meant for the likes of him, but for the Jarl. Now if he could just talk sense into Algeirr, but he did not know how easy that would be, because it was obvious the outlaw wanted her for himself.

"Stop it, Algeirr. She is for the Jarl." Griss said with finality. "He will reward you, if you come to him bringing such a gift."

"Maybe I want to keep her for myself and my men." Algeirr looked at Griss as though he would hit him.

"This is not going too well," Griss thought.

"The Jarl likes fine, comely women," Griss said persuasively, "and will give you more for her if she is intact when she reaches him."

"All right then, let not a hair of her pretty little head be touched unless she makes trouble!"

Algeirr spat these words at Griss, hating the man with his very guts. But he stopped his hand that had crawled all by itself to his sword hilt, and took a deep breath. Algeirr was a sly old fox, and he knew that acting rashly out of anger was never a wise thing to do. If he would have to kill Griss, he would do it later, in cold blood.

As Griss and Algeirr argued, Caelen's mind raced frantically - what could she do? Her brother lay bound on the road, wounded and bleeding - were those horrible men just going to leave him there to die? She had to do something ... she pushed the raw, ugly memories of their groping hands into a dark place in her mind - that didn't happen to her ... not her, really ...

She looked anxiously at her brother, who was blinking hard, trying to clear his head. Suddenly Callon's wounded mare came into her view. A few of the men were trying to keep it still, but the animal, in its fear and pain, wanted to reach the only humans it knew. There had always been comfort and friendship with them - maybe if it could reach them, all these bad things would stop. They would make things better - they always did.

"All they care about is money," she thought, pushing the thoughts of other things they might want into the dark place along with the memories, and spoke up loud and clear, hoping no one noticed the tremor in her voice.

"Why don't you let my brother and me tend the wounded mare? If she recovers, she would be worth much to you."

Griss, trying to keep the role of top man present, assented gruffly. "Do it," he said.

She started to move towards the horse, but he grabbed her back and put his lips right up to her ear in an insulting, familiar way.

"No tricks, though, wench, or I won't be the only one making you pay! It's hard to keep my men back ... make it worth my effort."

Caelen fought back her disgust and fear and said meekly, "No tricks. Please, I just want to help her, she's in such pain..." Then remembering that these men didn't care at all about the animal, except for what they could use her or sell her for, she re-emphasized, "And she's worth a lot of money!"

Griss pushed her towards the horse. Caelen walked towards the injured animal and then stopped, deciding to take a risk. She boldly asked, "Would you untie my brother, please? Together we should be able to help the mare."

The men roared with laughter, but Caelen pressed on. "Look at her," she said, indicating the sleek, well-bred mare, trying to not think about her obvious distress and pain, "she's worth quite a lot of money alive, but worth nothing dead." Her gaze swept over the group, noting the youngest man - the archer - and his slightly sympathetic gaze. "Unless any of you are horse experts and can help me, that is," she added, and turned to Griss and Algeirr again with an air of a slightly exasperated expert that is trying to help the one that called her in even though he is hindering her.

Algeirr decided that Griss had taken enough of the commanding role, and motioned to one of his men. "Release him," he said, "the wench is right - the horse is a valuable one." Callon was jerked to his feet and his bonds cut off. Algeirr walked up to him and spat. Pulling out his blade, he jerked Caelen to his side and held the dagger to her throat, saying to Callon, "Know this, Tark - if you do anything I don't like, I'll give your woman a necklace to match yours!" Callon's eyes flamed with hate, but he was strong enough to not lose a chance out of anger, and he coldly nodded his assent.

As Callon walked over to his mare, she tossed her fine head and whinnied eagerly. At last, the one that smelled of green grass and fresh air; the one that brought her good things to eat; the one that helped her and made her feel good! She tried to walk towards him, but Callon held up his hand to her in the command to ground-tie, and she obediently halted and waited for him, trembling with distress.

He reached her head and caressed it gently, speaking soft words and rubbing the spot under her forelock that she liked so much. As he calmed her down, he tried to steal a glance at the young man holding the reins. Of all the bunch, he seemed the best bet to be most sympathetic to them. Callon decided to try to talk to the young man as much as possible and hopefully win him to their side - or at least win enough of him to where he might hesitate or even deliberately miss his next shot at them, if it came to that again. There were precious little other options Callon could see at the moment.

The mare lowered her head into Callon's caress and blew gently out of her nose. Her lovely coat was covered in sweat and flecked with foam, her nostrils were wide and red, but the sweet-smelling man was here now, and she visibly relaxed.
Callon turned to the young archer. "What's the arrowhead like? Can you show me?"

"Can't be pulled - gotta cut it out," Kvigr answered, trying to sound older than he was. Callon nodded and moved to examine the wound. As he moved, he kept one hand on the mare at all times, letting her know that he hadn't left her. He kept up the soft conversation with her, too. Kvigr was amazed at how the mare had calmed down by Callon's expert handling, and had a flash of anger and resentment. He could never afford a horse like this! The mare turned to look at him with her big, liquid eyes, and he forgot his anger. She nudged him gently and he awkwardly stroked her velvet-soft nose.

Callon was trying to decide the best angle to cut from when something caught his eye. He drew in a quick breath, and then slowly worked his hand down the mare's leg, squatting down next to her as he reached her fetlock. What he saw made him hang his head in despair - the delicate pastern bone had been broken in the horse's fall, and she was beyond anyone's help.

He leaned his head against her leg for a moment and tried to gather his strength and senses, still shaky from his own fall and subsequent beating. Slowly he stood up, again always keeping one hand on the mare, and turned to the young man.

"Her pastern - the bone just above the hoof - is broken," he said.

Kviggr looked at him. The grief in the Tark's eyes made him, for a moment, less alien. Kvigr liked animals - maybe Tarks weren't all bad, he thought.

"Can it - can you put a splint on or something?" he asked. The mare nudged him gently again, and Kvigr stroked her nose.

"No, I'm afraid not," said Callon. "There's no hope for a horse who has broken that bone. There's no way they can support their own weight while it's healing, and a horse can't survive on 3 legs - the other hooves will only get deformed and eventually infected. She must be put down."

Kvigr said nothing; he only looked at the mare's soft nose.

"I don't suppose you'd lend me your dagger to do the job," said Callon wryly.

"I'll do it - show me where," mumbled Kvigr.

"Let me tell my sister first, she'll want to help ease the mare," said Callon, revealing his relationship to the girl without even realizing he had done it.

He turned to call to his sister, and saw - nothing.
She was gone.

[Gordis]

Chapter 5. Guests from the North


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Camp at Morva Torch, October 6, 1347
Written by Angmar
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Jarl Broggha had ordered a great feast be held in honor of the dignitaries from the North who were visiting the camp. Fires had been built in the clay earthen ovens the night before, and the Jarl's thralls had been occupied at their task of baking bread since before dawn. Kettles of stew were bubbling over fires; deer, squirrel, boar and ox were roasting on great spits throughout the camp. The smell of cooking meat blended with the smell of mead, ale, unwashed bodies and the dungpits. Though some of the men had already partaken of too much brew, the Jarl insisted upon order in his camp, and rowdies found that justice was administered all too quickly.

The Jarl and his guests had been in conference in his long house for hours while the whole camp celebrated their arrival. The building was heavily guarded at both the front and rear entrances, for the Jarl had given orders that he was not to be disturbed while discussions were in progress.

The Jarl was addressing a distinguished looking man, taller even than himself, who sat across the table from him. The table, the chairs, and almost every object in the room had once belonged to an unfortunate landholder of Rhudaur, who had since ceased having a need for such things. Though clad in traveling clothing, the visitors' dress was far richer than that of the Jarl's. The tall man was quietly listening to the Jarl's words.

"The King will soon have naught to fear, for when Rhudaur is in my hands, it is also in his." When Broggha spoke, he was fond of using wide, sweeping gestures of his hands to emphasize the importance of what he was saying, and his hands sometimes were more eloquent than his speech.

"The tributes that have been sent to the capital have been quite ample. The King was especially pleased with the quantity of plate and jewels, the fine horses, seed grains, and other tokens of your alliance. He values the continued friendship that is shared between himself and you. You have his promise of support should need arise."

"There will be a great deal more of goods, I promise him! The lords of this land are ripe for the plucking, with plenty to provide for the levies and to pay my men." Broggha was waving his right arm in an extravagant fashion to emphasize the promise of the future. "The king of Rhudaur is weak; he fears me and my growing power and influence. He has sent emissaries to me offering me whatever position I wish to accept in his kingdom."

"And have you accepted?" the other man asked quietly.

"Aye, I have." The Jarl's hands stopped beating the air and he took a drink from his goblet. Though he had long been in league with the Northern King, he would let his liege's underlings wait for the announcement of what position he would hold in the Rhuduarian kingdom.

"And what is this position?"

"Besides my own castle, which is quite large and rather grand, I might tell you, I have accepted the position as chief advisor on the Privy Council."

"A commendable appointment," the other man nodded.

"Nothing more than an attempt to purchase time and try to buy me off. The fool does not know that I want much more - his kingdom and his daughter's hand in marriage!"

"Jarl Broggha, you have grown to be quite a powerful man." The other man's eyes glittered as they narrowed. "When Rhudaur is in your grasp and the land is divided, the name of Broggha will be remembered forever."

***

Sounds of revelry in the camp had reached a fevered pitch with the sounds of loud shouting and cursing mingled with the screams and giggles of the female thralls. In the long house built of logs that served as Broggha's headquarters, eight of his lieutenants lay sprawled and drunken, their heads upon the table. Several had slid beneath the table and were snoring peacefully with the hounds.

Holding his dagger in his hand, Broggha speared a chunk of cold mutton on the tip and plopped the meat into his mouth. His hunger still unabated, he reached a mighty hand into a platter of cold roast beef and began tearing off chunks. Washing it all down with a swallow of ale, he wiped his mouth off on the back of his hand and loudly belched twice.

Broggha smiled as he thought of the generous promises of Carn Dum. There would be aid should he need it - but Broggha was more than certain that his own men could carry his plans off quite well. The important guarantee concerned the orcs. Those brutes would increase their harassment on the holds of those accursed Dunedain nobles who were loyal to King Tarnendur but would stay clear of Broggha's people.

Broggha thought ahead for a few days hence when he and a great contingent of his men would march in triumphal procession through the streets of Cameth Brin. There would be many other of his men who would be cheering along his victory route. Their purpose would be both to add their voices to the exultant crowds and to make certain that no foolish Dunedain would get the idea to try to assassinate Broggha.

People were always awed with parades and show, but Broggha cared little of the affectations of people. His interests lay in the impression that his great force would make upon the king and his nobles. Broggha was now a force with which to be reckoned.

The hour was growing late and he called to the thralls to put more wood in the brazier. Broggha took another draught from his tankard, belched and stood to his towering height beside his chair. Gathering his fur robe around his shoulders, he shouted to Aewen and Maleneth, "Filthy Tark slatterns! The night will be cold! Come and warm my bed!"

Maleneth was able to hide the surge of resentment in her eyes, but Aewen, who was younger, could not conceal her indignity.

"Come here, wench," Broggha bellowed as he threw her across his shoulder and carried her off to the raised platform and his furs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
October 6, 1347 - a few leagues north of Broggha's Camp
Written by Valandil
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Eryndil sat on the fallen tree, rubbing his chin reflectively at this latest bit of news.
His last orders had been to shadow Broggha's advance as far as Penmorva, reporting anything out of the ordinary, and then to seek what winter quarters suited them.

Keeping an eye on Broggha's enormous company had been an easy task. Even when his scouts started snooping around close by, it was no trouble to slip away. Easy enough to get lost in THESE hills. And these particular hills... he had known them from boyhood. "Eryndil" he had been named at birth, and as the 3rd son of a Thane, he had lived up to being a "forest-friend" from his earliest days - while his older brothers had more serious duties of learning to run their father's estate. And now... at 40, after 15 years in the King's service, men called him "Taurenol" - "wood-wise" for few could equal him in the wilds.

It had been easy enough to continue the chase a little past Penmorva. He wondered why Broggha had set up his camp - and how long he would stay - and why he didn't just march on down to Cameth Brin now - before winter began to set in.
He looked at the faces of his patrol - the 12 men under his command - all first-termers. Nine were from families of Householders - seven from his father's own lands. All of these nine were pretty good woodsmen. The three "city-boys" were learning well enough. Another year or two and they could hold their own, perhaps. Four of his men - three of those from the country, including the two brothers - were sons of soldiers. Eryndil's own father had done little soldiering himself - but Eryndil felt like he was making up for it.

This latest news though... first the young couple headed toward Morva - where that scraggly bunch of probable Arthedain deserters was. And now, the riders coming in from the north - headed in the direction of Broggha's camp. Who were THEY? And did they intend to ride to Broggha, or were they seeking Cameth Brin, unaware of the great camp of men in their path?

The wind whipped up, and he thought of winter once more. This close to his father's estate... that might be a good place to settle in for winter this year. He thought of his younger sister, whom he hadn't seen in 5 years now. And his father, mother... everyone else! Most of the other men could spend the Yule with their own families, and they could always keep 3 or 4 out afield, yet within a winter day's hike of reach.

It would sure beat another winter in the Ettenmoors, by Eru!

But before they made good on any winter plans, Eryndil decided to check into these latest developments.

"Let's go!" he said to his men, standing and turning toward where the new reports had come from, keeping to the shadows of wood and stone.

[Gordis]

Chapter 6. Tarks Are Good for Something


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On the road near Morva Torch, afternoon of October 6, 1347.
Written by Gordis, Angmar, and Valandil
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Algeirr calmed his men, who were muttering darkly, angry and disappointed, and sent them to tend to the horse. They obeyed reluctantly, as they knew that no one of them could best their leader in fight. But they were far from content, and still shot angry glances at Algeirr and Griss and lustful ones at the girl.

While the young tark, aided by Kvigr, was busy with the wounded mare, three other mercenaries with drawn swords stood guard around them. Griss and Algeirr were holding the girl's arms, Algeirr's knife firmly held at her milk-white throat.

The distraction left Algeirr time to think and observe the others. He noticed that Heggr, Griss's companion, was as disappointed as his own men, if not more. He stood nearby, sucking his bad teeth, his dark hungry eyes riveted to the wench, as a cat watches a fat mouse.

Even Griss himself looked distracted: he was holding the left arm of the girl and was using his right hand to stroke her buttocks, when he thought nobody was looking. When the girl squirmed and kicked Griss's knee with her foot, cursing under her breath, Algeirr made his decision.

He grinned good-naturedly at Griss and received an answering smile: the man seemed relieved that Algeirr's anger had passed.

"I must have a word with you, Griss," Algeirr whispered conspiratorially. "Bind the wench's hands, so we can talk"

Griss drew the girl's hands behind her back, and Algeirr passed him a piece of rope to bind them together. When the girl started to struggle, Algeirr put some pressure on the knife at her throat, drawing a trickle of blood. Then he took out of his pocket a large dirty piece of cloth, which normally served as a kerchief. But this time Algeirr used it to gag the girl. Struggling frantically now, she tried to avoid the dirty cloth that was being pushed in her mouth. But Griss held her firmly from behind, pressing her body to his with both arms.

When the girl opened her mouth to scream, the gag finally found its way into her mouth, and the only sound that came out was a low moan. This time, it was Griss's turn to take out his kerchief which they tied firmly over the girl's jaws, securing the gag in place. The two outlaws apprised their handiwork, smiling with satisfaction.

Algeirr looked back at the group near the mare. The three outlaws were still gawking at the operation and effectively screened the scene from the Tark. Heggr was the only one watching him and Griss, and his shrewd grim gaze made it quite clear that he wished to be a party in whatever was going to be discussed. Algeirr nodded towards the side of the road and they made their way through the low shrubs, pushing the struggling girl between them.

"Let us bind her to a tree," Algeirr said to Griss and Heggr, once they were safely out of earshot from the road. Caelen was soon bound to a pine-tree, ropes securing her wrists and her still bleeding neck. Algeirr sat on the thick carpet of pine-needles and grinned at Broggha's men.

"I have a proposal, gentlemen," he said amiably. "Let us have fun with the tark wench now and kill them both afterwards."

Seeing that Griss was about to protest, Algeirr stopped him, saying, "Broggha needs not be told of this, I gather he has wenches enough. Of course, all the other lads should be let to have their part of the fun, that will help them keep their mouths shut."

"What say you to that?"

As Griss listened to Algeirr's words, Heggr kept telling him with sharp glances that he liked Algeirr's plan to use the woman now and after the sporting was concluded, kill the both of them.

"Why shouldn't we have a little fun?" Griss told himself. Broggha always had the best of everything - the best women, the best ale and wine, the best food, the best horse. All men like Griss and Heggr could do was cast lustful looks at women like Aewen and Maleneth and hope their leader didn't notice. When Griss had been holding the girl, he couldn't keep his hands off her, and now he wanted to do a lot more than stroke her rump with his hand. Just looking at the girl made him ache. He caught her eye and his bold expression said, "I hope I am first!"

Broggha didn't even know this girl existed. This would be simple; Griss was the head of Broggha's spies. Oh, Broggha thought up the missions sometimes, but it was Griss' sharp mind which kept the records of the activities of every last one of his spies. They would bury the girl and her brother deep so that not even the scavengers could dig them up, and no one would ever find their bodies.

Algeirr was speaking to him now, "What say you to that?"

Griss had already decided. "Let's all take a tumble with her and kill her and her brother. Now who is going to be first?" Griss eyed Algeirr. There was no point in getting the man any more angry than he already had been, but it had been a long, long time since Griss had had a woman!

***

There was a loud THWACK on the tree where the girl was tied. The men looked sharply toward the sound, and saw a steel arrow, sunk deep into the tree, about an arm's length over the girl's head.

They wavered for just a moment - instincts telling them to flee, but their better sense telling them to hold still. Then a voice called out from the forest, "HOLD! In the name of the King!"

Eryndil strode forth, drawn sword before him, five men behind him with spears extended.

"Now... MOVE!" he commanded, "Out onto the road."

One of them had a better idea and dove for cover. "Fool," thought Eryndil, just as an arrow struck the man's thigh. Then he signaled for two of the fellow's comrades to help him out into the road.

Eryndil paused before the young woman at the tree as his men passed him, leading the others now right onto the road. He watched as the other two young ones who had been apart were brought forth by his three other spearmen. That left him four archers in the woods - and two of them were Narwaith and Nimloss - who wouldn't miss their mark with a clear shot on the road.

He turned then to the girl. Some would have fainted at an arrow strike like that, but her eyes looked at him levelly - without fear, with no expression at all.

"My sword is a bit clumsy for this, but I dare not set it aside," he told her, and then walking around the tree, reached his left hand to support her shoulder as with his great sword he cut the ropes binding her to the tree and tying her hands. Those hands freed, she quickly reached up and pulled down the kerchief holding the gag in her mouth and began to cough and spat as she rubbed her wrists and throat.

"Now that one," Eryndil said, indicating Callon, "Is he your husband?" He had to be sure the man hadn't brought her here to them, though he doubted it by the matching bloody marks on their necks.

Her eyes opened wide as she turned her head sharply toward him. "He... cough, cough, ... is my..." but then she just turned and ran toward the young man in the road. Eryndil's men let her pass, and she threw her arms about him and the two embraced.

Eryndil signaled for the two to be led out of the circle of spears, then turned his attention to his own captives. From the forest he had seen that they now numbered seven instead of five - and that the two additions were likely from Broggha's camp. This complicated things, so it was best not to acknowledge it. And he had given the brothers a strict command, though Eru knows they have a score to settle - and Eryndil wasn't sure if he could keep his own bowstring in check, were he in their places.

"So... deserters from Malvegil's Army? He hangs such, doesn't he? Now... lay your weapons aside - in a pile - here!"

The men complied, wordlessly, but with venom in their eyes. Eryndil then had them lie face-down on the road, with two ranger between each. He commanded his men, "If one moves, stick 'im!" as they began to search them in turn, drawing out not a few stray daggers and other things. Then he addressed them further.

"You have fallen into the hands of Taurenol, Servant to King Tarnendur of Rhudaur - and I do not do the office of Malvegil of Arthedain. If you heed me, you will survive our first meeting, otherwise..."

"Deserters do no one any good. But kidnappers, thieves, murderers... and other such," he said, looking back at the girl, "these break the laws of our land. As it is, my timely intervention has spared you men the disgrace of breaking our good King's Laws, and falling into his disfavor - for this you can be thankful. If I had come later, I would have no choice but to slay you all."

Oh - double fool! Just at that moment, Gwaerod - the slowest-learning of his men - was searching the last of the captives when the man swung about with a dagger. Gwaerod warded off the blow at the price of a sliced forearm. This just wouldn't do, thought Eryndil, as he rushed forward with his sword. But as Eryndil drew close enough to strike, and Gwaerod tried to rally himself and spear the man, two arrows met their marks, one in the chest and one in the throat, and the man slumped back and lay still. Eryndil smiled grimly to himself. That one in the throat came from where Narwaith was posted - 'he might be better than me now' thought Eryndil. He noted that the man was one of the apparent deserters - not one of Broggha's men. That at least was good.

The rest of the men seemed more cooperative from then on. Eryndil noted that the sun would be setting soon. While Lothrond tended to Gwaerod, Norumar and Ceruvar gathered up the weapons of the brigands. "Now," said Eryndil, "give each one its own special hiding place in the woods yonder," indicating the forest on the south side of the road. "Maybe these men can find them in the morning." But if Norumar and Ceruvar did their jobs right, it would take all the next day.

To reach Broggha's camp - a likely destination - one would take the road east. Eryndil and his men had come from the north, and he intended to depart to the northwest. He called down Hithirion and Griblung from the woods, keeping his two best archers in hiding. Then he commanded his captives to rise. "Now... walk!" he said, pointing westward. "You two," indicating the ones who seemed to be leaders, "help your wounded comrade." He instructed six of his men to walk behind them, to the next bend in the road, as far as they could still be seen. Then his men were to stop and watch their captives go at least another two furlongs beyond. By then the sun would be setting and it would be almost dark. As they walked away, he looked to where his last two archers were hiding and motioned for them to follow.

Now was just the wrap-up. The young couple explained about their wounded horse, so he gave them the weapon they asked for. The pair walked the animal just inside the woods and the deed was done. Then the slain man was dragged to the edge of the road and covered with a blanket, weighed down by stones, left there for his own comrades to bury. The horses belonging to the bandits were hobbled to keep them from running far - Eryndil checked the knots to make sure they couldn't be untied, so that the men would have to find sharpened steel to cut the ropes before the horses could be ridden.

They made ready to depart. Eryndil asked that his wounded man could ride one horse while the young couple doubled-up on the other - explaining that they would just walk, and over rough terrain. He asked in part so that the pair wouldn't decide to flee. It was turning dusk when his six men returned from their walk. Ceruvar and Norumar had finished their work, so they all departed. Eryndil and nine of his men walked - one of whom led the horse that carried Gwaerod (who had never sat on a horse before) - and Callon and Caelen on another horse in their midst.

Narwaith and Nimloss joined them about half a furlong into the woods. On they marched - due north at first, after Eryndil had extracted an oath from them that they hadn't harmed Broggha's men.

It would be useless to try to gather more information on the riders seen headed toward Broggha's camp, Eryndil sighed. Now... despite all this other precautions, he still only needed to make sure that they were not followed.

[Gordis]

Chapter 7. Troubles in the Royal Family


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Cameth Brin, October 6, 1347.
Written by Elfhild
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The trees in the castle bailey were beginning to show signs of autumn, the green leaves tinted with a touch of yellow. The fields beneath the steep cliff of Cameth Brin had been harvested and were now lying fallow for the winter rest. The hay mows in the barn were filled with the ripe riches of the hayfields, and even now gave off a lingering sweetness of August's last mowing.

Tarniel, King Tarnendur's youngest daughter, a girl of fourteen, sat upon the cushioned window seat, looking out through the open window at the scene outside. A tall, willowy girl, her long, rich brunette tresses were bound up in a fat mass of plaits held captive within a net of finely woven thread. She possessed all the traits of her race, that of the Dunedain, the usual dark hair and fair skin, and gray eyes like the sea from which the elves set sail at the ports of Lindon. Her rosy cheeks were not marked with a single freckle brought about by the brilliant rays of Lady Arien, for, as did most noblewomen, she spent most of her days within castle walls or beneath the shade trees in the lovely palace gardens.

And that was just what Tarniel was doing now, sitting in her chamber. A book lay forgotten in her lap; her thoughts were elsewhere, upon the dances which would be held in winter, the court balls in the castle's majestic ballroom... Lords and ladies would come from all around to her father's court, and there would be mirth and cheer, and the logs would burn brightly in the great fireplace... there would be long feasting tables covered with food aplenty, and subtleties of gelatin wrought in the shapes of great animals or castles or scenes from history. Young men, suitors for the king's daughter, would all be vying for the chance to dance with her... she blushed when she thought of them, a broad smile curling out over her lips.

Then her thoughts darkened, for she thought of her half-sister Gimilbeth, a woman almost ninety years her senior. Gimilbeth had little love for Tarniel, her mother or her two brothers. It was commonly believed that she was a witch, and Tarniel tried to avoid her as much as possible. Thoughts of her could ruin those of any pleasant social gathering.


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Cameth Brin, morning of October 6, 1347. Written by Gordis
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Gimilbeth, the eldest daughter of Tarnendur and his late first wife Inzilbeth, sat at her dressing table looking in the mirror with unseeing eyes. She has just returned from the Tanoth Brin village, her elaborate blue headdress still on her head and her pack of medicinal herbs clutched tightly in her hands.

Yozaneth, the little rosy-cheeked, plump Yozaneth was dead at last. Her little northern handmaid, her adoring and selfless companion, her only friend... Yes, they had been friends an age ago in sunny Gondor, where the wind smelled of the Sea and flowers, where peaches grew in lush gardens, where precious stones were pebbles for children to play with. The land where Gimilbeth was ready to become Queen...

She remembered the beaming Yozaneth at the balcony of their palace in Osgiliath, all flushed and happy, telling her:

"Oh Prince Valacar is in love with you already, t'was plain to see, m'lady! And he is to become King one day, d'you know?"

She knew, of course. Valacar son of Minalcar, the Regent of the realm, was the childless King Narmacil's grand-nephew and Heir to the Gondor throne after his father. Seeing the growing beauty of Tarnendur's noble daughter, Minalcar proposed the eventual betrothal of Gimilbeth with his young son Valacar. It was too early to speak of marriage, of course, even of the regular betrothal, as Gimilbeth had only seen ten summers by this time.

Still, that very day, Valacar was introduced to Gimilbeth. He kissed her hand tenderly and spoke in mock seriousness.

"I see you are growing to be a wondrous beauty, my young Lady. No man could remain indifferent in your presence."

And then, the same year, Minalcar sent his son away, to the far land of Rhovanion, to establish good relations with the northern barbarians. Valacar succeeded in that, apparently, as he returned to Gondor with a barbaric wife and a new-born bastard.

That day Gimilbeth cried for the first time in her life, little Yozaneth wailing at her feet. But it was not the last time...

Yozaneth was one of the children of Tarnendur's servant, Yozadan, half-Hillmen himself and married to a Hillmen girl. Gimilbeth knew how short the life span of Hillmen was supposed to be, but still she was shocked when Yozaneth was married and nursing a plump child before Gimilbeth herself was done with playing with her dolls. She felt abandoned and betrayed, and sent Yozaneth away. Gimilbeth found new handmaidens, dark-haired Gondorian girls, but no one of them could take the place Yozaneth had held at her side and in her heart.

Later, Yozaneth was around, but not too close, growing older and older. For the last forty years, since they came to the cold, savage land of Rhudaur, Gimilbeth saw her old handmaiden rarely. Yozaneth lived quietly in Tanoth Brin, surrounded by her numerous children and grandchildren, and never came up to the Castle. Until the last night, when a ruddy, sandy-haired peasant, one of Yozaneth's great-grandchildren, begged the Lady Gimilbeth to attend her old friend at her deathbed. It was not a plea anyone could refuse, so Gimilbeth took her bag of medicine, and, surrounded by an escort of armed Dunedain guards, rode down the winding road to the village.

The room in the little cottage below the hill was crowded. Old gray-haired men and women wept, the younger ones sniffed, and the little great-grandchildren watched the bed with frightened solemn eyes. On the bed, covered by fur blankets, lay a small heap of bones, held together by translucent, wrinkled skin. Only the kind blue eyes were recognizable and still able to recognize. Yozaneth smiled at her, showing stumps of rotten teeth, and held out a bony hand. She was too weak to say anything and died within the hour.

And Yozaneth was one year younger than she.

Gimilbeth shook her head and looked into the mirror worriedly. The mirror reflected the face of a young maiden, with flawless creamy skin and dark-blue, almost black, secretive eyes under the long dark lashes. So far, the secret knowledge she inherited from her Umbarian grandmother had worked. And she had used only simple spells, herbal creams and lotions. And dancing alone on the nights of the Equinoxes and summer and winter Solstices, drawing power from the Sun. But her grandmother leagued her more... Gimilbeth also had a little black book, which her dying mother begged her to burn. She didn't burn it, but never dared to read beyond the first page.

Rising wearily, Gimilbeth went to the large chest by the wall, and, opening the secret locker in the lid, took out the book. It smelled faintly of fungus. The small book looked ancient beyond count, the leather cover set with precious stones moldy and fragile. Mouth pressed into a thin line, Gimilbeth returned to her chair and opened the first page.

"The Ancient Darkness is stronger than the Light. And out of it the world was made. For Darkness alone is worshipful, and the Lord thereof may yet make other worlds to be gifts to those that serve him, so that the increase of their power shall find no end."
"It is He whose Name is not now spoken; for the Valar have deceived you concerning Him, putting forward the name of Eru, a phantom devised in the folly of their hearts, seeking to enchain Men in servitude to themselves. For they are the oracle of this Eru, which speaks only what they will. But He that is their Master shall yet prevail, and He will deliver you from this phantom; and His name is Melkor, Lord of All, Giver of Freedom, and He shall make you stronger than they".


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Cameth Brin, late morning of October 6, 1347.
Written by Gordis and Elfhild
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Tarnendur, King of Rhudaur, his old wrinkled face contorted in a scowl, walked out of the Council chamber. Yet again he had to make concessions: his counselors have been most persuasive and made him accept the unacceptable, to accord Broggha the Rebel, Broggha the Murderer a castle to rule and a place of Chief advisor on the Council of Rhudaur! At this thought the King's fingers curled into a fist. He shook his long mane of white hair and headed out for a gulp of fresh air. He descended to the first level of the tower and passed through the great central hall. This was the public hall, where feasts and receptions were held, petitions were heard, and where many of the courtiers slept at night, either in the Hall itself, or in smaller chambers opening into it.

In the court, the sun was shining, weak and watery, giving little warmth. Cold autumn breezes swept the yard. Near the main gate, he saw his sons with several other boys of their age, preparing to go to the Old Fort for their archery lesson. Seeing the King, the young men approached and bowed, waiting for the King to address them.

Daurendil, the King's heir, a young man of twenty summers, dark-haired and keen-eyed, took a lot after his father. He stood proudly, smiling at the King, his eyes level with his father's. He was clad in an elegant green tunic and a copper-colored cape, a long bow behind his back.

Amantir, of smaller stature, with wavy raven hair, delicate features and soft feminine mouth was a copy of his mother, gentle and loving Queen Eilinel. He was the first to notice the King's concealed distress and looked back at his father inquiringly.

"Greetings, my sons," said the King. "I hope you are fine. I see you are ready for the archery practice. Captain Merendil is quite pleased with your progress, I heard."

The young men bowed again, flushing at the King's approval, so rare these days.

"I won't detain you longer, my sons," the King continued. "Only tell me, have you seen your sister Tarniel today?"

"Yes Father," replied Daurendil. "She is in her rooms reading or dreaming as usual."

The Prince had little interest for his sister. What a shame to be born a girl, to be confined to your rooms and miss almost all the excitement there is in life!

The King nodded and turned to the Palace, a newly built luxurious building surrounded by a small garden. He saw Tarniel sitting at the window and beckoned to her. Tarniel soon appeared at the door and joined the King.

"Come, daughter," he said, looking at her lovingly. "Walk with me in the garden for a while."

They walked for some time in silence.

"I am afraid the news is not good," he said after a while. "Our life is about to change. I was forced to make some concessions to the Hillmen rebels. Soon it will be unsafe to walk alone in the garden or even to remain in your room unattended. Some wicked people will be around here."

Alarmed, Tarniel looked to her father's face.

"Oh, that is horrible, Father! Are these Hillmen here to stay? Will every day be like this?"

Her gaze left his face and she looked about the garden, thinking of all the places which were so wonderful for moments of quiet solace. Would she have to sacrifice her freedom to be alone and dream for fear of marauding Hillmen everywhere?

"I have to be attended even in my room?!" she gasped in disbelief.

Tarnendur turned slowly and looked at his daughter. So young and innocent she was, sheltered and pampered by her loving parents, unprepared to meet the cruel realities of life. It was yet another of his many mistakes....

Tarnendur was long reluctant to re-marry, remaining faithful to the one he held so dear and mourned for so long. But, to his own surprise, he found peace and happiness with his loving, gentle wife Eilinel, and a new hope when, in due time, she presented him with two strong sons and a lovely daughter. Tarniel was by far his favorite of the three, or, at least, it seemed so to casual observers. If he were able to be stern and demanding with his sons, deeming it the only way to raise them properly, every time he looked at his daughter, his old heart melted, and she invariably got everything she wanted and more.

Perhaps, now it was time to change that. Tarnendur scowled from cheer frustration and pain, and replied in a harsh strangled voice.

"Yes, Tarniel. Even in your room, even while you sleep. I will ask the Queen to choose a trustworthy Dunedain woman, skilled with weapons, to be your guardian day and night. I would be loath to order armed men to stay in your room. But once you are outside, an escort of four guards is in order. They will follow you everywhere. Now, go and find Princess Odaragariel. I trust you to transmit my orders to her. She is an orphan, and I am her guardian, so the same precautions will be made for her safety."

With that, Tarnendur turned on his heels, and strode to the Palace. He had a most unpleasant task at hand - to tell Gimilbeth of the Council's decision.