Runnings. Shadow over Rhudaur I

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Broggha



Morva Torch, Afternoon of October 8, 1347

Though scheduled for that morning, the execution of Kvigr had been delayed because a chill autumn rain had fallen. When the skies brightened in the afternoon, it was deemed that the execution should commense, for in spite the weather, Jarl Broggha wanted the man dead by nightfall.

The sun gleamed on the raindrops still clinging to the colorful autumn foilage, adding a carnival air to the great clearing in Broggha's camp. The gibbet stood high on its platform above the gathered throng of people. The device was little more than a pole with a crossbeam and brace, with an attached metal loop driven into the end of the crossbeam. The lumber had been cut quickly, the lumber still rough and weeping with oozing pine sap.

Since the method of public execution had been virtually unheard of before in Rhudaur, there had been little time to prepare. By necessity, the instruments selected were rude improvisations using common tools found upon farms. A brazier glowed on the platform, a number of useful implements lying near at hand. The executioner, one of Broggha's men who had volunteered for this service, and his assistants were nervous, but all of them realized there was a promise that if they became adept, there would be more such work for them in the future.

A chill autumn wind blew from the west and fanned the fires in the brazier as Broggha climbed the stairs to a raised observation platform, his six bodyguards following in his steps. Drawing his great fur cape about himself, he sat down upon his log throne, which had been placed there for the occasion. Two more men flanked an ashen-faced Aewen, her arm held in a sling, as she struggled to climb the stairs. When she stumbled, she was caught by one of the men before she could tumble off the steps. Looking apprehensively at Broggha, she took a designated seat beside him, with Malaneth standing nigh to her.

"Bring forth the condemned!" Jarl Broggha's great voice boomed out.

A horn sounded as guards with spears kept the path cleared for Kvigr. His hands bound behind his back, he was marched forward, the sound of the screaming hoots and jeers of the throng echoing in his ears. All of Broggha's men who had not been assigned sentry duty or who were not away on scouting missions were in attendance, as were many of the morbid curiosity seekers from nearby villages. Parents held small children aloft on their shoulders so that the young ones would not miss any of the spectacle. As the children pointed fingers to the gibbet, the parents laughed as they answered their questions.

"What is going to happen, Father?"

"We are going to see a great event, son! A villain is going to die today in a most peculiar manner and we are going to witness his death!"

"Oh jolly! This shall be amusing!" the child exclaimed as he pounded on his father's shoulders in his excitement.

Some innovative merchants had set up temporary marketplaces from the backs of wagons and hawked everything from carved wooden whistles and other toys to bread, cakes, wine and ale.

Kvigr, his head bowed, stood atop a platform as a noose was placed around his neck, the rope running through the ring at the end of the crossbeam and feeding out to the hands of three men on the ground. One of the executioner's assistants bound the condemned's knees and ankles with ropes.

The crowd watched in silence as Broggha rose to his towering height. "You have been found guilty of the crimes of treason, murder and abduction, and have been sentenced to death. Have you any words to say before the sentence is executed?"

"I beg that a message be taken to my mother and a woman named Hegga of my village, asking for their forgiveness and telling them that I love them. I ask the Lady Aewen for forgiveness and am sorry that I have brought her more grief."

"Your request will be honored," Broggha responded munificently. As the Jarl resumed his seat, he brought his right hand down towards the ground, the signal for the drummers to begin their death knell and the execution to commence. A stark look of terror and disbelief engulfed Kvigr's face as he found himself hauled into the air by his neck. The crowd roared its approval as the three men held the rope taut while Kvigr's legs bucked and kicked spasmodically. The noose slowly strangling him, Kvigr's body reacted to his terror and a stream of urine soaked his breeches. Fingers pointed at him as the shouts of the crowd rose to a fever pitch.

The executioner signaled to his assistants and they slowly lowered Kvigr's nearly unconscious body to the floor of the platform. They waited until Kvigr sucked gulp after gulp of air into his lungs. Clearing his mind of confusion, the executioner set his mouth into a tight line as he drew a dagger from his belt. Quickly he did his work as Kvigr screamed his agony, watching as the severed parts were tossed into the brazier. The crowd howled and clapped.

Looking into Kvigr's pain-filled eyes, the executioner bent and plunged the dagger into his abdomen, cutting from left to right and then slightly upward. Kvigr's intestines began spilling out. The executioner drew out the rest with hook and threw them into the fire. Aewen and Malaneth screamed, Aewen soon falling into a swoon as Malaneth blanched in horror and put her hand to her mouth. Some in the crowd did not have the mettle to stomach this gruesome sight, and turned their heads, some retching, but most cheering.

Kvigr's life almost gone, the executioner ended it by slicing upward into his torso and drawing out his still-beating heart. Holding the dripping muscle in his hands, he presented it first to the view of Broggha and then turned and showed it to the crowd. Hats were pulled from heads and tossed into the air as the people screamed their approval.

An assistant handed an axe to the executioner, who divided first Kvigr's head from his body, and then his four limbs. His head would be placed in a box and returned to the village from which he had come, and the arms and legs would be delivered by special courier to the four closest villages to the border of Rhudaur.

At the conclusion of the execution, Jarl Broggha, a smile of satisfaction on his face, walked regally down the stairs and through the processional way held open by the guards. Even though his back and shoulders throbbed painfully, this had been a good day, for he news of the Jarl's justice would spread throughout the whole country. Kvigr's death would serve as an example to any others who would dare raise their hands against the powerful chieftain.


Tarniel



Cammeth Bryn, Afternoon of October 8, 1347

It was the afternoon of the next day, and Tarniel and Baineth, one of her maids, sat about in her chamber. Tarniel felt melancholy, sorrowful that soon her life was about to change. At least she had a few days before Wilwarin would shadow her footsteps. Not that she had taken an intense disliking of the woman, but, as royalty, it made her unhappy when there were changes to her blissful existence. She really should be thankful, not complaining, for Wilwarin was there to keep her and Odaragariel safe from any enemies.

Baineth's words broke her concentration. "Did you hear what happened yesterday?" she asked.

The princess shook her head. "No, I did not."

Baineth lowered her voice. "Yesterday morning, Gimilbeth sent her maid to the market to buy a black cockerel. Everyone in the palace is talking about it today."

Tarniel cringed. With all her peculiarities, Gimilbeth was an embarrassment to the family. Everyone thought she was a witch, and Tarniel agreed with them. She was a shame and a mockery to the royal family, for they were good, faithful Arnorians, not Black Numenoreans who practiced the worship of the Dark. Tarniel shivered. She had always suspected that her half-sister dabbled in witch-craft, and the purchase of the black chicken was yet another proof of this.

She wondered of what purpose this chicken was to serve, what sort of spell was Gimilbeth casting? Tarniel prayed that it did not concern her or any other members of her family. That would be horrible, to leave in fear that her own half-sister was conspiring to curse everyone whom she knew.

"I wonder what Gimilbeth is planning to do with the chicken?" Tarniel mused out loud.

"Maybe she fed it to her scary cats," suggested Baineth.

"Maybe," murmured Tarniel, hopeful that her maid's assumption was correct. If it was not – then Tarniel dreaded to contemplate the evils in which Gimilbeth had involved herself.


Gimilbeth



Cameth Brin, Counsil chamber in the Tower, October 8, 1347


After an hour of debates on the relocation of the troops around the capital and on the new levies to be made in the villages, the King came to the next important matter.

"As my daughter so rightfully pointed out" he said nodding to Gimilbeth, "in such troubled times, the alliances with Arthedain and Gondor become of utmost importance. Desiring to strengthen our ties with Arthedain, I have decided to propose my daughter in marriage to the heir of Arthedain, Malvegil's grandson." Tarnendur consulted a scroll on the table, peering at it with myopic eyes and elaborated. "Beleg, son of Celebrindol."

A stunned silence followed. Everyone was looking at Gimilbeth, and she felt her cheeks burn. Has her father become crazy? This Arthedain pup must be no more than forty! Certainly her age was a closely guarded secret, known to few in Rhudaur, but her father should know that she was seventy years the Heir's senior! She decided to breach the subject herself.

"And have you considered the age difference, Father?" she asked smoothly.

The King brushed the matter aside. "I know that Tarniel is too young." Tarnendur's voice was harsh. "But we can wait with the actual marriage. Once the betrothal is arranged, we can look forward to Arthedain's aid. And the marriage can be concluded in ten or fifteen years".

Gimilbeth's cheeks burned even brighter. What a fool she has been not to think of her younger sister! She still considered her a baby, but her father was right. In fifteen years she will be of marriageable age.

Daurendil stifled a giggle, seeing Gimilbeth's embarrassment. The occasion was so rare - a good story to tell his brother when the counsil was over. Truth be told, Daurendil hated the witch and feared her. She had such cold piercing eyes that sort of looked right through you... And all these stories told by the servants...

Meantime, the King continued.
"Perhaps, if Malvegil agrees, we can arrange to send Tarniel to Fornost, to complete her education. She will be far safer in Arthedain, away from our Hillmen".

A hot debate followed, Nimruzir bellowing that such an arrangement was unseemly and would show Rhudaur's weakness. Athedain's spy Curugil was contradicting him in his old strident voice.

Having recovered somewhat, Gimilbeth chimed in. "I think this matter can be discussed later. I believe the King has proposed a very advantageous match for the Princess Tarniel, and even more so for our Kingdom. I volunteer to go to Fornost myself to speak with the King Malvegil on the matter".

Tarnendur beamed in surprise. He was sure, Gimilbeth would object, but she even proposed her intervention. But was that safe for Gimilbeth?

"Winter is coming, my daughter. It is difficult for your delicate disposition to travel so far in cold weather. Perhaps, we should better send a messenger?"

"The winter is not too close, Father, there would hardly be any snow before the end of Narbeleth", replied Gimilbeth. "Moreover, probably I will have to go only as far as Amon Sul, to speak with the King of Arthedain via the Palantir. No need to travel all the way to Fornost. I will also try to communicate with King Romandacil of Gondor. Perhaps he could send us at least some money to hire more mercenaries. The Hillmen troops are not trustworthy."

After some debate, the matter was decided. Gimilbeth was to travel to Amon Sul as soon as Hurgon, the famous court painter, finished a portrait of Tarniel to be shown to Malvegil and to her future husband.

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Valandil



October 8, just after dawn - several leagues north of the rescue

As his men broke camp, Eryndil stood off by himself, surveying what he could see of the sky in the growing light as the sun slowly rose.

Their journey so far had been a bit slower than he had hoped for - but the terrain was rugged. The first night his men had been fresh, and he had hoped for a full day's march through the night - and at least a half day's distance of four leagues. Yet they had only made between 2 and 3 leagues. Yesterday, another 5 or 6 - but if there were to be any pursuit, it could only begin today at the soonest - and would be a weak pursuit at that. So last night, when Ceruvar had brought forth his harp, Eryndil had not objected, as he had on the stops of the previous night.

And then had come the scream.

Eryndil's own men had huddled together in fear - he had even felt the fear himself. How could a man not, with the sound of that thing. They had spoken on for perhaps hours in hushed whispers - about things like "Mewlips" and "Vampires" and other such subjects of old tales almost forgotten.

This morning, all seemed well-rested and refreshed - even Callon and Caelen. But beneath it, everyone still seemed a bit tense and shaken up. Nonetheless, they should make better time today - and tomorrow should bring them to their intended destination.

A part of him still debated within himself his intended course of action - but no, it would be best. Especially after that scream. He could be sure to send his charges off to relative safety, while he tried to cover for them. He straightened up and called for Narwaith. When the man came, he drew him aside and spoke with him in hushed tones.

"Narwaith, I want you to take Callon and Caelen - and Gwaerod - on to Duinand. Choose three men, none from our thane-hold, save yourself. And take at least one of our two other "city boys". Go straight north all day today - then tomorrow straight for Duinand. Go to the Thane there and request a soldier's winter lodging for yourself, your men and claim these," he indicated the brother and sister, "as your servants."

"Further, do not mention my name - and take heed that you not be recognized - I think few enough in my father's household would know you. Understood?"

Narwaith nodded in acknowledgement.

"Good! I wish to play my father a little trick. But meanwhile, cover your tracks for the first league today, and the first half league tomorrow, when you change your direction to the northwest. The rest of us will backtrack to erase what little trace we've left on rocky paths - and to guard against pursuit - or else to lead it astray. We should join you within three days of your arrival there."

His plans discharged, Eryndil called the whole company together and announced, "We're splitting up."


Griss



Morva Torch, Night of October 15, 1347

One week had passed since the execution of the criminal Kvigr. All that day, there had been a great commotion in camp as stores of supplies and possessions were loaded in packs for the trip to Cammeth Bryn. Before dawn the next day, the packs would be loaded on the pack saddles of horses, and the journey to the capitol would commence. A small garrison were to remain in Morva Torch to "keep the peace" in the area. The men were exhausted from the labor of the day, but not too exhausted to hear the latest news.

On the day of Kvigr's death, ten riders in pairs had been dispatched to carry the severed pieces of the felon's body to the village of his birth and to the four corners of Rhudaur. One pair - the two who had ridden to the man's place of birth - had returned just that morning. After reporting to Jarl Broggha, the men had been dismissed to relax and were now describing their trip to the off duty men, who hovered around them.

The men stood, laughing and talking, around the campfire, taking advantage of the heat of the fire to warm their backs. Griss and Heggr were all ears to hear what had happened and were listening intently to the man's account.

Between liberal sips of ale from the drinking horn, the short, one-eyed man scratched his stubby beard, reflecting upon what he would say next.

"Kvigr's old dam - and I'll say she had a real figure on her for a woman that age..." he winked his good eye, "I notice things like that..."

"Go on with your story! We don't want to hear about this wench!!" Heggr complained irritably.

"Give me a minute, will you? This ale is good!" The courier was obviously enjoying being the center of attention. "Well, anyway, we rode up to the camp. Everyone eyed us suspiciously. Maybe they had already had word of what had happened. Who knows? It doesn't matter." He lifted the horn to his lips again and squinted his good eye at the crowd.

"Are you going to tell the story today or do we have to wait all week?" a man muttered angrily.

"None of you have any appreciation for a good story, do you?" the one-eyed man said. "I'll tell it, I'll tell it! There were not too many people around when we rode up. After that little visit we paid on them last year, not too many people live there anymore. The Jarl's man - the thane he put in charge - came running out of his longhouse with his council right behind him and all of them stood there waiting like hounds with their tongues hanging out, all eager to see what we had brought them. After the proprieties were exchanged, the thane ordered that a regular ceremony be held in honor of such an occasion!"

"You mean the delivery of a severed head is an event worthy of ceremony?" Heggr guffawed.

"Why don't you just shut up?" the one-eyed man shouted angrily.

"All right, all right," Heggr grumbled. "What happened next!"

"The thane held the package up in the air as he walked to the center of the village - all of his counselors keeping in his footsteps - real solemn, you know, as a boy pounded on a drum. The stinking head attracted every dog in the village, and they followed along behind, barking and yapping! It was quite a procession, and I felt sort of humble at being a part of it. The thane ordered a post set up in the middle of the town, and there he stuck Kvigr's head for all to see!" The man wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand and waited to see the crowd's reaction. "That is about all there is to tell."

"What about his mother?" Heggr asked.

"I thought you weren't interested in his mother," one-eye said churlishly. "My drinking horn is empty. Boy," he looked to a young Arnorian thrall, "bring me more ale!"

"I wasn't interested in the middle of the story, but I am now." Griss grinned.

"No fairer woman of that age have I ever seen in all my days! Her hair was darker than the raven's wings and she wore it in two braids wrapped around her head with a cloth pinned over it. Her dress was of poor quality, but she filled it out most admirably! Her pretty face had hardly any wrinkles, but had a sad look to it. With a woman like that..." one-eye winked.

"We know what you would do to a woman like that!" Griss interjected. "Now what about her, besides the fact that you are lusting for her?"

"When she saw her boy's head up atop that poll, she screamed like some demon and then fainted dead away! One of the women stuck an onion under her nose to revive her, and she finally came around, but she was as pale as a spectre in a barrowfield!"

The boy had returned with one-eye's refilled drinking horn.

"Now that I have finished my tale, leave me in peace! I'm tired from my journey, and the Jarl has let me off for the rest of the day! Now don't you louts have something to do?" He gave a dismissive wave of his hand as he sat down and turned his attention to his ale.

"Let's go over to the cooking area and see if there is a scrap of meat or something left from the supper," Griss suggested to Heggr.

Distracted, the other man mumbled, "Aye."

"What's wrong with you?" Griss queried. "Your jaw is generally flapping all the time."

"My teeth are bothering me. It is this cold air that makes them ache."

"I've been around you long enough to know that that is not all that is on your mind. Out with it, man! What are you thinking about?"

"I'm thinking I'd like to go courting!" Heggr grinned, showing several brown, decaying teeth in his lower jaw.

"Before you do that, I suggest that you get the shaman to pull some of those teeth out of your fool head. As you look now, no woman would have anything to do with you! And do something about your breath, man! You would stink out the vultures that gather around the village cutter's cart."


Broggha



Morva Torch, Night of October 15, 1347

The brazier in Jarl Broggha's great longhouse was glowing brightly, providing light and warmth for the building. The Jarl sat back in his fur-draped chair and looked across the table at his captains as some of his men-at-arms drank from tankards of ale.

"Jarl, I think your decision to promote the fellow Griss to captain is a judicious one. He has proved his loyalty more than once. While he is not one of our most outstanding warriors, the men admire him and look up to him for his leadership."

"Though I will be hard-pressed to find another scout and spy as good as he is, I think it is time that he have more responsibility. The man has a quick mind and good perception. Find another spy for me, Captain. I will pay him well!"

"There is a man - nothing more than a cutthroat and robber - but he is wily, and if he is paid enough, he will serve the purpose." The Captain hoped that the man would be all that and more. "Jarl, let me make him the offer and we will see what he says."

The Jarl reached into a small chest on the table and drew out a piece of gold and slid it across the table to the Captain. "Tell him there is plenty where this came from," Broggha grinned.

The Captain picked up the coin, putting it in the pouch at his belt. Then he rose to his feet and bowed. "I will know his reply by morning."

Broggha rose to his feet, a signal for his men-at-arms to do the same. "The hour grows late, gentlemen, and it is time for me to retire." He glanced to Malaneth, who was clearing the table of the empty tankards.

"Certainly, Jarl, good night to you," the Captain slid his chair back and after more good nights, he and his men departed.

"Malaneth, come sit on my lap." The Jarl pushed his chair back.

"Aye, Jarl," the woman replied, keeping her eyes down as she slid onto his lap and smoothed her skirts.

Pulling her close to him, Broggha held her in a tight embrace as he kissed her neck. "Two days ago I sent dispatch riders ahead to Cammeth Bryn. They bear a message to King Tarendur announcing that we should be arriving near Cammeth Bryn in three day's time. I have had a cart prepared to transport you and the wench Aewen. After I have the two of you established in the keep on the lands that I have been bestowed by the king, I might present you to the king's court. Perhaps you will be ladies-in-waiting to the young princess."

"Is that possible, my lord?" Malaneth asked as she felt his beard against the back of her neck. "Will he not know how you... obtained us?"

"It does not matter what he does or does not know. The king is afraid to gainsay me. I am far more powerful than he is," he murmured into her ear as he picked her up and carried her over to the fur-covered bed.

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Aewen



Morva Torch, October 8 - 15, 1347

"I beg that a message be taken to my mother and a woman named Hegga of my village, asking for their forgiveness and telling them that I love them. I ask the Lady Aewen for forgiveness and am sorry that I have brought her more grief."

Kvigr's words echoed in Aewen's mind, and over and over again she saw his brutal death, how he writhed in agony as he was hanged, the bloody emasculation and disembowelment. Though she had fainted many times throughout the horrible execution, still what she had seen would haunt her for the rest of her life. His death was all her fault; if she had not agreed to run away with him, this whole tragedy never would have happened. What was happening to her mind? First she had risked her own life by trusting a man she did not even know in the hopes that she could escape, and then, later, she had attempted to murder the Jarl in his sleep because of some strange compulsion which she still did not understand. Not only had her madness brought the Jarl's anger down on her, but it had also caused a man his life. She wished she was never born.

Though her whole body was in agony – her back from the whipping, her wrist from the break, and her chest where her skin was seared by the hot metal – somehow Aewen managed to find sleep that night. A horrible dream came to her while she slumbered. In it, the parts of Kvigr's body had traveled across the miles, leaving trails of blood and gore in their wake. There, gathered before her in the midst of a crossroads, they drew together by some means of enchantment, and became whole once again... if it could indeed be called whole. For where the severed limbs rejoined the torso, the clothing was ripped and stained dark with blood.

Shaking in terror, she beheld the gruesome sight. Kvigr's dead, hollow eyes looked at her with a cold, sickening lack of expression that was somehow all too expressive. Then his mouth seemed to move, and he mumbled out the words:

"I hold you accountable for my death."

Aewen woke up screaming, but no one really cared, save Malaneth.

***

As the cold days of mid-autumn passed, the pain of the many injuries inflicted upon her by her master gradually began to diminish. Each day was spent in suspense and fear, for she did not know if the Jarl planned to punish her further or even kill her, or if he had deemed that he had punished her enough already. Now it was the 15th of October, and still Aewen was alive. Soon they would be leaving this place, and Broggha had spoken of her being a lady-in-waiting to the poor princess whom he desired. It appeared that he had spared Aewen, feeling that she had learned her lesson. For her life, Aewen was grateful, though always would she live in guilt, feeling that Kvigr's death was her fault.

But a nagging worry had unsettled her mind, and she wondered how she would approach the Jarl about this matter. She feared she was with his child.


Valandil



October 8th - from morning into afternoon

Departing with seven of his men from Callon, Caelen, and the remainder of his men who would escort them to Duinand, Eryndil set his course due south, back-tracking their path from the previous day. He and his men took great care to leave no trace of their passing - and to disrupt whatever signs of their passage from the day before had been left behind, by man or by horse.

Eryndil doubted greatly that the men he had left behind would have the spirit to give chase - even if they managed to quickly find their weapons. Nor did he expect that Broggha would send troops after him - since he would essentially have a two-day start, with little or no trail to follow.

Still - he was a man inclined to take precautions, by nature and by profession. If he had taken greater precautions than seemed needed on ten occasions - any one of those might have saved his life. There was no need to change that habit now.

So south they went, through most of the morning. At last they came to the place he had sought. Ahead of them, their former path went downward between two banks, or clefts, that rose on either side. He sent Norumar with two men to the left, while he took the other four with him to the right. The two parties advanced on - in sight of each other, but screened from view of the pass by the trees and the dropping off of the land. At last they came to the south end of the clefts, where they overlooked the approach to the south, side-by-side.

If there would be a pursuit, this would be the place to halt it - or at least to slow it. Both parties had a commanding view of the south, but they could remain concealed from below. Yet they could see, and signal to, one another. They were at least 30 rangar (trans - somewhat between 30 yard and 30 meters) above the ground beneath them, and little more than half a furlong apart.

All below them was still, so the men settled in to rest and to wait. They drew forth provisions from their packs for a light lunch, and set turns to watch, while Ceruvar explored the drop toward the pass below them. If a message by word of mouth were required, it would fall to him to carry it, so he must choose his quickest path.

As they waited, the sky began to darken. Clouds had begun to form, and to thicken, turning a deep, dark grey. At last the clouds burst into a cold autumn rain.

Eryndil was elated. This would ruin any chance of them being tracked. He waited only long enough to ensure that the rain would hold out for a time. Then he signaled Norumar and his men to back-track to the north again, and to meet him where the path rose up to them - the place where they had separated just hours earlier.

By the time they all reached this spot, Eryndil had determined his next course of action. They would now turn northeast, rather than northwest to Duinand. There was an inn on the road about 2-3 leagues that way from here. False hints dropped there would satisfy the curious than "Taurenol" had gone back to the Ettenmoors for the winter - or to some other place. Feigned "carelessness" about the marks of their current route would further ensure this (so they took great care to leave deep tracks in what mud they could) - and divert attention from Duinand - their true eventual destination.

Besides - the inn was on the road east of last night's camp. He might find out more about that scream - since it seemed to come out of the east.


Algeirr



Morva Torch, October 8-15, 1347.

Algeirr was drunk that night. He rarely permitted himself to relax completely, but now was such an occasion. Was it the full moon peering shamelessly at him from the heavens, or the tale about Kvigr's old dam and her grief told in the camp, but something snapped inside him and no amount of booze could quench this unease.

At first, Algeirr was simply angry at the fool who couldn't be trusted to spend one night in Broggha's camp without attempting to steal the Jarl's favorite mistress. He watched Kvigr execution unflinchingly, and only worried about his own hide.

As the Jarl had been wounded, the knowledge of healing arts that Algeirr picked in the Arthedain and Cardolan armies proved handy: he proposed to wash the wound with infused Kingsfoil leaves. He had a goodly supply of the staff in his backpack and spared quite a lot to regain the Jarl's trust, more than was really needed.

Broggha was a suspicious bastard, no mistake there, so he made Algeirr first try his healing arts on the Jarl's wench, Aewen. When the leaves did wonders for the deep oozing burns on the woman's chest, the Jarl reluctantly offered his own back to Algeirr's ministrations, but the mercenary had been very much aware of two of Broggha's cutthroats hanging at his elbows with drawn knives.

Then weary days passed one after another. The Jarl seemed not in the least grateful, and affected not to notice Algeirr at all. The mercenary was not given any duties, neither was he promised any rewards. Every night, the feeling of insecurity made it difficult to find sleep, and Algeirr always kept his sword at his side, straining his ears to the sounds of approaching murderers. Not once had he mused about leaving the camp for good, but some deep ingrained instinct told him, that had he tried to leave, he would be caught and executed the same way Kvigr had been.

Algeirr often dreamed of Kvigr's execution, but in his sleep he felt no indifference as he did watching the event itself, instead, he often found his cheeks wet and his heart pounding fiercely.

So, one week after Kvigr execution, Algeirr paid his last copper coins for a keg of ale and got drunk alone in his hut, watching mournfully the hilt of the knife he drove deep into the earthen floor in front of him.

It was in this sorry state that Griss found Algeirr in the evening of the 15 of Narbeleth. Griss was clearly surprised to see Algeirr so unmade. He stooped at the door looking down at the sprawled mercenary. Algeirr blinked back with swollen bleary eyes and motioned Griss towards the keg of ale without a word. Griss shook his head: he was now Captain, and had no wish to gulp cheap ale after sharing good Gondorean wine with the Jarl.

"The Jarl gave me a promotion," said Griss, wondering whether Algeirr still had enough wits left to understand him. "I am to be one of his Captains, and you will be the head of the scouts, in my stead, if you so wish."

With that he flicked the golden coin the Jarl gave him.

Algeirr's hand shot out and gripped the coin in a fluid gesture. Griss was startled by such an agility in the drunken man, but then he roared with laugher.

"I see no amount of ale may quench your lust for gold, my friend," Griss said good-naturedly. "Cheer up and stop this nonsense. We are going to a place where all our lusts will be satisfied, be it for gold, fame or fine wenches! We ride to Cameth Brin in the morrow and let the Tarks tremble at our approach!"


Valandil



Camglas at Ostinand - October 8, 1347

Camglas stood looking out the window at the storm clouds that had gathered to the south. "Dark clouds over Rhudaur, sure enough," he thought to himself. For lately this subject had been much on his mind. Only thoughts of dark clouds besides the ones that only brought rain.

"Snow,... the next time," he said as he turned back to his work.

He was in a small room that we might call a study or office today - in the southeast corner of his old manor home, on the second storey above the ground. The harvest had come in all across his thane-hold, and his reeves had brought their reports from all the householders on his land.

Harvest-wise, it had been a good year. His own personal harvest would likely bring his entire household through the winter alright, with a bit to start them into spring. He might be able to settle up with cash from all the householders' shares that were his due - from those who had it. Cash would come in handy. Especially now that the crown exerted taxes on its Thanes - as if it did not have enough householders and personal property of its own! Besides - there was to be a new Count of Penmorva. And Camglas did not doubt that Broggha would find reason to invent new taxes to increase the burden on his thanes. And the King would back him too!

He sighed when he thought to what his noble house had come to. They were more independent in days past. They were able to be generous. They were renowned patrons of the arts even - for their standing. And they were noble men, and great. Family tradition held that one of them had slain a troll!

And now what were they come to? Little more than over-burdened, broken-down farmers, Camglas thought, pinching pennies to pay the dues imposed by the King or greater nobles.

And... he wondered how long even this would last. At 160, he might have a few years left. But things were changing. Would his son even make it to 160? As Thane here? Rhudaur was not as it had once been. And it had never been Arnor. But - if unlike their predecessors of old, his eldest son Dornendur seemed fit enough to be a thane in this age - though his love of the table and the cup were a bit too strong.

This drew Camglas' thinking to other members of his family.

Yes... there were dark clouds over Rhudaur indeed.

[scribe]

Valandil



Eryndil at The Three Goats Inn - evening, October 8, 1347

Eryndil and his seven companions had reached the inn just as the sun would have been setting - but they hadn't seen the sun since the rain had started, and the rain hadn't stopped yet, but had become a slow, steady, drizzle. The innkeeper had been glad to see them - few enough travelers on the road at this time, and he only had a few others. While he and his family prepared to serve the band of soldiers, the men warmed and dried themselves before a roaring fire at one end of the common room. There were a few locals present - stopping in for news or to chat before going on home. The innkeeper said that two small parties of merchants had stopped in, but they had not yet come out from their rooms.

As for news of the scream, the innkeeper had none - but they had heard it, sure enough, for it had woken all in the place and had chilled them to the bone. He learned too that a small delegation who seemed to hail from Angmar had passed through the evening before, but had stopped only to refresh themselves and their horses. Then they had pressed on northward rather than taking lodging - which the innkeeper thought odd (but an innkeeper would surely think so). This was a few hours before the scream came.

Dried off at last, the men gathered at a table placed just before the fire. Hot drinks were brought out for them, and they began to talk and to jest with one another, and this is some of what the other patrons heard:

"So, Dilion, would this be a right good place to spend the winter?"

"Indeed it would Lossion - but our rights to winter quarters extend to no inns. We would have to pay from our own pockets for it - and our purses would run dry ere the Yule!"

"It's a shame Varion," bellowed a large one. "For I think this innkeeper's daughter can't take her eyes off you!"

The men all laughed, as the subject of this speech blushed and scampered off from filling "Varion's" mug.

"Well Marion - you have sure scared her away now!" responded "Varion". "And so worthy of resting the eyes upon herself!" he added, with a wink to the girl, who now huddled near the entrance to the kitchen. Then turning back to "Dilion" he asked, "Do we still mean to make for a village in the lands east of Penmorva for winter? Or shall we just make huts or a cabin in the woods to the southeast of that town?"

And on they talked of their purported plans, each one taking the end of the other's name and adding the "-ion" when addressing him. Food was now brought forth to them - roast fowl, boiled potatoes, carrots and cabbage, bread, butter and cheese - and they began to eat as they continued their converse.

At last, the one called "Throndion" spoke in a voice somewhat hushed, but still audible, "Have we still time to make huts against the winter cold, ...Taurenol?"

The men all froze in silence for a moment and then spoke in whispers that could not be heard, seeming to chastise the man who had spoken.

With a stern look upon his face, Eryndil laughed triumphantly to himself. Lothrond had played that to perfection. Soon all the wagging tongues would claim to know where "Taurenol" was headed for the winter. If any pursuit DID come this way, they might well be steared to the east or the southeast, while he and his men would return back northwest to Nandemar and Duinand.

It had come as a bit of a surprise to Eryndil, when men had begun to speak of him as "Taurenol" - not knowing even who it was that the name belonged to. Only that he brought the King's Justice at times of despair and then melted into the wilds without a trace. The common people loved him, although it was mixed with some fear and apprehension. So - he had "owned" the name - and while his men all knew him as "Eryndil" - few, perhaps none other, knew that he and "Taurenol" were one and the same. Thus he was "Eryndil" to his men when none were about, and "Taurenol" when others were present - if they wished to make themselves known as 'Taurenol's Band'.

Nimloss, across the table from him, was looking him in the eye as if trying to get his attention and gestured slightly toward the corner of the room over Eryndil's shoulder, even as he tried to keep his face somewhat shaded by his hood. Eryndil turned that direction, calling for more drink for his cup.

There at a small table to one side of the fireplace, he saw that a merchant had come down with his lady. Only wait... that was truly no merchant. It was his brother Vilyandur! And "his lady" was their own sister Gildurien!

Vilyandur's eyes met his own.

The evening continued - but later, as each party broke up for the night, Eryndil discretely passed over by Vilyandur, who had just sent Gildurien off and whispered so that none other could hear.

"Well met, my brother. What takes you out on the road at this time?"

"I return home, brother - from whence I shall not say. But one can keep my secrets who has secrets of his own to keep, yes 'Taurenol'?"

And with a wry smile, Vilyandur turned to the small stairway and went aloft to his rooms.


Odaragariel of Mitheithel



October 10th, Cameth Brin, Tarniel's rooms

"I have news!" her pale cheeks flushing, and her eyes glinting teasingly, Odaragariel flung herself onto the couch, and looked up expectantly at Tarniel.

"Well?"

Leaning forward, she almost whispered, spacing her words out carefully for emphasis, "Your father, and the rest of the Counsil, have decided to propose you in marraige to- well, guess who?"

Tarniel looked at her in exasperation. "Will you tell me or not?"

"The hillman, Broggha!" then seeing the alarmed look on Tarniel's face, she broke into peals of laughter, and amended, "I'm just joking, of course its not Broggha! His name is Beleg, son of- well, can't remember who. But he's the heir to Arthedain... well?" she asked impatiently for Tarniel's reaction.

Tarniel opened her mouth, perhaps to express surprise, or maybe pleasure, but suddenly suspicious, she narrowed her eyes, and asked, "And how come you know so much about it? Am I to believe they're letting you in the Counsil meetings now? Or perhaps you've been-"

"No, I haven't been eavesdropping!" finished Odaragariel angrily. "It wouldn't be ladylike. No, I traded secrets with your brother, he's allowed in. He's not supposed to tell you, though, they're planning on breaking it gently to you, or something. Anyway, he made me promise not to tell, but I had my fingers crossed!" she added hastily as a lok of disapproval once again crossed Tarniel's face.

Momentarily diverted, Tarniel asked, "Does crossing fingers really invalidate a promise?"

"Of course!" Odaragariel replied with all the experience of the two-years' head start she had had into this world. Just in case it wasn't true, though, she had her fingers neatly crossed under the folds of her heavily embroidered robe.


Tarniel



October 10th, Cameth Brin, Tarniel's rooms

One brow cocked, Tarniel skeptically regarded Odaragariel. "Hmm, I am not so sure about that..."

Both girls giggled, and then Tarniel said, "Please keep me informed of all you hear! I wonder when they shall tell me of my betrothal?"

Tarniel contemplated the news which Odaragariel had told her. She was to be wed to this Beleg, prince of Arthedain. Well, at least it was not Broggha! Odaragariel's jest had really given her a scare.

She tried to recall all she had been told about the heir of Arthedain. Was he not in his forties? A frown came to her pretty face; why could it not have been someone more her own age? Ah, but she was being silly, perhaps. She was not even of marriageable age yet! The marriage would not take place for many years, and all of the negotiations had not even been finalized. It was not something she had to worry about for a long time.

But she wondered... would she love this man? Not that love really had anything to do with arranged marriages, but still, the heart, especially that of a young girl, was filled with hopes and dreams.


Caelen


night of October 10, servant's quarters, Thanehold of Ostenand

Caelen lay frozen in her bed, face to the wall, pretending to be asleep, as the other maidservants giggled and talked far into the night. One of the maids was getting married soon, and she was fair game for all the good-natured teasing and attempts to embarass her that the other young ladies could muster.

"Oooh, you picked a good time to get married - here we'll be in our cold, lonely beds, thinking of you, while you'll be a-stayin' warm all night!" said one.

"Yes, winter-time's the best time to get married - those long, long nights ..." teased another.

"Tell us what he did ..." and the voices got even quieter, so that all Caelen could hear was the occasional exclamation and giggle.

This was so miserable, this posing to be something she wasn't. For some reason, Eryndil had asked his men to have her and her brother pose as their servants for a few days, apparently not realizing that it meant that Caelen would have to share quarters with the other maids of the household. "Not realizing ... or just not caring," she thought in disgust. Men - stupid, selfish, grasping ... she was sick of men. She felt like she could never just be herself again - she always had to be on guard against them. Why couldn't they all be like her brother? But then the image of her brother's face as he looked with admiration on one of the maids came unbidden, unwelcome into her head. Even her brother was a man, she thought sadly.

Her body ached, and she changed positions slowly, quietly. It wouldn't have mattered if she had jumped up and done a backflip, though - the maids were deep into their gossip, laughing at how the young man in question had to keep being firmly discouraged against starting his wedding night activities early.

Caelen's heart started racing in fear again as descriptions of the young man's amorous kisses came to her ears against her will. The world around her seemed to shrink; she felt trapped again, surrounded by leers and groping hands, disgusted and terrified by rough and greedy hands on her body; hungry mouths on her skin ...

She sat up suddenly, trembling and covered in sweat. The girls never even noticed her. She slipped on a wrap and some shoes and quietly slipped out - if they saw her, they would think that she was just in need of the privy. She slipped quietly out of the house and made her way not to the privy, but to the stables. Her mare, Hwesta, lifted up her head as she approached, blowing softly through her nostrils in greeting. Caelen opened the door latch with shaking hands and slipped inside the sweet-smelling stall. She threw her arms around her mare, who nuzzled her softly back.

As she was slowly comforted by the familiar warmth and smell of her mare, her fear turned to hot, burning anger. "I will NEVER marry! I will NEVER MARRY!" she told Hwesta in a passionate whisper, burying her head into the mare's soft neck. "No man will EVER get near me again!"

An hour or so later, she slipped back into the bedroom. The maids were all finally asleep. As she made her way quietly towards her bed, her glance fell on the young maid who was to be married. She paused and looked at her face; there was a sweet smile on it. Tears sprung into Caelen's eyes. "You don't know what you're in for," she whispered to the unhearing ears, and got back into her cold bed to wait out the rest of the weary night.


Hurgon Fernik



Hurgon Fernik, in a haze of drunkeness, suddenly realized there was something wrong with his room. A lot of people held the opinion that the whole room was somehow wrong- untidy, full of weird musical instruments, bottles of a very fine Southern wine that even the king wished he had, and paint all over. There were unfinished potraits on the walls... a large one of a frog was, in particular, outstanding. Little glass bottles of paint adorned a shelf, together with brushes, canvas and ink. Unfortunately for him, he had not been given a large enough table to hold all this, and had therefore dumped most of it on his bed. The bedcovers had been pulled out and a new bed was constructed on the floor every night. The one time Gimilbeth had ventured out to see him, she had been so horrified at the state of his room, she had blanched and run off without even telling him what she wanted. Hurgon didn't mind, however... he felt his room gave him individuality.

However, right now, there was a large purple envelope lying on his bed, directly over an unfinished potrait of the princess Tarniel. It was too neat, and too out-of-place, and so he lumbered over to it, and pulled it open. In white letters, the words floated before him:

"Fernik, You are to have the painting completed in the next month. -Tarnendur."

It was a very informal reminder that the king had sent, but he had long ago realized that Hurgon had a bad memory, and that he tended to get confused by too many long words. As it is, the letter reminded Hurgon so effectually of what the king had said to him about this subject that very morning, he was momentarily knocked sober. Collecting his wits about him (there were very few, mind, so it took little effort), he began hurriedly collecting paint, brushes and the potrait itself, and ran full-length up and down sundry stairs, down halls and corridors, till he reached a door that seemed likely. Panting, he knocked, and the door slowly creaked open. Princess Tarniel and Princess Odaragariel stared up at him, both looking rather pink. Then the latter sat up, and said, "Well, Hurgon, what do you want?"

"Just, just thought I should, you know," he said while he thought about it. He remembered the king said something about 'not divulging it yet'- but how was he supposed to paint, unless he told the princesses he was going to do it? Should he hide in bushes and paint her in covert? Wouldn't work. There was nothing for it, but to divulge it, say what Tarnendur would about it. "I was thinking of finishing the painting."

The two girls raised eyebrows at each other in a meaningful glance that clearly said, "So soon?" However they made no objections, and soon Hurgon was happily absorbed in his second-most favourite occupation in the world - painting.

[scribe]

Gimilbeth



Cameth Brin, October 10, 1347.

"My lady, master Hurgon is not in his room."

Edelbar, the golden-haired Page, announced gravely, bowing before Gimilbeth. Then he smiled, a soft mischievous smile that made him look exactly his twelve years again.

"His room is a horrible mess, my lady. A regular orc den it is. I didn't venture inside, lest I would get paint stains all over me. A servant said Hurgon had taken a canvas and paints and went to the Princesses' wing".

Gimilbeth smiled. So, at last things got going. This morning, she was most displeased to learn from her father that he had asked Hurgon to finish the portrait next month. No, it would be far too late! She had no wish to travel to Amon Sul in winter. The portrait had to be finished by the end of Narbeleth by the latest! She said so to the King in no uncertain terms, and he cowed as usual and advised her to speak with Hurgon herself.

Now was as good a time as any. She much preferred to go visit the neat Tarniel's room than the extravagant painter's lair. Gimilbeth rose and left her study, nodding to Edelbar to follow.

The guards in the Hall parted, bowing, to let her pass. With a corner of her eye Gimilbeth noticed, chuckling inwardly, that some of them were making a sign behind their backs to ward off evil.

In a minute Gimilbeth stood in front of Tarniel's door. A muffled sound of voices and occasional giggles were coming from inside.

Edelbar knocked, bowed low to the ladies, sweeping the floor with his feathered hat, and announced in a clear cultured voice, fit for a much loftier court

"My Ladies, Master Hurgon, greetings. My Lady Gimilbeth is here to see you ".

There was an exclamation from inside, sounding much like a panicked mouse's squeak. Gimilbeth took it as an invitation and entered.

There were two girls curtseying before her, dark-haired Tarniel and fair-haired Odaragariel. Both looked tense and not a little frightened. Hurgon stood in front of the unfinished portrait. He made an attempt to bow, but swayed drunkenly and almost lost his balance. Gimilbeth smelled a reek of liquor in the air - Hurgon was drunk as usual. Instead of bowing, Hurgon waved with his brush and settled for a bright smile, showing yellow uneven teeth.

Gimilbeth nodded regally in greeting to the assembled company and made herself comfortable in a high-backed chair by the table, neatly arranging the folds of her blue richly embroidered gown around her. She noticed how the girls exchanged glances and resumed their seats, trying to hold their backs straight and their faces blank.

Gimilbeth eyed the princesses in silence for some time, assessing them with her cold eyes. They have grown indeed, and she hadn't noticed it before. Tarniel was becoming quite beautiful to look upon. If only she were not such a weak spiritless creature... As for Odaragariel, she was simply and utterly plain, and no fine dresses or priceless jewels could remedy to the fact. But that one had wit, at least, and a strong personality. All this would be wasted on this bore Daurendil...

Tarniel gulped and struggled for words, her duties as a hostess suddenly dawning on her. Her cheeks turned pink in embarrassment and she turned to Odaragariel for reassurance.

"The silly wench doesn't even know how lovely she looks", thought Gimilbeth with a wave of hate washing over her. The baby-sister that the King had foisted upon her needed no makeup to appear radiant, she could stay up all night long and remain lovely, she could weep and remain desirable...much as she was able herself at fifteen.

"Wait till you are hundred, my puppy" thought Gimilbeth venomously. "Faithful as you are, you will be all gray and wrinkled at my age. And then you will die and go to a cold grave and worms will eat your flesh. That is the way of life."


Tarniel



Cameth Brin, October 10, 1347.

Tarniel gulped and struggled for words, her duties as a hostess suddenly dawning on her. Her cheeks turned pink in embarrassment and she turned to Odaragariel for reassurance. At a reassuring smile from the other girl, Tarniel regained her wits, took a deep breath, and looked to her half-sister, the evil witch and shame of the royal family. She managed a polite smile, though she both resented and feared Gimilbeth's presence.

"Good morning, Gimilbeth. As you can see, Master Hurgon came to finish my portrait. What brings you to my chamber?"

Whatever it was, Tarniel hoped that the witch would leave quickly. She should not allow her half-sister to intimidate her so much! But given the woman's dreadful reptutation, bizarre habits and strange personality, who could help but shudder involuntarily at a visit from her? Tarniel was not alone in her uneasiness. She wondered what Gimilbeth's true purpose in being here was, but guessed she would learn soon enough.


Odaragariel of Mitheithel



Gimilbeth did not reply at once. She seemed intent on taking her own time and manner in explaining her unexpected visit. Odaragariel, realising that Tarniel was getting redder every second, now with indignation at not being answered, and that Hurgon was disintegrating on the spot under Gimilbeth's beady stare, said, a little sharply, "Fair morning, lady Gimilbeth. I hope you have no special news to communicate with Tarniel... for if you do, I shall, of course, be glad to leave you in private." Saying which, she stood up, and made a courteous half-bow.

Tarniel looked alarmed at the prospect of being left alone with the sister she regarded with a mixture of fear and revulsion; but at least Gimilbeth was forced to reply now.

"Oh, no, you may stay." she replied. Odaragariel looked at her quizically, and then sat down. "My business is not with her; though of course, I always love to drop in to see my lovely sister."

This last was said in so insincere a tone, that Odare, at least, was certain Gimilbeth was about to make herself unpleasant. Steeling herself, she asked, "Do you, then, wish to discuss something with me?"

"I'm afraid not. There is someone else in this room, is there not?"

Hurgon, who had been trying to blend into the wall, was thus, suddenly thrown into focus. He gave a weak smile, and if one looked carefully, one could see that he had accidentally inked two front teeth, giving the impression that they were missing, when they were not.


Gimilbeth



"There is someone else in this room, is there not?"

All the eyes riveted to the poor terrified painter. Hurgon gave a weak pathetic smile, and swayed on his feet again.

Gimilbeth could never tell why her mere presence made most people feel uneasy. The widespread rumors of her supernatural powers were hardly to blame, as she had the same effect on people even back in her youth, much like her grandmother Serinde did. Perhaps this spiritual kinship made the old Umbarian lady love her granddaughter so much, although she despised her father Tarnendur. Gimilbeth loved her grandmother in return, much more than she ever loved her parents, and she felt bereft at the news of Serinde's death at a respectable age of 215 which came a year ago.

"Master Hurgon," Gimilbeth said sweetly, never taking her eyes off the painter's shaking form, "it is about the portrait you are painting. It has to be completed by the end of this month at the latest, but I will be MOST grateful, if you finish it even earlier".

At that the painter bristled. He always took his painting very much to heart.

"But... Lady Gimilbeth... there is no way to finish this portrait in three weeks! It is a work of art, not some tavern sign painted anyhow in mere hours! I have to render faithfully the lady Tarniel's likeness, and try to capture some of her sweet character as well....".

He would have rumbled on and on, but Gimilbeth stopped him raising her hand slightly.

"Pray let me finish, Master Hurgon", she said, sterner now. "Nobody cares about the likeness. Make the young lady on the portrait beautiful and noble and sweet and richly dressed. That is all that is required. If Tarniel's betrothed is disappointed later, upon seeing her in person, it is his problem."

Gimilbeth turned her head to look at Tarniel and smiled a cold wintry smile.

Tarniel's cheeks turned even redder. "Were you speaking of betrothal, Gimilbeth? I have not been told about it..."

Gimilbeth's brows arched slightly and her eyes narrowed.

"I suppose your mother has not yet steeled herself sufficiently to break the news gently to you. I will not interfere with her errand. Suffice to say, Tarniel, that your hand is the State property, so you have to abide by the King's decision concerning your future marriage."

Looking into Tarniel's shocked face, Gimilbeth smiled sweetly and thought. "Indeed her hand is a trump card in the difficult game I am playing. I know not whom I may see fit to propose her: perhaps to this Beleg, or to his younger brother, or to the sons of Eldacar of Gondor, or to the sons of his rival Castamir, or, maybe, to this mysterious King of Angmar, who may be willing to accept the royal bride as weregild for his dead hound Broggha. I shall see how the cards are dealt."

Gimilbeth rose and walked slowly towards the door. Edelbar rushed forward to open it for her. At the door, she turned and repeated.

"The portrait must be ready by the end of the month, Master Hurgon. Pray not forget. If you finish in time you will get a case of the finest Lebennin wine. If you don't... "

She left the last sentence hanging in the air ominously.

"Farwell, ladies." Gimilbeth nodded her head in parting. Not waiting for the princesses to finish their farewells she left the room. The princesses strained their ears trying to catch the sound of her retreating footsteps, but heard nothing. Only the big striped cat, which followed Gimilbeth into the room and decided to stay on, seemed to be hearing a noise for some time. Then it relaxed, jumped onto the sofa, curled there and started licking its thick glossy fur, purring softly.


Tarniel



Cameth Brin, October 10, 1347.

When Tarniel was certain that Gimilbeth was not lurking about, she shuddered and cried, "Oh, what a horrid woman! The audacity of her, to barge in here merely to taunt me!"

Though Tarniel had already known beforehand that she was to be betrothed, for Odaragariel had informed her earlier that morning of the confidence which Tarniel's brother had shared with her, she highly resented Gimilbeth's lording her fate over her. Perhaps it was for the best that she had prior knowledge, for to be informed of her future by Gimilbeth was like being cursed by a witch.

So that was the meaning of the portrait – an advertisement for her future husband. At least Hurgon wanted to do her appearance honor, whereas Gimilbeth wanted it painted any old way, just so the end result resembled a young woman. It certainly sounded like her dear half-sister wanted to be rid of her as quickly as possible. Did she see her as a threat, or as a pawn?

Glancing to the cat, Tarniel narrowed her eyes. Why did Gimilbeth have to leave behind her wretched animal? She looked to Odaragariel, who was red-faced with anger, and Hurgon Fernik, who was attempting to calm down from the unpleasant encounter with the witch of Cameth Brin.

[Eryndil]

October 12, 1347 – an hour after sunset – Thanehold of Ostinand

The sounds of gaiety filled the Great Hall, but loudest in Eryndil’s ear was the boisterous laughter of his eldest brother Dornendur.

“And now,” Dornendur said, turning back to Eryndil and pausing just long enough to take another deep draught from his tankard, “Did you hear this one? Three Halflings walk into an Inn. Innkeeper says, ‘What do you…’ “

Yes – Eryndil had likely heard that one. He had heard EVERY joke that Dornendur tried so very hard to tell. But he just smiled politely and nodded as his inebriated elder sibling continued on yet another monolog.

Nonetheless, it was good to be home – and for the whole winter! His family had been so excited to see him. His little joke on his folks – of sending some of his men ahead, along with the brother and sister they had rescued – the joke had come off half decently. As King’s Men, they had demanded the right to winter lodging – and as his father Camglas had no others, he was well under his quota as Thane. But, as Eryndil had expected, he had begrudged what was demanded as an obligation – while for the barest wanderer, he knew his father would have put up gladly, out of kindness, if the boon was asked. Then two days later – yesterday – Eryndil had arrived with the rest of his men. His father was surprised beyond hope at his appearing. His mother – embarrassed at the treatment his other men had received. And now – Callon and Caelen were welcomed as if they were part of the family.

This feast tonight was in his honor. It was a joyous homecoming celebration. The modest-sized Great Hall was swelled with 80 people or more – maybe 100 with the servants coming and going. The head table was crammed with 13 – sitting elbow-to-elbow as they presided over the happy occasion, for there was all Eryndil’s family, including Dornendur’s wife and three children, and even Callon and Caelen. His elder brother had even given up his own place of honor – at their father’s right hand – to Eryndil this evening.

As Dornendur finished his latest tale, Eryndil tried his hardest to laugh a bit, but Dornendur sighed and slumped slightly forward. His wife, on his other side, seemed oblivious to him as she pulled apart a roast fowl, but his children – all between 10 and 18, tittered and giggled at their father’s condition. Eryndil took the opportunity to turn to his left.

His father sat rather quietly, eating slowly, but looking quite pleased. He also looked… old! How the last five years had aged him, thought Eryndil. But these were not good times in Rhudaur – not for Dunedain Thanes.

His mother was on his father’s other side. Lady Rildorien had lost little of the beauty that had been the fame of the Angle when his father had swept her off her feet. But tonight she seemed preoccupied – trying to split her attention between her husband, and the work of the servants keeping the celebrants well supplied. She had little enough attention left to give her own plate – which sparsely filled to begin with, was mostly untouched.

Beyond his mother was his younger sister, Hendegil. She was not the little girl that Eryndil had first left behind 15 years ago. And when he returned five years back – a special bond of friendship and respect had grown between them. And now, at 25, she was quite the young lady. Eryndil winced to think that Rhudaur was no longer a fit place for her. Innocent she was, and a lover of lore and peace and all that was good. Faithful she still was, beyond his doubt – though clearly very much alone.

Next to Hendegil sat Caelen, and then Callon. Hendegil had befriended Caelen quite quickly, once she learned that her courageous brother had rescued her – and had even tried to comfort her before. On this night, the two talked non-stop, with Callon at times trying to listen, or even to add a word or two (Eryndil laughed inwardly at each attempt he made… much funnier than Dornendur’s jokes, for sure) – at other times eating with the appetite of a young man his age and surveying his surroundings.

Next to Callon sat Eryndil’s brother Vilyandur, and then their sister Gildorien. The two spoke mostly to one another, turning to do so that none might hear. But their looks strayed mostly between Eryndil and Callon & Caelen. The eyes of Vilyandur seemed most often to drift back to Caelen.

Well – at least they apparently hadn’t spread the word about meeting Eryndil at the Three Goats Inn four days past. He could be glad for that. But he had little doubt they would be off toward his dreadful Marugond by the end of the month, or some other Eruforsaken place – to spend the night before the Fall. Bad part was – they would be sure to try and get Hendegil to go with them this time – maybe even try to drag Callon and Caelen along.

Eryndil’s eyes then drifted beyond the head table, out to the others gathered on the main floor below – various cousins and servants and guardsmen attached to the household – along with about half of his own men (the five from households on this thanehold were excused to go to their own families for the winter – but had to report their whereabouts and meet at Ostinand at noon each Orgilion (Saturday) - the first day of the week). There were also some friends from town and various and sundry other guests.

Eryndil next took in the room about him – and thought of his father’s holdings. It was really remarkable for a Dunedain Thane to be doing so well in this day. Eryndil had taken that for granted growing up here (just as he now felt he had taken his father and mother for granted) – but through his years in the King’s Service, he knew all too well how rare it was. Of course, their ancestors’ foresight in making the place so defensible a few generations back had been crucial. Ostinand could likely repulse an assault from a small army – but because its defenses seemed so strong, they had never even been tried. It was also fortunate that they were a bit off the major highways – and that the surroundings were just prosperous enough to keep everyone in a bit of comfort, and not so rich as to attract the wrong kind of attention.

A servant suddenly came into the Hall with a look of express purpose on his face. It was a watchman from an upper tower. He strode straight up to Eryndil’s father and leaned toward him as he spoke sharply, but in a hushed voice. “Thane Camglas – a rider approaches!”

Camglas sat up straight, nodded to the man, and then smoothed his clothes and the edge of his short-trimmed beard, that he might give the fitting appearance of a proper Thane at his dinner to this night-time visitor. The watchman went out through the main doors.

A few minutes later, he re-entered with a man dressed in the livery of the King’s messenger service, and the look of having just endured a hard ride. The room became quiet, as the watchman swept out his arm toward Camglas, signaling to the messenger that he could proceed. The sound of his footfalls on the stone floor filled the room. He approached the Thane and bowed, Camglas inclining his head in return. The messenger spoke first.

"Greetings, Thane Camglas, son of Borlost!"

“Welcome, rider. We have plenty of fare this eventide. Did you come to join our revelry, or does other business drive you?”

“The King’s business, oh Thane. I come at the command of King Tarnendur, seeking information on the whereabouts of your son, Eryndil, who leads a command of men in the King’s Service.”

Camglas’ eyes remained fixedly forward – he would not turn them toward his son. But it seemed to Eryndil that his heart sank. “You know that men like my son in service to their King will spend many a year away from their homes and kin. Why do you come seeking him here, when he might winter anywhere about Rhudaur, wherever his duty has taken him.”

The messenger replied, “We know not where to seek for your son, oh Thane. But the King has great need of him, and we knew naught else where to begin.”

“Father, it is enough,” said Eryndil, rising to his feet. His father ruled his Thanehold, but Eryndil was sworn to the King’s service, and could brook no more delay in knowing his liege’s will. Turning to the messenger, he added, “The one whom you seek is here, for I am he. Speak now your message.”

The messenger’s eyes darted back and forth between Camglas and Eryndil, but then his excitement evidently growing, he withdrew from his cloak a sealed scroll and handed it to Eryndil.

All eyes in the room were now upon Eryndil as he received the scroll, broke the seal, rolled it open, and read it in silence.

- - - - - - - -

Eryndil of Ostinand,

Your loyalty to the King and the steadfast performance of your duties, have brought your name to the King’s attention.

You are hereby requested and required to set aside your current duties and assignment as a patrolling warden – and to report to King Tarnendur at Cameth Brin within a sennight of The Day of The Fall, for an appointment as a Royal Advisor. You shall join a few others – like yourself – on whom the King will depend in these difficult days.

The men of your patrol shall attend you – and may be kept as your retainers, or else reassigned to other patrols if so best suited to them. Come in state. Quarters have been reserved for you – and provision for staffing a household.

By Order of King Tarnendur

- - - - - - - -

Eryndil read it three times over. The first time, he barely took it in. The second, he reassured himself that it indeed said what he thought it said. His third reading was slow – pondering the various words and the meanings that might lie behind them. Then he spoke.

“I am ordered to Cameth Brin. I must leave in a few days. Narwaith! Nimloss!” The two ‘orphans’ from this thanehold were perfect for this assignment – and stood as he called their names. “Go at dawn and round up our companions from their fathers’ homes – bring them here by tomorrow sunset.”

He turned to his parents. This would be painful to them – it was already showing. It might be painful to him someday as well, when he had a chance to recall it. “Mother – it grieves me to make from you such an early departure. Father… I am asked to make my arrival noticed – and I would make all speed. May I take horses for my men and myself? I will return them – or payment for them.”

There – it was done. There was now little else to do, but be swept along, it seemed. His father nodded, and turned away. His mother fought back tears. Hendegil didn’t fight them back – but surrendered to them, and buried her head in Eryndil’s chest, softly repeating, “no… no… no”. Then collected herself and stood stiffly, trying to regain her dignity. Eryndil looked up and saw that Callon and Caelen were right behind Hendegil – but they didn’t share her look of distress. Instead, their faces were set with determination. Rather, Callon's face was. Caelen's look was a bit more pensive - or less clear to make out.

Callon spoke, “Sir – may we go with you? Please? We have family in Cameth Brin, that we would join if we could.”

Eryndil pondered this. He knew that they had tried to convince Narwaith on their journey to take them to Cameth Brin instead of Ostinand – or to let them go, that they could travel to Cameth Brin themselves. Narwaith had done right to refuse them – keeping Eryndil’s command. Besides, having once fallen among bandits, it were well to not let them be exposed in such a way once more.

He thought further. If he brought them, it wouldn’t do to announce to all that they had been rescued from some who might have been Broggha’s men (a posibility Eryndil had suspected from the start) – not right away. They could go ostensibly as his servants… or relatives, family friends… or just some Dunedain travelers who had taken up with an armed band for protection on the road.

[Alagos and Tyaron]

October 12, 1347 – an hour after sunset – in the woods outside of the Thanehold of Ostinand

"Well, what do you think? Shall we move on?"

Alagos turned over on his back and looked up at the stars, waiting for an answer, as his friend gazed thoughtfully on the homestead below. The lights in the buildings shone with a warm glow in the dark.

"I don't know," replied Tyaron thoughtfully. "It looks like a messenger arrived a while back - let's stay a bit longer and see what happens."

"Fine with me," shrugged Alagos, chewing on a bit of grass.

Tyaron joined his friend gazing at the stars, but he preferred to stand. As the bright constellations slowly took their turns rising in the sky, he greeted each with a solemn song sung softly in an ancient tongue that few walking the earth now knew. Sometimes Alagos joined in with the intricate harmonies, but more often than not he remained silent, which was unusual for him.

Finally, as the first hints of dawn came into the east, Alagos spoke again.

"Who are you interested in?"

Tyaron sat down next to his friend and sighed. "The girl ... she reminds me a little of your sister ..."

"And the young man with her reminds me of you," said Alagos thoughtfully. "Which one in the group reminds you of me, I wonder?"

"The pack horse," answered Tyaron with a grin.

Alagos smiled back; he was too comfortable to get up and avenge the friendly insult. They had shared many over the years, and Alagos figured he was in the lead, anyway, as the more vocal of the two.

"Well, then, let's give them a few days and see if they leave. If they do, we'll put our things back on our backs and both make like pack horses and follow them," said Alagos, sitting up and shaking the grass out of his long hair.

Tyaron nodded his assent, and as the morning light now made them more visible than they wanted to be, they melted quietly back into the deeper woods.

[Caelen]

October 12, 1347 – an hour after sunset – Thanehold of Ostinand


Caelen listened to her brother's request to go to Cameth Brin with Eryndil with mixed feelings. It would be good to be with family again, but it had been so wonderful here ... she and Hendegil, after some initial shyness, were now inseparable friends. And it was good to see her brother's face gradually lose the wary, watchful expression that it had worn so continually since they had left their home. Tonight he had looked really happy for the first time in quite a while.

But she knew that tone in his voice, and knew that one way or another, they would soon be leaving this place.

It looked like fate had decreed that they were not yet to stop running.