Runnings. Shadow over Rhudaur I

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Earniel



Cameth Brin, midday of October 6, 1347.

Wilwarin walked through the corridors of Cameth Brin. She was slightly nervous at the prospect of meeting the princesses she would have to guard at night from now on. The King had told her to seek out the princesses on her own as it would probably upset them less. She had left her weapons at home for that reason.

She secretly suspected he didn't want to deal with upset young maidens right now, as they most likely would be. Wilwarin wasn't so sure whether she'd like a guard following her around in her own chambers herself.

But things could not be helped now.

She only hoped that both princesses wouldn't make things more difficult than they already were. After all, they were under no obligation to even like her.

By now Wilwarin had reached the chambers of the Princess of Mitheithel. She could hear voices inside so princess Tarniel was present too. Good.

She took a deep breath and knocked on the door.


Kvigr



Broggha's camp at Morva Torch, before midnight, October 6, 1347

They have barely started moving towards Broggha's camp, when Algeirr suddenly stopped the horse and slipped out of the saddle, motioning Meldun to take his place.

"I will stay here and try to find out weapons", he said. "I can't face the Jarl unarmed, like a beaten dog. You go now and bring Uffi to the healer. Don't brag about our misadventures, probably at night nobody will notice that you are weaponless."

Griss started to protest, but he saw the wisdom of Algeirr's plan. The last thing he wanted was to be ridiculed by all the camp.

"I will return tomorrow to help you, if I can", Griss ventured.

The ride seemed endless. Night had fallen, cold and dark, a thin sliver of sickle moon hanging low in the sky. Uffi had long stopped moaning and slumped in the saddle in front of Meldun.

At last, Griss took a sharp turn left, off the road. Soon they saw a welcoming blaze of torches through the trees. The camp sentries, once they recognized Griss and Heggr, seemed little inclined to question them further and let them into the wide clearing.

Late as it were, the camp was still awake, bawdy songs, muffled cries and drunken laughter resounding in the surrounding trees. It seemed there was some drunken revelry going on. Kvigr saw a large, brightly lit wooden building with sentries at the entrance. Griss told him it was Broggha's hall, and disappeared in this direction to warn the Jarl of their return and to give him an account of his mission.

Griss reappeared quite soon though, bringing the news that the Jarl had gone to bed with his wenches, and was not to be disturbed until morning. The mention of wenches brought the ache and frustration back, and the men cursed under their breath, vowing to find this bloody Tark named Taurendol again and make him pay.

"There are guests from the North in the camp today" explained Griss, pointing to a medium-sized black tent erected near Broggha's log-house. The outlaws looked in wonder at the two somberly-clad men guarding the tent - obviously both were Tarks.

Meanwhile, Heggr returned from another direction, bringing back a squat old man in dirty leathers and furs, with a grand necklace of bear's teeth hanging around his neck. Several other charms were attached to his wrists and sleeves.

"Here is Hrani, our shaman-healer" announced Heggr proudly. "He will attend to Uffi's leg."

In Arthedain army, Kvigr had grown used to neat, efficient tark-healers, so he looked in doubt at the dirty little man who was peering at them owlishly, obviously just out of his bedroll. Moreover, the shaman was reeking of cheap ale and swaying drunkenly on his feet.

But what choice did they have? Soon Uffi, still unconscious, was lying on his back on the ground near one of the campfires, while the healer, having cut away his pants, examined his wound, prodding it with his dirty fingers..

"I think he is a goner anyway", declared the healer after the briefest examination, "But perhaps he will live, if I cut away this leg". He grinned at the assembled men, obviously happy with his own competence.

The shaman took out a long knife and started cutting the flesh just below the makeshift tourniquet. Uffi sprang back to consciousness, screaming and trashing. Heggr quickly found a splinter of wood and pushed it into Uffi's mouth, lest he bit off his own tongue. The others now firmly held Uffi's legs and arms, while Kvigr applied his weight to the man's shoulders.

Soon the healer put away his knife and pulled out of his bag a small saw. Kvigr watched in horror how the old rusty saw bit into the bleeding flesh, cutting the white bone with a sickening sound. Uffi cried for the last time and swooned again.

Kvigr felt the bile rising in his throat and turned his head to look away. He suddenly noticed a very tall, richly clad Tark standing nearby and watching the gruesome scene with morbid fascination, a faint smile playing on his thin lips. To Kvigr's surprise, the Tark somehow felt the youth's intense gaze, and turning abruptly he made his way to the black tent near Broggha's quarters.

"A man from the North" thought Kvigr, shivering, cold dread creeping over him. He heard many tales about the northern sorcerers, told at night around campfires. It was said, the witches of the North could charm you with their gaze like a serpent charms a mouse, he heard they could disappear and reappear out of nothing , some said, they could even fly... A brief look at the man's face somehow made all such tales seem all too real.

At this moment Uffi started to scream again, a high tortured wail. Kvigr smelled the reek of burning flesh, and saw that the stump had just been cauterized. It seemed they used the blade of a broad battle axe, heated in the flames of the nearby campfire. At this moment, Kvigr's guts suddenly convulsed and he rushed to the nearby bushes to vomit.


Tarniel



Cameth Brin, midday of October 6, 1347

"Yes, it is just as bad as I have said," Tarniel nodded grimly as Odaragariel led the princess and the elf into her chamber. Soon they were seated near one of the palace windows, Tarniel and Arinya sitting upon a long cushioned bench, Odaragariel upon a pretty curule chair.

"Father told me that a Dunedain woman, a lady suggested by the Queen, would be our guardian day and night, and then there are the four guards who are to follow us around during the day," Tarniel clarified her previous announcement as the others listened gravely. "With such precautions, I dread to think of the horrible state of affairs which we will be facing."

She paused for a moment, then added nervously, "Perhaps you would let me borrow one of those daggers, Odaragariel..."

It was then that the three heard a knock on the door.

"Let me see who that is," Odaragariel said as she rose to her feet and crossed the room.


Odaragariel of Mitheithel



It was annoying, she reflected, that none of her maids were around to open the door; she got up herself to do it. She was in a tetchy mood, for though she was polite as ever with Tarniel, and would never show her temper before Arinya, the news Tarniel had brought had irritated her greatly. The door revealed a woman, older than her, but it was difficult to tell how old she was; her style of clothing, and the way she wore her hair, showed her to be a Dunedain, however. She was taller than Odaragariel, and Odaragariel had to scowl upwards at the woman before her. It did not soften her mood.

"What do you want? Can't you tell we're discussing something important here?" she asked haughtily.

The woman was unperturbed, and replied softly, "I am Wilwarin, of the Dunedain. I have been sent to protect the Princesses Tarniel and Odaragariel. Who are you?"

Odaragariel bristled. "I am the Princess Odaragariel!"

"Of course, Princess." came the soft reply, but her left eyebrow was raised quizzically.

It would be undignified to shout; and besides, she reasoned furiously, its not her fault you're to be all locked up like this. She's only following orders, and all she did was raise an eyebrow. And, even her own mother had never thought she looked much like a princess... at the last thought, she deflated, reminded herself once more of the vow of 'maturity' she had made, and instead of shouting as she felt like (she had a notorious temper), she only said stiffly, "Come in, then."

The others were now talking with Wilwarin, but Odaragariel hardly listened. She was thinking moodily of the dog races some boys were having the next day; she always liked cheering them on, and had made friends with quite a few who had, of course, no idea she was a princess... she had been planning to take Tarniel with her this time, though doubtless, Tarniel was more well-known here than she. She even had one of her maid's outifts hidden in the mattresses of her bed, but she supposed all of that was off now. She wondered vaguely what she was supposed to do now, and whether embroidery was more interesting than gardening.


Gimilbeth



"The King of Angmar is said to be a sorcerer... and though I do not credit this, some say he is an instrument of the Enemy!" Tarnendur's voice shook at these words.

Gimilbeth smiled, nonplussed. "And I am said to be a witch, by our own people, Father. Haven't you heard that?"

Tarnendur lowered his eyes, embarrassed. "People regard you as a foreigner, Gimilbeth, and foreigners are not to be trusted. I told you many times to drop your southern ways and adopt the ways of your people."

"Let us not start this argument again, Father", Gimilbeth pleaded. "I am not complaining, I only wish to point out that it is fairly easy to gain a reputation of a witch. This King of Angmar might also be a foreigner in his land, and I think it is the simple truth, given the accounts I heard of him. "

"What accounts?" the King asked suspiciously.

"Why, nothing untoward, really" Gimilbeth smiled. "All the accounts agree that he is surprisingly tall. That makes him either a Numenorean, or a man of the Three Houses, but no Hillman, surely. Some say he has black hair. By all accounts, he rules Angmar for about 70 years already, but I haven't heard about him growing old. Our spies reported rumours of numerous "Tarks" in his service. So he is either a Dunadan himself, or a Numenorean from the South".

"A BLACK Numenorean, you want to say!" Tarnendur hissed. "I must tell you, it is even worse than a renegade Dunadan, worse than a hillman!"

Gimilbeth shrugged her shoulders. "They are Numenoreans still, cultured people, and could be reasoned with, no matter what god they worship".

"I won't have anything to do with the bloody Morgoth-worshippers!" Tarnendur yelled, smashing his goblet on the table. "You are crazy even to suggest that!"

Without another word, the King stormed out of the room. Gimilbeth bit her lip. She had lost again.

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Griss



Broggha's camp at Morva Torch, after midnight, October 7, 1347.

Balling his hand into a fist, Heggr pressed it firmly against his abdomen and belched loudly. Griss ignored the sound and concentrated on the piece of stringy venison that he was chewing. He could not help feeling sorry for the other man whose bad teeth pained him, often giving him so much trouble that when he ate, he settled for a bowl of stew. Both men had been concerned that there would be nothing left to fill their stomachs in the camp, but they had been pleasantly surprised that there was a great amount of food left over.

Across the campfire from them, Uffi was beyond the point of knowing or caring that he had lost his leg. Occasionally the man moaned and twitched in his slumber.

"Ought to put the poor devil out of his misery," Heggr mumbled as he stuck a finger in his mouth and tried to work loose a piece of vegetable that had gotten caught in one of the decaying holes in a tooth.

"He won't last long. He'll either get fever or some raging infection." Griss finished the piece of venison and wiped his hands off on his filthy leathers.

Heggr's mind was soon on something more pleasant. "You know I'm going to miss that woman. She was a pretty little thing," he said mournfully.

"You're not going to miss her half as much as I will. She doesn't have anything much left that I didn't explore," Griss chuckled proudly.

Heggr shot him a dirty glance. "I didn't get to do much exploring at all! You always get the best of everything!"

"No point in talking about her! No point in even thinking about her! We'll never see that pretty little morsel again."

"I have quit thinking about her! I am consoling myself by reflecting upon all the pretty little wenches in Cameth Bryn who will be falling all over themselves just for the chance to be with Broggha's men."

"We'll have our pick there!" Griss agreed enthusiastically.

Heggr yawned. "I don't know about you but I'm tired and my teeth are bothering me. I'm going over to our lean-to and try to get a little sleep before we have to get up."

Griss grunted a "goodnight" to him and looked over the fire at Uffi. He could see by the light that Uffi's eyesockets were bathed in shadow, but his face looked a ghastly ashen color. Griss wondered if the man would live through the night. He shrugged his shoulders and spat in the fire. "Nothing to me if he lives or dies."

Griss amused himself for a while by thinking about the wenches of Cameth Bryn and how he would have his fill of them, but then he looked over to the Jarl's great house. One of those Northern men had just come out of the tent near the cabin. "Must be taking a nighttime stroll." Griss looked back into the fire but he had the sensation that eyes were upon him, eyes which could almost bore into the soul. Feeling uncomfortable, he resolved to study the fire and not look up. However, he sensed something compelling him to gaze at the tent. What was worse was that he felt himself rising to his feet, walking through the assembled gathering around the fire and making his way towards the tent.

As he had feared, it was one of those Tark men from the North. A chill ran down his spine. "Must be the coolness of the night," he concluded.

"Let us walk," the tall, richly dressed man said pleasantly as he moved away from the tent. Like a lapdog, Griss followed him into the woods until the man stopped near a large tree.

"Your name is Griss."

"Yes," Griss replied almost mechanically.

"That youth - Kvigr I believe is his name - is weak and not to be trusted. Do you want a man like that around Jarl Broggha?"

"No, certainly not."

"You want to keep the Jarl safe, do you not?"

"I would die for him!" Griss exclaimed.

"I do not think that will be necessary, but I am confident that should the occasion demand, you would lay down your life for him. You are extremely loyal, Griss, and the Jarl is proud of you, more than any of his other men."

Feeling proud at the compliments, Griss began to relax. "Surely this man is no enemy, though some in camp are terrified of him."

"Weak men are dangerous, treacherous... When you have the opportunity, Griss, eliminate Kvigr quietly so that his friends will never know what happened to him. I know you can be trusted to do it efficiently."

"It would be my great pleasure," Griss inclined his head towards the man, beginning to feel a growing loyalty to him.

"You will be successful. Come now, let us go back to the camp." The man turned and beckoned to Griss.

Griss felt an almost euphoric feeling as he walked back with the man. It was though he could see into the future. He was dressed much like the Northern man in fine clothing, and he was sitting in a great hall on Broggha's right side. Griss smiled to himself.


Kvigr



Morva Torch, October 7, 1347, early hours.

It was the dark pre-dawn hour, when a low, tortured moan roused Kvigr from an uneasy sleep. Sitting up, he noticed Uffi on the other side of the campfire. The man groaned and moaned pitifully in his sleep. Kvigr approached Uffi and tried to give him some water. The wounded man was unconscious, but drank greedily. Kvigr covered Uffi against the night cold with his own cloak, but there was little else he could do, so he sat nearby looking at the fire.

His thoughts took an unusually dark turn. He was thinking of Uffi, and the time when they served together at Rammas Formen. Uffi was a rough, unruly man, but an experienced soldier. Now he was dying.

Kvigr shriveled. Where will Uffi go, when dead? Will his soul live in eternal bliss beyond the Circles of the World, on the White Mountain, feasting with the Gods and the bright Avalai? Will the Mighty Manvur, the Father of Gods, and Yavaya the Fertile, the Goddess of Life, welcome him? Will Tulkar the Strong admit him at the table where brave Men drink and feast with beautiful Avalai maidens for all eternity?

Or will his soul be thrown to Hell, the place of eternal darkness and cold, where naked and shriveled souls wander, lost forever, until the God of the Underworld, the Dark Njamo, the one with dog's head and burning eyes, devours them?

Kvigr did not know the answer. He silently vowed to make an offering to Tulkar, for protection of Uffi's sinful soul. Manvur was too high for such simple gifts, as Kvigr was able to offer. All the soldiers and most other men preyed to Tulkar, or to Orri the Hunter, while women traditionally brought gifts to Yavaya, whose wooden statues could be found in every village. Yavaya's fat breasts and hips were always covered with flowers, strings of beads and bright ribbons.

Thinking of Yavaya, Kvigr suddenly became aware of a woman's figure near the biggest campfire in front of Broggha's loghouse. Surprised, he approached, remaining in shadows outside the ring of light, and watched. The woman was busy preparing an early breakfast. She filled a kettle with water from a barrel and put it on a makeshift hearth to boil.

Kvigr noticed that she was quite tall and had tousled dark hair. "A Tark wench?" he thought.

Then the woman turned, and Kvigr almost cried out. It was the beautiful Lady Aewen herself, the haughty daughter of the Count of Pennmorva! Accompanied by a suite of guards and ladies in waiting, she used to ride sometimes through his poor village, earning admiring and reverent glances from the peasants, awestruck by her rich clothes and kingly demeanor.

Now her dress was a wreck, her hair unbound and dirty. Kvigr noticed a dark bruise on her chin, and the swollen lower lip. His heart filled with pity, he crawled nearer and softly called to her

"My Lady Aewen..."

The woman turned sharply, trying to make out his form in the darkness. Then, after a brief glance at the still dark and silent loghouse, she left the circle of light and approached.

Kviggr continued, trying to sound reassuring "My lady, I am Kvigr, son of Ulfr, the blacksmith, from your father's village of Penn. I don't think you remember me, but, please tell me what has happened? Are my folk still alive?"


Callon



On the road leaving Morva Torch, evening, October 6, 1347

Callon sighed again. What had those men done to his sister while he was examining the wounded mare? Terrible pictures rushed into his brain. He shook his head in frustration and rage, but only allowed himself a slight movement - he didn't want to disturb his sister, leaning stiffly and silently against him as they rode double on her mare. The man walking next to them shook his head in silent sympathy; he, too, had a sister...

In the general bustle of leaving, Callon had managed to grab the arm of the leader, Eryndil, and take him aside for a quick whispered conference. "How was my sister? What did they ... what had they done to her?" he had asked the man urgently.

Eryndil shook his head. "I don't know," he answered, concern showing in his eyes. "When I found them, they were arguing over things that a young lady such as your sister (so she was his sister!) should never have to hear. Cruel, brutish barbarians! I'll be frank, so you'll know what to deal with - they were discussing raping her and then murdering both of you. She was bound and gagged and could hear everything they said."

Callon bit his lip hard; he felt sick. His sister, whom he had taken on this trip to protect ... Eryndil put his hand on Callon's shoulder. "She was brave, your sister - there was no fear in her eyes. But there was something perhaps worse - an emptiness... If they are too strong to give in to fear, perhaps that is all that's left to them - to leave, as the elves do ... "

One of Eryndil's men came over to talk to him, and Eryndil released his hold on Callon's shoulder, saying, "We can talk more later - right now, the sooner we leave, the better for us all."

Callon nodded and joined his sister, who was standing by her mare, Hwesta. Caelen's eyes were fixed on the horse's soft muzzle as she stroked it gently over and over, her hand shaking.


Caelen



On the road leaving Morva Torch, evening, October 6, 1347

Caelen leaned against her brother out of sheer exhaustion, but was unable to relax. She had to keep alert and strong; she had to keep ahead of the memories before they overtook her in a dark, terrifying wave.

It wasn't me they ... it wasn't me ... they didn't really touch ME, she thought, her mind racing frantically around, trying to not alight anywhere too long.

Callon shifted slightly in the saddle, and she felt his hard, toned leg muscles against her body - the muscles of a strong, expert rider. She recoiled in fear and felt a stark panic rising within her that she couldn't understand. My brother! My brother! He would never hurt me! she told the fear, and then dimly realized that it was the mere presence of strength that had frightened her. The strength of men, that had so recently ... but that hadn't happened to her, really, not really to her ...

"Shhh, shhh, Caelie, I'm here," he soothed, stroking her hair, and then realized with a sick feeling that his being there hadn't been much good so far.

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Aewen



Morva Torch, October 7, 1347, early hours.

It was as though the shame clutched Aewen's body and she longed to sink into the earth, to hide under a rock somewhere. This young man, one of the hill-men marauders, knew of her when she was once the daughter of a Count, for he was of her village! Oh, the disgrace into which she had fallen, once a noblewoman, now the mistress of a barbarian!

Her voice low, Aewen began to speak. "Your mother was still alive last I knew, but your father, while hunting, was fallen on by orcs and slain. Then sometime later, the village was attacked by orcs, with many of the men slain, the young women carried off, the old women and most of the children left to survive as best they could. Then a few days later, Broggha came and proclaimed to the survivors that he would put the village under his protection if those remaining elders and leaders would swear fealty to him and pay him the required tributes.

"Then that night he came to my father's keep and saw me. He demanded that my father turn me over as a thrall or he would kill everyone in the keep. My father argued and the two struggled, but one blow from Broggha's mighty fist left him unconscious upon the floor, near death. Father later died the next day when his heart stopped, brought on, we thought, by his old age and the injury he had sustained. One of his chieftains was put in charge of our property and the rest of my family was thrown out of the keep to live as best they could. My ladies-in-waiting were given over to his men. I had no sisters and my brothers were little more than children. I do not know where they are now."

Aewen looked about nervously. "Now I must attend to the cooking, for someone is always watching me."


Griss



Morva Torch, October 7, 1347, early hours.

After the conversation with the Northern nobleman, Griss felt elated as he walked back to the lean-to that he shared with Heggr. Going to his cache of weapons in the makeshift dwelling, Griss selected a dagger. Heggr woke up and grumbled sleepily before he rolled over on his side and went back to sleep. Shaking him roughly by the shoulder, Griss growled harshly, "We have a little mission to attend to today, so arm yourself well."

"What is it, Griss? Does the Jarl have something he wants us to do?"

"No," Griss smiled, "someone much more powerful than the Jarl has a task for me, and you are going to help me."

Yawning and shaking his head, Heggr sat up on his fur bed. "All right, what are we supposed to do?" he grumbled.

Griss drew his finger across his own throat from left to right.

"Oh," Heggr managed a nasty smile, even though he was half asleep. "Who are we supposed to kill?"

"Kvigr."

"Ohh, Kvigr - that arrogant pup that Algeirr keeps around." Heggr rubbed his hand through his long, unkept beard. "That youth will not be any problem, and the way my teeth are hurting this morning, I need something to take my mind off them. A killing would do nicely to distract me. How are we going to do it, if you don't mind my asking?"

"We're going to follow him, and when he is far out in the forest, away from anyone, we will slit his throat and dump his body into the Morva. No one will ever know anything, and if he is ever found, his death can always be blamed on the orcs. Sleep a while longer, Heggr. I'm going back out to keep an eye on him."

"Whatever you say, Griss," Heggr concurred and then settled back in his furs.

Griss left the low, slant-roof lean-to and walked out into the gathering daylight. "There that little rat is, talking to Aewen. Broggha is not going to like this when I tell him, and I don't think he will be a bit displeased when we get rid of the little cur."

Griss walked to a tree and leaned his back up against it, lounging nonchalantly as he cleaned his fingernails with the point of his knife. The North men were leaving that morning; their servants had already disassembled the black tent and packed it on the baggage wagon. Griss noticed that the Jarl was talking to the nobleman and smiling broadly.

The nobleman slowly turned his head in Griss' direction and nodded. Griss suddenly felt charged with more confidence than he ever knew in his life. He felt that he was ready to tackle a whole army. He basked in that feeling as the riders mounted their horses and then watched, awe-struck, as they rode away.

"I can do anything," Griss thought. "Anything!"

The Jarl's gaze turned to Kvigr and his grin turned into an expression of livid anger.

"Get away from her and keep away!" the Jarl snarled. "Or I'll break your neck with my bare hands!"

Aewen flinched when she heard the words and looked to the ground.

Curling his forefinger to her, Broggha ordered gruffy, "Go into the long house, wench! Looks like you need to learn a few more lessons!"

"Yes, Jarl," she replied with resignation as she followed him to the building.


Kvigr



Hearing of the grim fate of his folk and of the death of his old dad, Kvigr hung his head, trying to hold back stinging tears.

Aewen turned to leave, but Kvigr stopped her. He put his hand on her shoulder and stood on tiptoe whispering hotly in her ear.

"I will not serve these brigands. I am leaving today for good. I have a horse, we've had three for five men, but now, with Gunni gone and Uffi as good as dead, one is rightfully mine. It is but a poor nag, but it can carry you. Your father had always been kind to us poor folk, so I will help you run away. Meet me in an hour - I will be waiting for you behind this oak yonder" - he indicated a huge oak-tree within the perimeter of the camp, its base hidden by thick undergrowth.

Aewen shook her head sadly. "I can get to the tree, I think, but they will never let us out of the camp. There are sentries everywhere..."

"I will give you men's clothes and a cloak. They will not know you", Kvigr said with more confidence than he actually felt. "They won't be suspicious in daylight."

Aewen started to protest, but a loud angry snarl interrupted her.

"Get away from her and keep away!" The Jarl himself stood nearby glaring at them angrily. "Or I'll break your neck with my bare hands!"

Aewen flinched when she heard the words and looked to the ground. Kvigr was startled. He jumped back and disappeared in the thick bushes. From his hiding place, he watched with helpless anger how Broggha led the poor lady Aewen away.

Kvigr bit his lip stubbornly... He will help her, or he will die trying.

In an hour, he and Griss should go join Algeirr. He thought of borrowing Meldun's clothes, and make Aewen pass for one of his comrades, leaving the camp with them. The sentries would hardly check all the company, if Griss were with them. But will Griss agree to help? Kvigr doubted it.

Uncertain what to do, Kvigr returned to the fire to see that Uffi was not breathing anymore. He lay white and still, his mouth wide open, and the slow autumn flies were crawling over his face. Kvigr sank to the ground thinking furiously. Now someone had to carry the body out of the camp to bury. No one would protest, if he volunteered to do the job. And then, once out of sight behind this oak, he would hide the body in the bushes, and tie Aewen face-down on the nag's back instead. Kvigr grinned. This plan should work.


Tarniel



Cameth Brin, October 6, 1347
Princess Odaragariel's chamber

Tarniel glanced over to the scowling Odaragariel, knowing that the advent of Wilwarin had perturbed her greatly. With a little sigh, she turned back to Wilwarin and Arinya. Neither princess was accustomed to such impositions upon their privacy. Of course, royal ladies always had a retinue of servants following them about; sometimes their maids even slept upon mats in the same bedchamber. But if the whim so struck the lady, she could dismiss the attentive throng with a wave of her hand and thus have the total peace of solitude. Tarniel had been aghast at her father's news, for the state of the kingdom horrified her, and she also selfishly resented the sudden change this made in her daily life.

"Wilwarin," she asked the Dunedain woman, "how good are you with a sword?"


Aewen



Morva Torch, October 7, 1347, early hours.

Though her tortured body ached, Aewen kept it painfully immobile as she lay beside the Jarl. The brute was asleep at last, the intensity of his loud snoring almost making the bed rumble. She barely dared to breathe, for the sound might bring him to fearful wakefulness, which would rouse his temper once again and rekindle the savage urgings of his brutal heart. When Broggha had dragged her back into the house, he had slapped her face repeatedly, adding more bruises to her already battered flesh. Taking his great, hairy-knuckled hands, he clasped her about the shoulders and shook her, making her head flop up and down, which brought breath-stealing pains stabbing betwixt her shoulders. And then he had – well, what he did every night. This time, though, he was especially rough, for this was punishment for her talking to Kvigr. Oh, the man was cruel, heartless!

Agonizing moments passed, with the only sounds her quiet breathing and the Jarl's snoring. Her mind ruminated upon the words of Kvigr.

"I will not serve these brigands. I am leaving today for good. I have a horse, we've had three for five men, but now, with Gunni gone and Uffi as good as dead, one is rightfully mine. It is but a poor nag, but it can carry you. Your father had always been kind to us poor folk, so I will help you run away. Meet me in an hour - I will be waiting for you behind this oak yonder."

Could it be done? Could she really escape? What about Maleneth? It would be a miracle if Aewen could successfully flee with Kvigr; to bring Maleneth along as well would make it almost impossible. But perhaps if Aewen managed to escape, Maleneth would take heart and find a way to take flight from the hill-men. If one could do it, then so could another...

Slowly, as not to wake the slumbering Jarl, Aewen slid from the bed. After quietly wetting a rag, she washed herself and then dressed. Sneaking over to one of the narrow windows of the longhouse, she peered out into the early morning darkness. The sun had not yet risen, but she was soon to do so, and the sky was just starting to lighten in the east. Aewen felt emboldened when she saw no one about. Very quietly, she opened the door and just as quietly shut it behind her.

Slipping through the still morning as silent as a cat, Aewen made her way to the oak tree and darted behind the undergrowth which grew about it so as to shield herself from the view of any in the camp.

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Kvigr



Morva Torch, morning of October 7, 1347

Having made his decision, Kvigr shook the sleeping Meldun and sent him to fetch Hrani, the shaman.

Soon a small group of bleary-eyed sleepy men assembled around the body. Hearing that Uffi got no weapons to bury with him, Hrani went to his shed and brought a rusty old knife which he placed in Uffi's right hand.

"The wretch will need something on his way to Njamo," the old shaman grumbled.

The others looked at him uneasily, the whites of their eyes showing, and their hands making an old protective sign, to ward off evil spirits. It was really bad luck to die like that, in sickness, not in battle, like a man should.

In a cracked, old voice, the shaman intoned an incantation to Tulkar for protection of Uffi's soul. Then he put some grains into his left hand: no one was going to spare food to bury with the wretched newcomer, much less a horse or a woman. Kvigr added a copper coin that he placed in Uffi's mouth.

"Now, who is going to bury him, lads?" Hrani asked.

"I will," Kvigr replied over a limp in his throat He hoped the others had not noticed his nervousness.

As he suspected, nobody objected. Meldun half-heartedly proposed to help him, but Kvigr declined.

"I will do it myself, just fetch me a spade somewhere." he said. "I will tie him onto the nag and carry him away, and then I will dig a grave". One of the men led Meldun to a shed where tools were kept. Soon they returned with a spade.

"Where do you bury them?" Kvigr asked and looked around the stirring camp, his heart beating furiously. But his luck held.

"Over there, behind that hillock", replied Hrani, spitting, and pointed roughly in the same direction where the old oak stood. "But make sure you get away from the camp at least for a quarter of a mile. We want no ghosts here. I will tell the sentries to let you through the outposts."

Kviggr's heart leaped. Soon, aided by Hrani, he got Uffi's body draped face-down over the horse's back, arms and legs dangling. He put Uffi's cloak on top of him and fixed all with a rope. Kvigr made sure to tie the rope quite loosely, to be able to untie it with one pull.

The group around the fire had dissipated, but for Hrani, who stood indifferently nearby, chewing something. As soon as Kvigr was ready, the shaman started walking in front of the nag, showing him the way.

In a minute or two, they were behind the oak, hidden from view by the thick undergrowth surrounding the tree. Seeing that Hrani's back was turned to him, Kvigr pulled the end of the rope and gave Uffi's shoulder a push. The body slid from horseback and collapsed into the thick heather.

Hearing the commotion, Hrani turned and cursed Kvigr.

"Don't you know how to tie a knot, you stupid suckling? Now fix the mess yourself, and I will go ahead and warn the sentries. Just tell them your name, and they will let you pass."

Hrani's squat figure disappeared behind the trees. Kvigr proceeded to carry Uffi to the base of the oak: lying there, the body was entirely hidden by bushes even from attentive eyes. Kvigr retrieved the rusty knife from Uffi's right hand and put it in his pocket. Then he lifted the old cloak that covered the body and called softly.

"Lady Aewen, are you here?"


Griss



Morva Torch, morning of October 7, 1347

From his vantage point against the tall tree, Griss looked over the camp. Uffi had died sometime during the night. The man had been a simpleton to let himself be wounded so easily. Now that little weasel Kvigr was making a stir about it, even going through the old ritual required for burial. "At least he has volunteered to plant Uffi," Griss thought with a feeling of satisfaction. "We don't want the corpse lying around, stinking up the camp. At least the little pup is good for something."

Let the dog have his little ceremony! Griss wouldn't say anything. He finished cleaning his nails with his knife and sheathed the blade as he watched Kvigr and the shaman disappear into the forest with the horse carrying the body of Uffi.

They had been gone some minutes when the thought suddenly struck Griss: "Maybe after he buries the body, Kvigr will just keep going." The thought was certainly sobering. He must alert Heggr; the two of them should follow Kvigr, and after he had dug the grave, they could kill him.

"Perfect," Griss thought. "He has dug his own grave!"

He brought his fingers to his lips and whistled, the signal for Heggr to join him. No response! The fool was still sleeping! Griss sprinted to the lean-to that the two shared.

"You dim-witted sluggard! Didn't you hear my whistle?" Griss muttered as he shook Heggr awake.

"What?" Heggr mumbled sleepily.

"Get up! The prey is escaping!"

As the two men came out of the lean-to, they heard the jarl bellow, "Where has the wench Aewen gone?"


Gimilbeth



Cameth Brin, afternoon of October 6, 1347

When Tarnendur's heavy footfalls died in the distance, Gimilbeth sat for some time immobile, thinking furiously. The King was making a big mistake, and there was no way out of it that she could see.

Gimilbeth wouldn't have hesitated to start clandestine diplomatic relations with Angmar behind her father's back, but much as she tried, she couldn't pinpoint any Angmarian spies in Cameth Brin. She didn't believe that there were none, of course, but it seemed they were too clever to be detected. Not like old Curugil, the head of the King's Private counsil: everyone knew that he was sending reports to Malvegil almost every month. Any of the others, who were so keen on alliance with Broggha, could have been on Angmar's payroll.

"Which one?" thought Gimilbeth. "Turamir? Belzagar? Or all of them?" The last idea was far too disconcerting, but not impossible. She decided to have a cup of Khandian coffee with each suspect in turn, probing them gently. Then she could try to send a message North...

But it was for the future. Now she had more immediate task on her hands: to stop Broggha from entering Cameth Brin. The man should be removed as soon as possible. No time to bargain with Carn Dum, proposing Rhudaur's allegiance in exchange for Broggha's head. Gimilbeth thought of poison, or an assassination. But how to get to Broggha in his camp, amidst thousands of loyal Hillmen?

There was only one answer to this problem: magic. As little time as she had to leaf through the black book, she knew already that it mostly contained various spells, including malicious magic devised to ruin and cause to perish men and women, cattle and flocks and herds and animals of every kind, meadows, pastures, harvests, grains and other fruits of the earth, to afflict and torture with dire pains and anguish these men, women, cattle, flocks, herds, and animals, and hinder men from begetting and women from conceiving.

There was one particular spell that could suit her quite well, the one sending a knife to seek the blood of the chosen person. If cast properly, this spell would find Broggha in his secure camp - anyone of his men might be compelled to kill him.

Gimilbeth berated herself bitterly for her cowardice: she had the book for ninety years, but only opened it this morning. Now she had to act almost blindly, an inexperienced amateur trying to cast a powerful spell that might prove too difficult for her. Gimilbeth refused to think what would happen if the spell went wrong and rebounded on her. Regardless of the danger, she decided to try this very night.

Her decision made, Gimilbeth rose and stretched like a big lazy cat. She was bone-tired after a night spent down in Tanoth Brin. She couldn't afford two sleepless nights in a row, lest her creamy skin becomes sallow, and dark circles appear around her eyes.

Gimilbeth went upstairs to her bedroom and ordered Nimraen, a Gondorean maid, to prepare her herbal face mask. Soon Gimilbeth was sleeping peacefully in her feather bed, a big fluffy cat at her feet and the green herbal mask on her face.

Once, long ago, a new maid came unexpectedly into Gimilbeth's room, saw her green face, dropped the tray with coffee and ran screaming all the way to Tanoth Brin. The Hillmen were simple folk and firmly believed in magic, witches and fairies. Now the fact that Gimilbeth turned into a frog every night had been firmly established, and gossip carried it far and wide through the land. Old matrons at the castle and down in Tanoth Brin shook their heads, pitying Gimilbeth's future husband. And the fact that in 20 years no one was forthcoming was another proof of Gimilbeth's weirdness.

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Rian



The night of October 6, 1347 - North from Morva Torch

Caelen leaned against the treetrunk wearily, her brother's cloak wrapped around her. Her mare munched some goodies in her nosebag close by. Men moved quietly but purposefully around the camp, setting things up for the night. She huddled deeper into Callon's cloak; the scent of horses, mixed in with her brother's scent, comforted her a little. Eryndil's men were careful to keep their distance from her, as per his orders.

She watched Eryndil and her brother as they spoke together quietly, heads bent together, and wondered briefly what they were talking about before she sank back into the kind of stunned wariness that she had retreated into since those men had first touched her. Before today, men were either nice or neutral or bad, but the few bad ones were kept off by the nice ones. But when bad men had power, too, and were more in number, then even nice men apparently weren't enough to keep them off ...

Yet these men she was with now had saved her and her brother. What were they like? Why were they with the king, and not the bandits? Were they power-seekers, too, or did they - was it possible that they actually wanted to use their strength for good, as her father and brother had? But she had heard of deserters from the King - they were probably just there for now until a better opportunity arose. Eryndil's men had treated her with respect, though, even though they had opportunity to do otherwise.

She was glad that they were leaving her alone - she realized with a shock that even the maleness of her brother was starting to disgust her a little bit. That's not fair! she told herself. He can't help being a man! And he's always cared for me! Why did Eru make women weaker than men? Or if he chose to do that, why did he make men with ugly passions towards women who were too weak to fight them off, and were at the mercy of the nice men showing up ... or not showing up...

She remembered a time just a few months ago, when she had caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror that had made her stop and look in surprise. Her mother had just finished putting up her hair and she was wearing one of her nicer dresses - they were heading over to a friend's house to celebrate an anniversary. Her mother came up behind her laid her head next to Caelen's, smiling in that soft, lovely way she had that started with her lips and ended in her sparkling eyes. Her father came up behind them and wrapped his arms around them from behind, his strong, handsome face reflected in the mirror above theirs. "My lovely ladies," he said, with a kiss for them both, before he headed off down the hall.

Caelen, who was rarely out of riding habit, couldn't get the image of herself out of her mind, and the blush it brought to her cheeks was noticed by more than one young man that night. She had wondered about this new side she had just seen of herself - it seemed fragile and beautiful, like her mother, but like her mother it had a strength, too. Her mother, whom most people would call quite beautiful, was not a weak beauty - she had no problem controlling her strong husband and sons, although Caelen wasn't quite sure how she did it. However she did it, though, it was obvious that her men liked it.

But those men on the road had had a different kind of strength, and had taken the fragile, beautiful thing she had seen in herself, and grabbed at it, and fouled it, and torn it, and laughed over it, and it was crying inside of her now, seeking only to hide.

Callon finished his talk with Eryndil and headed towards her. She huddled further into his cloak.


Aewen



Morva Torch, October 7, 1347, early hours.

Aewen shrank deeper into the woods as she heard the two men approach. From her hiding place behind the bole of a large tree, she watched as a large form fell into the underbrush and listened in to the subsequent words exchanged by Kvigr and the shaman. She sighed in relief when the old man walked away, but she did not move until she heard Kvigr's voice.

"Lady Aewen, are you here?"

"Yes, I am here," Aewen murmured as she emerged from the woods.

Kvigr smiled warmly, pausing momentarily to allow his eyes to take in the lady's beauty. "I am glad you could get away." He lowered his voice, looking around suspiciously. "Did anyone see you coming?"

"No," she shook her head. "When I left, Broggha was snoring deeply; he does not even know that I am gone." Her cheeks flamed with a furious blush, but the shadows under the trees hid her color from Kvigr's view. Still, she turned her head away, as though looking off in the distance.

"Good," Kvigr nodded.

Aewen looked back at Kvigr. "So what is the plan?" she asked quickly, changing the subject.

"I volunteered to take Uffi's body a goodly distance from camp and bury him behind the hill yonder." He pointed in that direction. "The shaman has gone ahead to advise the guards of my coming. Quick, allow me to assist you in climbing upon the horse's back. Then, when you are settled, I will tie you to the horse and throw the cloak over you. The sentries will think that it is Uffi who I am taking out of the camp. When we have ridden away to a safe distance, I will untie you and you can ride behind me. Then I will urge the horse into a gallop and we will make our escape."

"You are going to tie me to the horse?" she asked uncertainly, her eyebrows raising. Perhaps she had made a mistake in trusting this man.... perhaps he did not wish to save her at all, and only wanted her for himself!

Kvigr guessed what she was thinking, and he winced slightly. But what reason did she have to trust him? Had he not kept company with outlaws? "Do not be afraid! You can trust me! Hurry, because soon the sun will be rising!"

Aewen hesitated a moment, but only a moment, for she heard the sounds of Broggha's earth-shaking bellows. Her body suddenly leaped into life – her heart pounding, breath coming quickly, hands trembling, palms clammy. The fear of Kvigr was far less right now than the fear of Broggha, and so, with the young man's help, she scrambled upon the back of the horse, unflinching as he lightly tied her down.

Then Kvigr was in the saddle, and urged the beast into a quick walk...


Griss



Morva Torch, morning of October 7, 1347

The Jarl's great, bellowing voice could be heard over much the camp. "Where is that strumpet, Aewen!"

All who heard him could tell that the Jarl was as enraged as a bull when someone gets too near his herd. Griss looked towards the longhouse and gulped; Heggr turned a stomach-sick pale shade of ash. If the woman wasn't found, things would not be pleasant around the camp for a long time.

When the men reported that every shed, lean-to, cellar and storage bin had been searched with no sign of the woman, the Jarl turned cold. He was worse when he did not say much. "Then you know he is in a killing mood," Griss thought uncomfortablly. There was no point in giving excuses or apologies for their failure. The Jarl was implacable when he was angry.

"Search the area around the camp. If you can't find her there, spread out and comb the countryside," the Jarl said calmly and coolly.

Griss was put in charge of a group of ten men sent out to fan around the camp in ever-widening circles. Griss picked Heggr to accompany them. Heggr was almost worthless at tracking; a bear could leave an obvious trail and Heggr might not notice it. When it came to ransacking huts and cottages, though, Heggr was amazing. He could find every last turnip, parsnip, apple, ham, slab of bacon, keg of ale and mead, no matter how cleverly they had been hidden. Although Heggr would do them little good, Griss still liked to have the man with him. They had been together a long time, all the way back to the days of petty thievery and livestock stealing.

Everything close to the camp was searched, every place but... The cemetery! "Interesting," Griss thought. He had seen the woman talking to Kvigr shortly before the Jarl had called her to the longhouse. And Kvigr later took Uffi's body to be buried in the cemetery! Maybe the two of them...!

"Men! To the cemetery! Maybe we will find the woman there, loved up with that dog Kvigr!"

"Should we kill him on sight?" Heggr asked hopefully.

"No, the Jarl will want to deal with them himself. Take him alive!"


Valandil



October 7, noon - on the march north from the rescue

"We can rest here," said Eryndil, indicating a small clearing - really no more than a break in the trees of about 6 rangar each way - with a fallen tree trunk across it, which could make for convenient seating.

"No fire," he added, stepping aside to let the party pass him. He watched the eyes of each one as they trooped past. Some of his men exchanged with him a nod. But they all went past and selected a spot, where they dropped their burdens and stretched out to rest, even while they opened their bags for a small repast.

When Callon and Caelen at last came, still mounted, Eryndil reached out his hand to take the bridle from Narbeth.

"My apologies that we cannot provide you with more comfort here, milady. Unfortunately, our circumstances will not allow it." But then he turned and gestured for two of his men to vacate what appeared to be the better places to rest, and motioned for Callon and Caelen to dismount and seat themselves there. They had brought much provision of their own, so Eryndil took one of their bags and handed it to Callon, that he might share some of its contents with his sister. They seemed grateful, but also awkward in their response.

'Why do I make so much over them?' he thought to himself. Each of his few attempts to speak with Caelen had felt awkward. He had noted the sidelong glances of his men (though none had dared to say a word) - so he had thenceforth directed his speech only to Callon. What was it about Caelen that set him at a loss?

Perhaps she was like his younger sister? Well... both like and unlike. She did not look too much the same. Yet perhaps there was something alike in their hearts. He was quite fond of his sister - and hoped to somehow spare her the fate that seemed in store for this land.

Caelen... it would be worthwhile to spare her too.

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Valandil



October 8, 1347, before dawn - the Royal Palace at Fornost

Beleg rose to the tapping on the door before the servant came inside to verify that he had been awakened. "It's alright, I'm ready."

He threw off his covers and pulled aside the curtain of his sleeping booth. His room was cramped, so it was but a couple short steps to see if the embers of the fire still gave off any heat - not much. He stretched and took up the bundle he had gathered last night. For one who would someday be King, he owned little enough of the Kingdom now, he thought - but it made for easier packing. There would be a warm fire in the kitchen, and breakfast besides. And then they would depart - for Amon Sul.

His mother had chastised him last night for appealing to his grandfather Malvegil, but Beleg was disappointed. It had been their long tradition to spend every second winter - and Yule season - at Amon Sul, the home of his mother's parents. But each time before, he had been allowed to take some of his closest friends. 'Not this year,' had replied his grandfather, 'for I have other errand for them.'

So his only company this year would be his father, mother, brother and sister. Not even his cousin could go. They would be joined by a few servants and a strong bodyguard - including 30 horsemen - as his father, Celebrindol, strove to build a cavalry for Arthedain.

If this year was like the others, the travel would be leisurely enough. And with a day's stop at Bree, they would likely arrive at the tower in 12 to 14 days. It would be a pleasant enough trip - enhanced by the bright colors of an Arthedain autumn.

Beleg sighed, the Eryhantale had passed a week before, and last night had concluded the feasting of the Harvest Festival Week. Now the fare would be harder until the Yule Feast, as everyone kept aside what they could for the long winter to come. Meanwhile, it was time to descend from his third story cell - and see what the kitchen far below might have to offer one about to set forth on a journey. Maybe something good not taken in the feasting.


Kvigr



Morva Torch, October 7, 1347.

Kvigr urged his horse into a fast walk, Aewen's body dangling across the saddle in front of him. As nervous as he were, he couldn't stop his eyes from lingering on the soft curves of her body, outlined by the cloak. He never had an opportunity to be with a woman, only listened, elated and ashamed, to the soldiers ribald talk. Aewen was far more beautiful than anyone he had seen before. He felt a deep longing somewhere in the pit of his stomach, and trailed a hesitant, suddenly clammy hand along her spine and rump. Aewen lay as if dead.

Wistful thoughts ran through Kvigr's mind. What if, when he saves her, she would come to love him? Of course, Aewen was far above him on the social scale, but now, ruined and befouled, perhaps she will deign to notice his love and devotion?

Lulled by his daydreams, Kvigr was startled when two men rushed out of the thick bushes, swords at the ready. One seized the nag's reins and asked.

"What is your name and business, pup?"

"I am Kvigr, and that is Uffi. He died this night" Kvigr replied, indicating Aewen's body in front of him. He was surprised how cool his voice sounded. "Hrani sent me to bury him, lest he stinks all over the camp."

One of the sentries nodded. "Hrani was here and warned us. You can go on, pup, but Sterki will go with you. He will show you the place and make sure you are up to no mischief"

Kvigr started to protest, his heart suddenly cold, but the leader had already vanished into the trees. Sterki, a dangerous-looking man with an angry livid scar, grinned at him mirthlessly. The scar across his face looked like a second toothless mouth, a sight that made Kvigr shiver.

"Come, laddie", beckoned the man and led the way over the hill, his brown hand firmly clutching the nag's harness. They went through a pine grove on a small hillock and descended down a steep slope into a ravine. The ground was soft there, and Kvigr noticed a number of small mounds, marked by stones, all around him.

"Get down and pick your place, laddie - the ground is cheap here," Sterki grinned again. When Kvigr complied, Sterki tied the horse's reins to a pine, sat on the ground, his back to a large boulder, and started filling his long-stemmed pipe.

Kvigr knew he had to kill this man, it was the only way out. But Kvigr was an archer, and he doubted he could best Sterki with only a rusty knife he had. But there was also the spade...

Kvigr gripped the spade and approached the horse. Aewen was hanging there utterly still, like a dead body. Kvigr feigned to struggle with a knot that held the body in place, tightening it further instead. Then, he pleaded in a thin hesitant voice

"Give me a hand here, please, Mister Sterki! I can't undo Hrani's knot."

Grinning even wider, Sterki made some unflattering comments about Kvigr's mental and physical abilities, as well as about the questionable virtue of his mother. Kvigr's jaw tightened. Now he felt no qualms to kill the man.

Sterki didn't waste his time untying the knot, but proceeded to cut the rope with a long gleaming knife. When his back was turned, Kvigr brought the spade down on his head with all the force he could muster. Sterki fell down soundlessly, spilling his blood onto the green moss.

"Get up into the saddle, let us gallop away", Kvigr cried to Aewen, snatching away the concealing cloak.

At this moment an arrow whizzed past his head. Several men were closing on him with drawn swords. They were surrounded. With the last sane thought, Kvigr pressed Uffi's knife into Aewen's hand.

"Take it; you may need it," he whispered. The knife disappeared beneath Aewen's clothes.

Then the pursuers were on them. Kvigr swung his spade like a sword, aiming for the leading man's head.


Griss



Morva Torch, mid-morning of October 7, 1347

Aewen screamed when she saw the men drawing quickly upon them. With a plea for forgiveness in her eyes, she stepped away from Kvigr, turned to the woods behind them and sped away.

"After her!" Griss cried, and two of the men separated from the party, chasing off in the direction which the girl had taken.

Kvigr's eyes gleamed with desperation as he assumed a defensive pose, attempting to fend off his attackers with the spade. The first to reach him was Griss, who, sword drawn, circled around Kvigr. Swinging at him with his spade, Kvigr came close to landing several blows, but Griss quickly darted out of his reach. The rest of the men soon caught up with him and were about to rush at Kvigr when Griss put his hand down, a signal not to attack.

"Come on, pup," Griss taunted, "let's see what the spade is good for besides digging you grave!"

The other men laughed as Kvigr swung once again but Griss kept just beyond his swings. The young man was quick, but was not an experienced swordsman like Griss. Griss was in no rush and knew that the constant wielding of the heavy spade would eventually tire his foe. Griss was obviously enjoying himself as he evaded Kvigr's strikes, toying with him, darting in here and now to deliver a minor cut to an arm, a cheek.

A panting Kvigr raised the spade once again. Griss ducked under the swinging spade and slashed at Kvigr's forearm, drawing more blood. The weapon fell out of the wounded man's hands with a crash.

"I should kill you!" Griss raised his sword and bore down upon the wounded man, slashing minor blows on first one arm, then the other. The blood was flowing freely from Kvigr's face, arms and chest as he groaned in pain. Kvigr teetered, grimacing, and Griss motioned for the other men to move forward. Soon Kvigr was thrown to the ground, his hands bound behind his back, a noosed rope around his neck.

From a safe vantage point against a tree, Heggr gibed, "You really messed up good, Griss! I don't think he can bury Uffi and Sterki now!"

"Not necessary," Griss smiled wickedly as he wiped the blood off his sword with a dirty rag and then sheathed the blade. Bending down and picking up the spade, he threw it to Heggr. "Here, you can dig one for all three of them!"

Heggr groaned as he wrinkled his nose in a distasteful expression and then shrugged.

"Heggr, we'll join you at the camp. You can take the horse back and get Uffi where we found him in the bushes. Dig the hole deep! We don't want any scavengers digging up the carrion. Downwind from the cemetery, those carcasses would stink us out!"

Turning his attention back to the prisoner, Griss nodded to one of the men. "You bind up his arm. We don't want him bleeding to death before we get back to camp. The Jarl probably has something real good in mind for him already. What do you think it will be, boy?" Griss turned his smirking face to Kvigr, but the young man was silent.

After Kvigr's worst wound was attended, Griss and his remaining seven men began to march back to camp. Jarl Broggha was waiting for them in the large open area that he used when he called the men for assembly. Ignoring the bound Kvigr, he leveled his steely gaze on Griss. "Where is the woman? Did any harm come to her?"

"Jarl," Griss inclined his head in a respectful bow, "no, the woman was not injured. She tried to escape and I sent two men after her. I expect they will be here shortly.

"I expect they will, too," the Jarl said menacingly, "or your head will soon be gracing a pike outside the door of my longhouse!"

"Aye, Jarl," Griss looked to the leader, "there will be no failure."

The Jarl nodded. "Now take this dog and put him in one of the sheds under heavy guard."

"Will you kill him soon, Jarl?" Griss asked, the eagerness showing in his voice.

"No," Broggha said slowly, "we are going to have a trial for him. His old friend Algeirr might want to stand up for him."

Griss shuddered. He knew exactly what the Jarl meant. Anyone who would dare say a good word about a man who had offended the Jarl would suffer the other man's own fate... maybe worse.

"When the woman is found..." the Jarl was smiling now, the kind of no-smile that didn't reach the eyes that all of Broggha's men had come to fear. "Bind her to the whipping post, over there. I am going to give her a flogging that she won't soon forget, and let it be a lesson to both her and Malenath!"

The Jarl glanced towards the doorway of the longhouse, where Malenath had been watching and listening.


Algeirr



On the road near Morva Torch, morning of October 7, 1347.

As soon as the dim predawn light filtered through the trees, Algeirr started his search for weapons hidden the previous evening by the accursed Tarks. He was in a foul mood, yesterday's disaster becoming more stinging with every hour that passed. And this tasty little morsel, this pretty wench... why hadn't they rolled her over right away, instead of quarreling like some silly pups? Stupid Griss... Blasted Tarks...

By ten o'clock Algeirr managed to find one knife and two swords. He hadn't found his own, though, and it maddened him. It was bad luck to loose your sword, no matter how, so the loss made him uneasy. But one sword was as good as another, Algeirr reasoned with himself, as all of them belonged to the Arthedain army and were made of sharp, gleaming tark steel.

Finally Algeirr decided it was time to go to the camp and introduce himself to Broggha. At least now he was well-armed, and had two horses, so it was not necessary to tell the Jarl about the unfortunate incident of yesterday.

Algeirr packed all the scattered belongings of his own and other men on a spare horse, and mounted the other one. He cast the last glance at Gunni's grave. Yesterday, Algeirr piled some stones on top of the body, building a small cairn. Gunni was killed in a fight, as a man should, so his soul must be well on its way to the White Mountain. The man was a brute and a fool, but now he was safe.

On his way, Algeirr mused idly about Uffi's fate. The wound looked bad, but a tark healer would have saved him. Only Algeiir doubted that one was available in Broggha's camp. The absence of Griss was equally disconcerting, the man promised to join him in the morning, but hadn't.

Soon he recognized the landmark Griss told him about - a huge fir-tree, leaning over the road. Algeirr noticed a wide track, branching from the main road and leading North. Resolutely, he turned the horses and rode towards Broggha's camp.

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Aewen



Morva Torch, mid-morning of October 7, 1347

Aewen ran through the woods, darting around trees and leaping over fallen logs and brambles, her long legs making good distance. Her eyes darted from side to side, desperately surveying the horizon of her view. Surely there must be some place to hide from her pursuers! She heard them behind her, crashing through the underbrush, their rough voices shouting, their breath coming hard and heavy.

Though she ran and ran, still she was not quick enough, for when her legs began to weary, they quickly gained upon her. When one of the men came up beside her, seizing her, she kicked and struggled, but soon his fellow came to his assistance, and quickly had her arms bound behind her back. Laughing and taunting her with threats, the two men led her back towards the way the others had gone.

It was the middle of the morning when three arrived at Broggha's camp. Aewen swallowed hard when she saw that familiar sight. She tried to bolster up her courage, but the thoughts of Broggha's wrath made her quake in her shoes. They passed the leering sentinels and went further down the path towards the long-house. A goodly number of men were gathered about in the assembly area, and towering above them all stood the massive hulking form of the Jarl.

Aewen's whole body quivered in dread.

Broggha looked in her direction, and his angry face flushed a livid red. In his hand was a medium-length, one-strand whip.

"Take her to the whipping post!" he bellowed.

Soon the terrified Aewen found herself being dragged in the direction of the pole, upon which she had seen many men punished for disobedience. Sometimes the beatings were light ones; at other times, the wheals were deep and bloody; and occasionally, a man was flogged to death. Almost idly, she wondered which hers would be. Never before had he punished her in public! Always before, he satisfied his malice in the long-house, away from the gaze of onlookers.

Trembling with rage, the Jarl was soon upon her, quickly untying her hands. Before she could realize what was happening, he had flung off her cloak, hoisted her skirts up and lifted her dress aloft. Taking the rope which had previously bound her hands behind her back, Broggha yanked her arms up and tied her wrists together, winding the rope about the iron ring which was used to hold prisoners securely as they were being punished. Her face pressed up against the wooden pole; her feet danced helplessly about its base. She turned her head to the side and saw Malaneth among the crowd which had gathered to watch. The woman's face was pale and she looked on in horror.

"Please, no!" Aewen wailed.

"You will get what you deserve, wench!" Broggha snarled as he brought the whip down upon her back. A scream tore itself out of Aewen's mouth.

Again and again, the lashes rained down upon her back as she screamed and wailed and begged for mercy, the tears streaming down her face, her rapid breathing threatening to choke her. The cool autumn air chilled the blood on the scratches caused where the whip-marks criss-crossed across her back, but her skin was so on fire and the strikes of the whip came so fast that she scarcely differentiated between the sensations of hot and cold.

At last the grueling ordeal was over, and Aewen limply slumped against the pole, her chest heaving with her panting breaths and soft sobs.

Pulling her head back by her hair, Broggha forced her to gaze up into his face.

"You will never try a trick like that again, wench!"


Broggha



Morva Torch, noon of October 7, 1347

Cut from her bindings, Aewen slumped to the ground, gasping and panting.

"Get up, wench!" Broggha toed her arm with the tip of his boot. "Cover yourself and go back in the house! This little chastisement does not excuse you from preparing my supper tonight!"

The woman struggled to her feet, grasping her garments to her bosom. As the men jeered and called to her, she began stumbling away to the longhouse.

Malaneth looked fearfully to the Jarl. "May I be allowed to help her?" Broggha nodded his permission. Soon Malaneth's hands were upon the woman's shoulders, helping to support her.

Broggha crossed the assembly field as his men followed him. Taking his seat on his fur-lined "throne" - a giant log carved out in the shape of a chair - he looked over the gathered men. Excited over just seeing a whipping, they were certain that there would be more entertaining things to follow.

"Men, bring the felon before me so that he may receive justice!"

The men laughed at that. Broggha's sense of justice was always certain to appeal to their baser tastes. The men pressed closer towards Broggha's throne. Soon the well-trussed Kvigr stood before the Jarl. His garments stiff with gore, his wounded arm bound with a blood-soaked bandage, the young man's face was pale, his eyes bright, perhaps a sign of an impending fever.

"You are brought before me charged with the crimes of murdering an innocent man with malice aforethought and the kidnapping of one of my thralls. What do you have to say in your behalf?" The sound of the Jarl's fingers tapping on the arm of his log throne sounded like drums in Kvigr's brain.

"I have nothing to say," Kvigr said, little defiance in his voice, for it was true - he had slain Sterki. "But I did not plan it ahead of time," was all he could think of to say in his own defense.

"Griss, come forward. You were in charge of the rescue party." A low murmur of laughter rose up from the crowd of men. "Tell us what you saw."

Grinning slightly, Griss stepped forward and bowed. "Poor Sterki was lying there as dead as a butchered hog, his brains smashed in." Griss forced his face into a solemn look and pulled a dirty handkerchief from his left sleeve and brought it to his eyes. "Truly a sad sight." Griss dabbed an unseen tear from his eyes as he tried to conjure up a sob but failed. The men howled in laughter as Griss turned back to them and grinned broadly. "As I said, there the deceased was, an oozing puddle of brains around his head. Aewen was there, embracing her little rooster right near the body of poor Sterki." That wasn't true, but it sounded good and added to the drama. "He is as guilty as a dog caught in the act of sucking eggs!"

"Griss, this court is grateful for your truthful testimony. You may take your place back amongst the men." The Jarl did not even try to hide his chuckle. "Obviously Kvigr has committed two crimes - one, a base murder; the other the abduction of a woman for unwholesome deeds." The men's laughter rose in a crescendo, some of the men slapping their legs as tears came to their faces.

Griss backed away into the crowd, an expression of proud amusement on his face. The man beside him whispered, "You should have been a play actor!"

"It is nothing, I tell you. Just natural talent," Griss grinned, to which the laughing man slapped him on the back.

"Before this court pronounces judgment," the Jarl intoned in a mock serious voice, "the accused is allowed a witness to his character. Should there be any valid argument that can be brought forward, now is the time to speak." The Jarl looked around the throng but no one stood up.

Griss caught sight of Algeirr in the crowd. Smirking, he spoke up. "This is Algeirr, a good friend of the felon Kvigr."

"Algeirr, come forward," Broggha's voice boomed.


Algeirr



When Algeirr reached the camp, the sentries were obviously expecting him. They let Algeirr in without questions and took him directly to the Jarl. Algeirr was impressed by the man's sheer bulk, but even more by his piercing blue eyes beneath the bristling red brows. The Jarl seemed pleased to meet him, but some dangerous flicker in his eyes when he looked at Algeirr and the predatory grin, plastered on his lips, warned Algeirr of the impending danger.

The mercenary found himself tensing, as before a battle, and stood not far from the Jarl, surveying the scene with wary eyes. A large crowd was gathered in the clearing. cheering and hooting as a naked woman was being flogged by the Jarl himself. In the crowd, Algeirr noticed the ashen-pale Meldun, but couldn't see any of his other men. Meldun caught his eyes and drew his hand across his throat in warning. Algeirr swallowed, but his wooden face showed nothing of the panic rising in his heart.

Soon, Algeirr's puzzlement was over. The man who was brought before Broggha's throne for trial was no other than the pale, but defiant Kvigr, his hands bound behind his back and a bleeding wound on his arm.

"What have you done, stupid, stupid pup?" thought Algeirr dismally.

The charges were deadly: murdering of one of Broggha's men and kidnapping of one of Broggha's own women. Algeirr felt cold dread creeping along his spine when he heard Griss's testimony. One look at the Jarl's face told him, that whatever Kvigr's reasons might have been, there would be no mercy.

At this moment, the Jarl intoned, mocking a standard tark trial "Before this court pronounces judgment, the accused is allowed a witness to his character. Should there be any valid argument that can be brought forward, now is the time to speak."

Theh the Jarl's fierce blue eyes caught Algeirr's, and he beckoned.

"Algeirr, come forward," his voice boomed.

The mercenary, his long face unreadable, stepped out of the throng and stood before the Jarl looking unflinchingly into his blue eyes.

"What have you to say?" the Jarl asked, his voice surprisingly smooth.

"This Kvigr here has always been a stupid pup, weak and silly. I was not even going to bring him to you, my Jarl, but let him go home to his dirty village to milk cows. He was never of any use. Do what you want with him, I can't care less".

Algeirr heard Kvigr gasp in disbelief behind his back, but he didn't turn to look. The mercenary knew, that, over the years, Kvigr has grown attached to him, as he would to a second father. Algeirr had a soft spot for the bright lad and liked his liveliness and invariably cheerful mood. But that was over now, over and done with. Kvigr was as good as dead, and Algeirr had no wish to follow him to Njamo.

Algeirr returned to his place to watch the execution.


Broggha



Morva Torch, afternoon of October 7, 1347

Jarl Broggha nodded solemnly to the witness Algierr and then stood up.

"Are there any other witnesses who are unknown to this court, who might have any words to say, either as evidence or as a witness to this man's innocence?"

The Jarl waited, looking around the assembly, and the faces that he saw resembled grinning wolves which had surrounded a victim.

"There being none, it is time for this court to pass judgment upon the accused." The crowd grew deafly silent and the men's lust for blood was obvious on their faces. Griss licked his lips in anticipation, while Heggr, in his enthusiasm, forgot for a few moments the pain in his teeth.

"Because of the gravity of the crimes - sedition and rebellion, the murder of an honorable warrior, and the abduction of a member of my household - the punishment must be in keeping with the seriousness of the offenses." All knew the harshness of Broggha's judgments. Now, though, in these days before he assumed his position on King Tarendur's council, he determined that he would establish an even fiercer reputation and make any man who sought to oppose him think twice before he did. The tension was palpable as the men waited to hear the nature of the punishment. They sensed that this execution would be something quite out of the ordinary and very memorable.

"Upon the morning of October 8 of this year, the prisoner is to be taken to the place of execution, where he will be first hanged by the neck; then while still alive, he is to be emasculated and his entrails extracted, the parts being delivered over to the fire where they will be consumed before his eyes. Then he is to be quartered and beheaded, his head being delivered to his village of birth, and the sections sent to the villages closest to the northern, southern, eastern and western borders of Rhudaur."

The crowd roared its approval.

Inside the longhouse, Aewen screamed.

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Rian



"Wilwarin," Tarniel asked the Dunedain woman, "how good are you with a sword?"

Wilwarin answered with a half-smile and a twinkle in her eyes.

Arinya leaned forward and fixed Tarniel with her bright eyes. "Translated, that means, 'You don't want to know the answer if you're on the wrong end of my sword!' "

Tarniel smiled grudgingly at Arinya's answer. Her tutor could usually coax a smile out of her, even in her worst moods.

"But I hope you will never need to know the full answer to that question, Tarniel," added Arinya. "I hope things will not get that bad, although it is wise to prepare for the possibilities."

"That's easy for you to say, Arinya!" sulked Tarniel, angry again. "You aren't the one being shadowed and followed!"

"Then stop whining and put off your fine things and leave the palace grounds and take care of yourself!" said her tutor, finally losing her temper with her volatile charge. "Others have had it harder than you have in this world! I have had enough of your whining; either I or your whining will leave this room now. Which shall it be?"


Tarniel



Cameth Brin, October 6, 1347
Princess Odaragariel's chamber

Tarniel blushed crimson, feeling as though she could melt into the earth, and vaguely wondering why her body still remained solid. It was most undignified for a princess to be scolded in the presence of another princess and a complete stranger! She felt most rueful for her previous outburst, and fought to keep her inward cringe from changing into an outer one.

"There is no need to leave," Tarniel said calmly, attempting not to appear so horribly embarrassed. "The situation with the hill-men has made us all nervous and easily excitable."

There was a knock on the door. Princess Odaragariel crossed the room and discovered that her missing maid had at last arrived.

"My apologies, lady!" the girl apologized profusely.

Scowling slightly, Odaragariel tried to hide her irritation as she remarked, "Well, at last you are here! Come quickly, I have visitors."

"Yes, my lady, right away," the girl sputtered sheepishly.

Soon, Odaragariel, Wilwarin, Arinya, and Tarniel were all seated about the decently sized table which Odaragariel used for dining or entertaining guests in her chamber. Soon the maid had returned with a pitcher of flavorful tea and some small pastries for a light repast.


Aewen



Morva Torch, Night of October 7, 1347

At last evening had come, and night had brought an end to the weary day. With the help of Malaneth, Aewen somehow managed to do all her tasks, the preparing and serving of the meal and the cleaning up afterwards. Her back throbbed with a fury and every movement was agony.

But her duties were not over. Though she still suffered from the beating, Broggha would not grant her any mercy when he dominated her with his vicious passions, and he was even harsher with her than usual. When he had finished his brutal assault, she lay beside him, sobbing into the rough coverlet on the straw-filled mattress. While the heartless monster slipped off into the serenity of sated lust, Aewen cried out her anguish, gasping until she thought she might die of suffocation. At last the fit of weeping had passed, and she collapsed in exhaustion, not moving for some time and hardly daring to breathe.

She had such hopes of escape, and now she was even more trapped and miserable than ever! True, it was foolish to even consider escaping, especially with a man she did not even know. Kvigr could just have easily used her a while for his pleasure, and then killed her, disposing of the body somewhere in the woods. No one would have missed her for long.

Whether Kvigr's intentions had been pure or not, she would never know now, because the young man had been sentenced to die. The Jarl would not even grant Kvigr mercy by giving him a speedy end, but insisted on prolonging the torture until at last death claimed the poor fellow. Aewen's fist clenched the coverlet. Broggha was a cruel tyrant, ruthless and treacherous, a truly evil man! Oh, how she wished that someone would kill him!

Then the thought came to her – "Perhaps I should do the deed..."

But what was she thinking? Surely he would kill her this time if he caught her attempting such madness!

She felt her arms reach up, and then her hands lifting her torso from the bed. Slowly, she rose into a kneeling position beside the prone form of the sleeping man. Her heart began to pound wildly and her fingers started to tremble. There the Jarl was, his eyes closed in peaceful repose, his chest rising and falling, his lips twitching foolishly as he snored loudly.

What was she doing? Had she gone mad? It was as though someone else was controlling her mind, her body! One leg slid from the mattress and then the other followed it as she rose to her feet. Her heart was beating so fast that she could barely concentrate. She felt herself moving towards her cloak, where she had hidden the knife that Kvigr had thrust into her hands in midst of the desperate fight. Soon it was in her hand once again.

Turning, Aewen looked towards the sleeping man. Everything in the long-house was still as a tomb; the fire grew low and silent in the brazier. Her stilted movements were almost lazy as she approached him, the knife-hilt held tightly in her clammy palm, her knuckles growing white from her relentless grip.

Almost before she had realized what had happened, Aewen found herself standing beside the little bed, the knife raised above the Jarl's heart.

She swore she felt the pressure of an invisible hand upon her forearm as she brought the sharp blade downward.


Gimilbeth



Cameth Brin, Late night of October 7.

Gimilbeth didn't cast her spell the first night, but postponed it to the next.

In the evening of the fateful day when she learned of the Counsil's decision, she had more time to read the black book, and she became aware that she lacked important things needed to cast the chosen spell. A dagger she had, as most of the high-born ladies did in such troubled times. She didn't have black candles, but settled to paint the ordinary ones on the surface, using the cohl cream she usually prepared for her make-up.

But there were worse things: she needed three frogs and a black cat to kill during the ritual. The cat, as Gimilbeth found out to her immense relief, could be substituted by a black cockerel. Gimilbeth doubted that she could ever kill a cat, even if a kingdom were at stake. She thought she could manage to kill the frogs, though.

Fortunately it was raining at midday on the Seventh of Narbeleth, so Gimilbeth caught the three frogs in the garden herself. She had sent Nimraen, her Gondorean maid, to the market to buy the black cockerel. The faithful maid, hearing this strange request, managed not to flinch, but Gimilbeth was sure that now loose tongues would start wagging with renewed vigor.

By the evening, everything was neatly arranged in Gimilbeth's still-room in the Palace basement. At eleven, Gimilbeth dismissed her maids for the night, and, dressed only in her thin silken shift and a heavy cloak, descended to the still-room.

She felt nervous and elated. The little black book opened a whole new world to her, a dangerous and exiting world full of shadow and power, a world where her ancestors on the mother's side felt at home.
Gimilbeth thought of her mother and of Inzilbeth's grief and shock if she could see her now. Inzilbeth was one of the Faithful, or had become one, once she met Tarnendur.

But what about her grandmother, Lady Serinde? The black book was ancient, but it contained lots of more recent marginal notes and additions made in different hands. Gimilbeth was shocked when she recognized her grandmother's hand, Serinde's unmistakable flowery script. So Serinde practiced Black Magick, perhaps she had even been initiated in a Black Temple...

Gimilbeth shivered, imagining her haughty noble grandmother lying all naked on a black altar, lit by nine candles, while the black- robed priest bathed her body in blood. Was it human sacrifice? Gimilbeth supposed so. She always suspected that even with the Great Temple destroyed, dark rites hadn't stopped at Umbar.

What a pity she hadn't been initiated when she still lived there! But it couldn't be remedied now. There were no black altars in Rhudaur and no Dark priests to conduct the rites and give her a new sacred name in the Dark Tongue, the name to be kept forever secret. Now anyone could weave a counter-spell against her, as her names were known to many. She only hoped there was nobody familiar with Black Arts in Broggha's surroundings.

Gimilbeth lit the Nine candles on the stone table and discarded her heavy cloak. The room was cold and she shivered in her thin shift. Cringing inwardly, she took out her dagger and killed the three frogs, intoning the customary prayer to the Dark Lord and spilling blood over her hands and bosom. Then she took the trussed cockerel and slit its throat, intoning Broggha's name and the spell that would reach him over the leagues.

Gimilbeth's heart pounded wildly and her fingers trembled. She started to feel dizzy, the smell of blood cloying and revolting in her nostrils. She felt her mind expanding and making contact with another...The intensity of anguish and hate in this other mind was like a physical blow...Her vision dimmed, the room disappeared, only the Nine lights floated in the darkness...

Swaying on her feet in exhaustion, Gimilbeth raised the dagger and plunged it downward into the cockerel's breast, while crying out the last words of the spell.

She could have sworn she felt someone's fingers around the hilt beneath her own.


Broggha



Morva Torch, night of October 7, 1347

The throngs cheered and called out his name as Broggha made his triumphant entry into Cammeth Bryn. His steed was resplendent with its fine leather bridle and saddle, the caparrison hanging down gracefully over the horse's haunches. The streets were narrow thoroughfares which were choked with dust in the summer and mud-filled morasses in the rain.

Though none of his men were accomplished musicians, still their horns rang out, impressive though discordant. The drummers kept up a constant rhythm that throbbed to the pace of a human heartbeat. The sound intensified as the procession turned a corner. Broggha beamed and waved as the crowd shouted out his accolades.

He turned towards the right and saw Aewen among the crowd. Her lips were turned up in a blood-covered smile.

"No!" he cried, waking up immediately to see the flash of firelight on a knife poised above him. He did not move quickly enough, though. Rolling his body to the side, he bellowed in pain as the fiery agony of the knife cut a bloody path across his shoulder blade and back.

Furious and in pain, he rolled off the bed and on his feet. His back felt as though a fiery serpent had crawled across it, and his blood dripped down over his back and onto the floor. The woman backed away from him, her knife gripped tightly in her hand and thrust forward.

"Give it to me, Aewen!" he commanded.

"No, no!" Her eyes looked feral in the light of the brazier.

He rushed towards the woman, easily dodging her misdirected attempts, and grasped her small wrist in his great paw, wincing as his wounded side clutched her shoulder. Bearing down his great strength, he heard the crunch of bone as he viciously shook her wrist back and forth. The knife thudded with a doleful sound on the floor. Broggha quickly released the woman, hurling her back on the bed as he bent down and picked up the knife.

"I should kill you!" he roared as he walked to the brazier. The knife was old, uncared-for and rusty, and as he held the blade to the fire, some of the fragments of rust burnt off. Still, when he had finished, the knife's blade burnt red.

He bent over Aewen and looked into her terrified eyes.

"You will never try to kill me again!"

She screamed as she felt the flat part of the fiery metal singe a trail between her breasts. By the time he had finished branding her, she had swooned. He tossed the knife into the brazier and walked to the door. Opening it, he shouted into the night, "Men! Hasten to me! I have been wounded!"

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Kvigr



Morva Torch, late night of October 7-8, 1347.

Kvigr was lying trussed on the floor of a dirty hut, the tight ropes painfully biting into his wrists and ankles. He told himself calmly that it mattered not, as he would not need his legs or arms or other body parts anymore...

After the trial, Kvigr remained numb for a long time, his mind totally blank. He even dosed for a few hours, but then the pain brought him back to bitter awareness.

Soon his head would be stuck on a pole in his village of Penn, for all to see, as is the way with brigands and murderers. Now Kvigr was glad that his father was dead, and won't feel ashamed for him. But his poor mother would see it, and all the neighbors, and Hegga, if she were still alive.. Perhaps she would even shed a tear...before marrying someone else.

What had he done? With his own hands he had dig a grave for himself and likely for the fair Lady Aewen as well. The thought of her made him flinch... The brute had flogged her mercilessly, but was that all? Kvigr imagined the cruel giant Broggha brutally raping the poor lady again and again... The scene was so vivid that Kvigr moaned in hopeless anguish...

Aewen's cries and Algeirr's cruel words resonated in his brain.

""A stupid pup, weak and silly.. He was never of any use.... I can't care less... can't care less... can't....".

Something snapped inside him and Kvigr wept.


Broggha



Morva Torch, 2 hours before dawn, October 8, 1347

The Jarl's angry roars of pain and rage had awakened the whole camp. Sleeping off the night's drunkenness, many men awoke confused. Thinking that the camp was under attack, they rushed to grab swords, axes and clubs, only to feel foolish when they discovered their mistake.

Griss, in spite of the ale he had consumed, had not slept well, and was one of the first to reach the Jarl. He found the leader still on his feet, in spite of the blood which he had lost. Broggha sat down on a bench as Malaneth brought wet cloths and pressed them against the torn flesh on his back.

"Summon the shaman!" Broggha ordered, and two men rushed off to fetch the medicine man. Soon they returned with the grinning little man, who immediately went to the Jarl. Prying and peering at Broggha's shoulder and back, the little man cackled and muttered a spell.

Packing the deepest wounds with a wad of cloth holding a mixture of bear fat and herbs, the shaman then bound Broggha's back. Imploring the strength of the bear to aid in the healing, the old man touched the necklace of teeth around his neck. The Jarl sat back on his bench and called for a tankard of ale.

Looking towards the bed, he harshly bit out, "Is the woman still alive?"

"My lord, yes," Malaneth replied, "but she fell into a swoon from which she has not awakened." Aewen, who had been covered by Malaneth, lay soundless upon the bed, her face ashen.

"See to her, old man," the Jarl barked out gruffly.

As Malaneth held the lantern over the bed, the old man turned back the cover. Looking up, the light of the lantern making his eyes glow with some fell lustre, he cackled, "A perfect dagger mark!" The old man began dancing about the bed, swaying and chortling, and babbling gibberish.

Malaneth felt sick to her stomach when she again saw the hideous burn between Aewen's breasts.

"Will she live?" Malaneth asked gravely.

"If my dance pleases the spirits that dwell in the earth, the air, the fire and the water, she will, but if not, she won't!" the old man laughed and merrily danced about the room as he mumbled.

"Her wrist is terribly swollen!" Malaneth gasped.

"Just set the break, then splint the wrist and bind it. One of the men can surely attend to that matter. You don't need a shaman for something so simple as that!" The old man exclaimed as he concluded his dance with a fierce roar, flailing the air with a stick carved with magic signs and the image of a bear.

He raced back to the table where he had left his herbs and jars. Coating the sacred magic stick in the ointment, he rubbed it over the seared flesh on the woman's chest, and with Malaneth's assistance, he applied a light dressing on the wound.

Griss wondered if they were only patching the woman up so she could be brought before the Jarl's justice. He pondered whether the Jarl would execute a woman or not, a practice which was seldom done. Though she had been marred by her ordeal, still her face was left beautiful. "It would be a shame to kill her," he thought.

One of the workman who had been laboring all night on building the gibbet was escorted into the hall.

"Jarl," he bowed - then wondered if he should address him by the title of "my lord" - "the gibbet will be completed by dawn."

"Let me know when it is finished," Broggha said, adding, "Aewen will watch the death of her lover, if she has to be tied to a chair!"

Malaneth looked sadly down at her friend, and wished that she had been successful in her attempts to kill the brute.


Rian



On the road to Eryndil's father's thanehold
just before midnight, October 7

Ceruvar, having obtained Eryndil's permission to bring out his harp, carried it over to where Caelen was huddled next to her brother, taking his time and making sure his approach was seen by her. He bowed and addressed her respectfully.

"My lady, we are soldiers, fighting to protect home and family and things of beauty that evil would mar, were it left unchecked. While we are far afield, music reminds us of these things, and encourages and sustains us. Therefore I respectfully ask your permission to play for the men, though it is only with a soldier's rough hand on the strings."

Callon, sure that his sister would still be too traumatized to answer the man, started to reply, but to his surprise, his sister checked him.

"I ... I ..." She gathered her courage and forced herself to answer. "Far be it from me to check any of your well-earned pleasures," she answered with only a slight tremor in her voice. Noticing how he had to lean in closer to hear her voice, which was far weaker than normal, she clenched her fists and shook herself slightly, forcing herself to speak up. "Please feel free to play for the men. I owe you my life for your service to home and King; please don't let my presence check your pleasures ..." Her voice faltered, and a cold wave of fear shot through her body as she thought of the pleasures that the brigands had wanted to take with her. No, no, they will not win! she thought to herself angrily, and forced herself to continue. "I mean, please do whatever you would do normally - I don't want to hinder you in any way, especially after all you have done for my brother and me. But I thank you for your courtesy in asking my permission." She stopped awkwardly, angry at her uncouthness in front of this man, but she didn't know what else to say and thought more words would only make it worse.

Ceruvar, seeing and understanding her distress, saw the heart behind the halting, awkward words and understood the uncouthness was due to her recent trauma. He bowed again, thanking her graciously, and returned to the men.

"Good for you, Callie!" whispered her brother. "Don't let those brigands win! Fight it and come back! I know you're strong - stronger than those cowards are. To attack a woman!" He stopped, too angry for further words.

His sister, exhausted, leaned back against him, and he covered her protectively with his cloak. They listened to Ceruvar's playing, which was far better than his modesty had claimed, and their bodies slowly relaxed as the music flowed around them, blending with the night noises. One of the men started singing along softly as Ceruvar started another melody. His voice followed the melody at first, then wove in and out and all around it in a merry dance as the melody grew more lively. As he and Ceruvar finished with a flourish, the men laughed and clapped softly, complementing the two musicians on their skill.

Eryndil laughed along with his men. "If you two keep that up, you'll have the very trees dancing!" he teased. "But I'm afraid that we're too far afield for dancing right now, and it's getting late - why don't you finish up with a quieter piece, and then we'll draw for first watch."

Ceruvar nodded with a smile, tuned a few strings to change the harp to a minor key, and started playing an ancient and beautiful lullaby. Callon felt his sister sigh and slowly relax into his body.

Suddenly the night was rent with a terrible scream.

Caelen's heart leapt to her throat. She felt she couldn't breathe, she couldn't see - all she could feel were cold hands, evil hands, grasping and pawing and hurting her, touching and rending and fouling her innermost body and soul, pulling her down to hideous depths... She began frantically fighting to get away from the arms...

Callon gasped and felt his body go cold all over. His nerves and muscles went numb; his sight blurred. He felt something close to him struggling and knew in the back of his mind that he needed to hold on to it tightly, because it was precious and he had to protect it, but it was as if he was watching his body instead of commanding it, and his arms stayed limp and lifeless. He suddenly felt the cold air against his chest, and saw though a mist the precious thing escaping. Stumbling to his feet, he grabbed at it - at - wait, his sister! what was wrong with him?! - and managed to catch the edge of the cloak that he had fastened around her.

Caelen screamed again and fought like a wildcat to get away, but her brother had his senses back now, and he wrapped his arms tight around her from behind, pinning down her arms. "Caelen, it's me! It's Callon, your brother! Don't fight, sweetheart, it's ok now," he urged into her ear, and then caught her as she collapsed.



Witch-king of Angmar



Morva Torch, Night of October 7, 1347

The only sound to disturb the silence of night was the distant hooting of an owl as the small party of horsemen rode along the trail. Riding beside the standard bearer who proudly held aloft the staff of the black and red Angmarian banner, a horseman called out a halt and drew rein. The other men silently regarded him as the chief ambassador stopped his horse and listened. There had been a shifting of the forces of magic. Someone had called upon the same power that he himself had invoked so many times.

"A dabbler," he thought, amused. "A mere novice who seeks to call upon that which he does not even understand." He began to visualize a distant form around whose body rose the smell of blood, sticky-sweet and cloying. "Who is this untaught person who dares to call upon the ancient arts?" A look of anger convulsed his handsome features. More importantly, for what was this unknown person striving?

The image of a dagger... the vision took firmer shape in his mind. Old and rusty... Suddenly it was smeared with blood. He tried to see the murky image in his mind more clearly... at whom was the dagger directed?

Then the veil parted and instantly he could see a huge, tall red-bearded man - Broggha! The dagger portended death. The man unsheathed the sword at his belt and drew a symbolic circle about his horse and him. He began to chant in an ancient, archaic tongue as he sliced deeply across his left forefinger and let the blood drip over the ring that glowed on his right hand.

"Not by my power, which is nothing, but by the power of the Darkness, which is all and from which all things came, I call upon the Two Lords of Darkness!" He waited for a few moments until he felt the power infuse his being, permeating each component of his body's makeup and fill him with the energized malice that, when fully invoked, could turn a rational man mad. "I beseech the Mighty Ones to halt the flight of the dagger in its path and to ward with protection the one for whom the blade was intended!"

At that moment, Broggha rolled away from the dagger that had been meant for his heart. The ambassador heard a scream and then a great crumbling as the dagger was consumed in a bright flame. The dark cloaked figure screamed his anger into the night. He had been almost too late! If he had not sensed this attack and stilled the magic which had unleashed it, all of his plans would have been for naught.

Now, he concentrated his power towards the doer of the deed. His gleaming black steed pawed the ground, winding the night air. The stallion had caught the scent of a mare in heat, her smell borne along by the night air. The stallion's eagerness was stilled with a soft word from his master. Such attunement to the beasts around him brought a comfort and was often quite useful.

The man listened as the owl called again. Down below the bird, a small mouse scampered along the ground as it searched the rich harvest of autumn seeds. The owl dipped down and caught it in his claws and flew back to his perch, where he tore the small creature to tattered fragments of bleeding flesh with his beak. In the man's mind, he could see the bits of fur, the blood and entrails as the owl relished his meal.

The man smiled as the blood-covered image of a woman - the nebulous vapor of a crown suspended in the mist above her head - materialized in his mind.

"A woman," he chuckled, "but who is she?" He would discover her identity, and when he did, she would pay for this audacity!

[scribe]

Gimilbeth



Power flowed so forcefully through Gimilbeth's body that it slammed her against the wall. Her thoughts in disarray, her vision dimmed, she couldn't recall the last incantation, aimed to tear her mind free from the contact with another.

Gimilbeth crawled back to the table and groped blindly for the book, but her fingers, sticky with blood, only met the stone and the bodies of the frogs. Her mind was flooded with paralyzing fear and unbearable anguish.

Suddenly the pain came. She felt her right hand crushed by invisible fingers, then the skin between her breasts started burning, as if scorched by a hot iron.

Tears ran down her cheeks and she moaned in pain, clutching her bosom, but the pain only intensified. The Nine lights were dancing before her eyes in a spinning circle. With a shrill cry Gimilbeth collapsed on the cold stone floor.

When, an hour later, she resurfaced from a pool of murky darkness, it took her a few minutes to realize that the last wave of pain had left her body. She got to her feet. The candles were still burning and by their light she was able to read aloud the last spell. Only then she allowed herself to relax.

She examined her breasts. The skin was unblemished and the breastbone seemed whole as well. Puzzled and relieved, Gimilbeth decided to dwell on the problem later. Now she took off her blood-stained shift, tore a clean stripe from the hem and dipped it in a kettle of warm water over the brazier. Using the wet cloth as a sponge, she carefully washed away all the blood from her face, body and hands. Then she swept the table and flung the bloody rags, carcasses of the frogs and the dead cockerel into the fire and watched as they burned, sitting naked on a stool by the fire.

The pain had been bad, but it seemed to her that the spell must have worked. Over leagues and leagues of forest, over swift streams and broken crags she had reached the dirty Barbarian in his lair. Now Broggha was dead, and that alone was worth all the suffering.

The corners of Gimilbeth's lips slowly turned up in a smile. The welcome heat was warming her frozen body. The next time she would be better prepared. The next time she would learn all the spells by heart, she would never forget a single word, whatever happened. That there would be a next time, Gimilbeth had not a slightest doubt.

She had tasted Power and, though seasoned with pain, its taste was sweet.


Aewen



Morva Torch, Late Night of October 7, 1347

Thankfully, Aewen remained unconscious for the duration of the old shaman's dance, for surely a sight would have only frightened her even more. When she did awake, it was to the sound of screams. Vaguely, she wondered who was screaming. Then she realized it was herself.

One of the Jarl's men was holding her down by her shoulder and arm on the side opposite to her broken wrist, while the other was setting the bone. Shrieking, she struggled and writhed in pain as her bones were pulled back in place. Though the night was chill and, despite the brazier's fires, the long-house was cool, Aewen broke out into a sweat as a raging fire raced over her naked body. The agony was too much for her to bear and once again she fell into a swoon.

It was near dawn when she awoke again, her mouth parched with thirst. Her wrist was splinted and bound up tightly, and the ointments upon her brand were greasy, the sheet clinging to them. Where the skin had been seared the most, she felt the least pain, for the intensity of the burn had squelched the feeling in her skin. However, the edges where the heat had not been so great burnt as though a fire had been kindled within her flesh. All her body was burdened with weariness and her poor, mangled wrist was aching.

"Water," she moaned weakly, and Malaneth, who had been keeping a restless vigil, quickly fetched her a draught, holding the cool liquid up to her lips.

Aewen wearily recalled all of the night's events. Had she gone mad? Truly it was folly to attempt to kill the Jarl, and she had paid dearly! What had possessed her? She had wondered that at the time the strange urgings had come over her, and she wondered it even now.

Possessed... she had certainly acted as though some fell spirit had taken over her body and moved it about without her consent. But such thoughts were absurd. It was she who was responsible for her own actions, and her misfortune could not be blamed upon anyone but her and her futile attempt to escape.


Tarnendur



Cameth Brin, October 8, 1347

The steadily drenching autumn rain came from the North in the morning, turning the narrow streets of the citadel into little rivulets and washing away dirt and horse dung accumulated in the gutters.

Tarnendur gingerly picked his way from the Palace to the Tower. He had ordered a Counsil to be held this morning, to discuss the last preparations for Broggha's arrival and to make the important announcements, before the meddling Hillman becomes part of the counsil.

He noticed Gimilbeth's gilded palanquin, a page walking on the either side, moving to the tower in front of him. It was really ridiculous to ask to be carried the small distance that separated the Palace from the Tower! But Gimilbeth was ever like a cat, disgusted to drench her paws in the rain. Tarnendur scowled. He had not seen his daughter for two days, and was still angry at her impertinence during their last meeting.

Still scowling, he quickened his pace and met Gimilbeth at the doors of the Tower. His daughter was dressed in a closely fitting gray gown, embroidered with silver thread. She looked paler than usual, he noticed, there were shadows around her eyes, as if from a sleepless night. But she curtseyed and greeted him with such a bright warm smile, that Tarnendur's anger melted and he beamed back, inwardly relieved. He hated to quarrel with Gimilbeth. When his daughter was happy the life was so much easier for everybody, but when she wasn't, she had her ways of making everyone feel miserable as well.

The counsil was held in an old, slightly shabby counsil room on the third floor. The narrow window slits in the thick walls let little light pass, so candles burned on the oblong wooden table that stood in the middle of the circular room. The counselors bowed to the King who entered followed by Gimilbeth.

There was the old, balding, portly Curugil, brother of the Lord of Nothwa Rhaglaw, and the Queen's great uncle, Nimruzir from Fennas Drunin, veteran of many wars, with a scar across his face and an evil temper, Huramir from Dol Aglardin, Belzagar from Dol Duniath, Elured from Brochenridge, and several lesser counselors. Among them was only one young face: Daurendil, the Heir to the throne, stood all flushed and happy to attend his first counsil.

The King took his place at the head of the table, Daurendil standing behind his back. All the Counsil members took their customary places. The King announced, avoiding to look at his daughter.

"My lords Counselors, Lady Gimilbeth, the times are growing darker and darker. The Kingdom is in peril. Daurendil, my son, has not yet come of age, but given the gravity of the situation, I have decided to give him a place on my Private Counsil now. For the one who is destined to wear the Crown after me must have time to learn to bear this burden".

The counselors nodded murmuring in approval. Gimilbeth's brows lifted, that has been unexpected. She eyed her brother coldly and he squirmed under her gaze. Without a word, Gimilbeth rose regally and indicated for Daurendil to take her place on the King's right. Curumir, who usually sat on the left of the King, rose hastily, as swiftly as his great bulk permitted, and left his chair for Gimilbeth. A brief confusion followed, as everyone moved one place lower along the line.

"How silly it is!" thought Tarnendur "In two weeks, they will have to move again, making place for Broggha." The King felt sick at this thought.