"Shadow II - Intrigues and Sorcery" - Final

[Gordis]

SHADOW OVER RHUDAUR II

Intrigues and Sorcery

List of Chapters

Chapter 1. The Female Peregrine and the Red Bear
Chapter 2. Those Mysterious Women...
Chapter 3. Welcome Feast for the Barbarian
Chapter 4. The Bear’s Dance
Chapter 5. The Fight at the Fire
Chapter 6. Hell breaks Loose
Chapter 7. Magick Awork
Chapter 8. Black Shadow
Chapter 9. The Aftermath of the Storm
Chapter 10. Things That Go Bump In The Night
Chapter 11. Arthedain and Cardolan
Chapter 12. Honorable Men
Chapter 13. The Road to Cameth Brin
Chapter 14. Married?
Chapter 15. Home in the City
Chapter 16. Morning of the Council Meeting
Chapter 17. The Droll Trio
Chapter 18. Weregild Denied
Chapter 19. Narrowly Escaping Embalming
Chapter 20. Other Means for Evil Ends
Chapter 21. The Funeral of the Undead
Chapter 22. Shaman’s Curse
Chapter 23. The Mail Pigeon
Chapter 24. The Secret Code
Chapter 25. The Witch-King’s Hunt

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Chapter 1. The Female Peregrine and the Red Bear [/b]

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Carn Dum, Kingdom of Angmar. TA 1347, October 18. Late afternoon.
Written by Angmar
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"Your Majesty?" a man inquired timidly as he tapped on the door again.

"Enter, Alassar... the door is not locked," a male voice replied from the chamber beyond.

Alassar took a deep breath and opened the door. He was not quite sure why the king always had this effect on him, for His Majesty was seldom angry. There was a certain quality about the man, though, that always kept Alassar's nerves just past the edge of mild apprehension.

He found the king where he expected to find him - sitting in his great ebony chair at the head of his council table. The one window facing north, which was not covered with heavy drapes, let in the late afternoon light. Other than that dim light, the room's only illumination was a candle burning in a silver holder in the center of the table.

When the king had arrived an hour before, Alassar had been in the audience room, listening to the complaints of two barons. A minor disagreement over a boundary line had escalated until the two men were on the verge of a blood feud. Announcing the return of the king, a distant trumpet sounded. With a great feeling of relief, Alassar had politely dismissed the men, advising that they settle the matter peacefully between themselves before the king's intervention was warranted.

The king looked up into the other man's face. As usual, Alassar's gaze was first drawn to the ring that the king wore on his right forefinger. Then he looked into the king's eyes, which seemed to flicker in a pale gray light. The king was smiling kindly at him, and Alassar shook away the feeling of anxiety that had threatened to settle upon his mind.

"Welcome back, Your Majesty," Alassar bowed. "I trust the journey went well with no disruptions?"

The king inclined his head politely. “'Tis amazing, Alassar, that your spies and agents have not brought you word already. Are they sleeping?”

"What do you mean, Your Majesty?" Alassar gulped nervously, hoping the king would not notice the tremble in his voice. Obviously something had happened at Broggha's camp. Alassar cursed his spies for their failure to deliver him the information.

The king's eyes were mesmerizing, and sometimes Alassar imagined that he could see lights, a pale flickering glow, deep within the king's eyes. "A trick of the light," he reasoned with himself.

"Sit down, Alassar," the king said. "While we enjoy a draught, I will inform you of the news which your spies have failed to give you. Mulled wine?"

"Aye, Your Majesty, that would go well to ward against the chill of the afternoon. I know that Broggha's entourage is but a few miles from Cameth Brin, but that is common knowledge. Has some stroke of ill fortune occurred?" Alassar noticed how chill the room had grown, and his shoulders shook inside his fur-trimmed robe. Perhaps some change in the weather was imminent?

One of the king's quiet, polite servants soon brought wine for both of them. It was unusual the way that the servants of His Majesty always seemed to know his wishes before he even asked. Nothing in Carn Dum, though, was quite the way it was in other places.

"Shortly after we left Morva Torch, an assassination attempt was made on Broggha's life. This was kept secret. The man survived."

"Who would dare do such a thing?"

"One of his mistresses."

"That is unthinkable!" Alassar exclaimed. "What was her motive for this crime?"

"Apparently there was none on her part," the king laughed, that hollow mockery of humor that made Alassar uncomfortable.

"Then why did she do it?" Alassar queried.

"The woman was the unwilling accomplice of a witch."

Alassar gripped the table. "Who has such power to use another in the working of magic?" His mind screamed at him, "Besides you, Your Majesty!"

"A dabbler."

"Have you been able to discover his identity?" Alassar knew the king was amused and toying with him.

"The would-be murderer was no man."

"A woman?" Alassar felt faint. How did the king know such things when his own spies had reported nothing to him of the event?

"Aye... a woman. Have you ever noticed, Alassar, my good steward, how the female peregrine is far more powerful and eager than her mate and undertakes the hunt with far more vigor and finesse? It is never wise to underestimate the power of a woman."

"Aye, Your Majesty. Certainly the abilities of the female peregrine are well known. But what has that to do with this situation?"

"This dabbler... this witch... is a predator... I know that... and I sense the males around her are far weaker."

"Then you know her identity?" Alassar asked, amazed.

"Maybe," the king laughed.



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Tanoth Brin, Kingdom of Rhudaur, October 19, 1347. Morning
Written by Angmar
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October nineteen dawned fair and bright as a horn announced the approach of Jarl Broggha's contingent into the outskirts of the town of Tanoth Brin. The standard bearer, mounted on one of the better horses, proudly carried the banner of Broggha. The Jarl was pleased with the banner which he himself had designed - a great red bear on a field of blue. Broggha smiled and waved to the cheering throngs that had poured into the hamlet to see what would probably be the only real source of entertainment until the Yule feast.

Behind the Jarl marched his men and their captains, rough-looking Hillmen, many of them clad in the rough clothing of peasants. Others wore the distinctive garb of the mountaineer - fur caps upon their heads, fur cloaks over leather tunics and breeches, many cross-gartered to the knee. Though their apparel was not rich, their spears and other weaponry were sharp, brightly polished and gleaming.

Kinsmen, supporters, well-wishers, the curious, and those who wished to make an impression on the new power in the north grew hoarse with the constant cheering, while the naysayers and headshakers remained silent, grimly observing. Broggha and his guard were halfway through the village when an unknown man in the crowd raised the cry, "Hail to the Red Bear! Long live King Broggha!" The supporters of King Tarnendur were momentarily too shocked to counter this effrontery. Soon, though, they found their voices and shouted, "Rally behind the rightful King!"

No one was ever sure who struck the first blow, whether it was a hillman or a man loyal to the king, but soon fists landed in faces, heads were cracked, noses bloodied, as a small riot erupted along one section of the parade route and spread into the intersecting village streets. The king's guardsmen tried to contain the chaos away from the main rode through the town. They were successful, for the long line of baggage trains and small herds of cattle and sheep passed peacefully by the center of rioting. Making up the rear of the procession was what passed for Broggha's cavalry - fifty men with spears and lances, mounted on shaggy, winter-coated horses.

During the scuffle, a few of the king's men were injured - minor injuries for the main part, although a few teeth were knocked out, and one guard suffered a leg wound from a long knife. Much damage, however, was done to the pride of the king's guard, when some of the hillmen's women threw rotten fruit and decaying vegetables in their faces. Only a few were arrested, however, on the charges of drunkenness and disorderly conduct.

By the time the tumult was over, the Jarl was nearing the eastern edge of the village. Soon he and his guards were through the hamlet and on the way to Broggha's new estate on the eastern edge of the town. Griss moved his horse up beside Broggha and grinned.

"My lord" - Griss had taken to calling him by that title, for it seemed appropriate - "the commotion was well-timed. The old fool on the throne should have something to worry about now."

"Good work, Captain Griss! Soon he should have even more to worry about than that! I look forward to the feast tonight!" Broggha kicked his spurs into the side of his horse and trotted to see his new holdings.

*****
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Tanoth Brin, Yozaneth's house by the Market Place, midday of October 19, 1347
Written by Gordis
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The Princess Gimilbeth, eldest daughter of the King Tarnendur, rested her still-aching head against the cool glass, and stared into the murky mirror, once belonging to Yozaneth, as she sought to repair the damage caused by her crying bout.

The shock of seeing Broggha alive and well with her own eyes proved too much for her. Of course, she had heard reports of Broggha's march to Cameth Brin, she had seen the letter he had sent to the King but four days ago, but still she hoped against all hope that all this might have been fake, with Broggha dead and some other of his cut-throats striving to take his place.

But this morning she had wrapped herself in an inconspicuous hooded cloak and, flanked by two disguised knights and a page, she rode to Tanoth Brin where she watched the procession. She was hiding in the former Yozaneth's house, whose upper floor had a good view onto the market place. Broggha was there at the head of the procession, beaming in triumph, as large as life, red-haired and brightly clad - unmistakable.

So everything had been in vain, both her spell and her pain! She was wrong in thinking that her spell had succeeded. The Dark Lord, the Lord of All, had cheated her. If she hadn't relied on the magic so much, she would have tried more natural measures - at least she would have sent some well-paid assassins into Broggha's camp. Now it was too late. If Broggha died now, his death would be immediately blamed on the King - with disastrous consequences.

She gazed in the mirror and touched her face with powder, then scowled and wiped it off. No, it was no good. She saw a tired woman clad in a simple, unflattering brown gown, whose eyes were too large for her drawn face. A woman who should have been Queen...

Gathering herself, she pulled the hood over her head, concealing her face, and descended the narrow stairs to the main room, where her faithful Gwindor and Elvegil waited, surrounded by a score of wary and frightened Yozaneth's relatives. Without a word, she threw a gold coin to the head of the house, Yozaneth's youngest son.

Their horses were tethered in a side street, guarded by a raggedly dressed page. The four riders rode slowly back to the King's Road, picking the narrow side-passages and avoiding the crowded squares and main streets. The town seemed wild with ecstasy. Cheers for Broggha resounded painfully in their ears, large barrels of free ale were placed at every corner. Gimilbeth was amazed at how many in the Town below the Hill seemed to hate her father and her family and relish in their defeat.

Gimilbeth's jaw tightened. She would have gladly killed them all with her own hands. Perhaps she could try to send them some plague later on, when Broggha is dealt with. Today the Hillman brigand had the upper hand, but another day would be hers. Until then she would lie low, and watch.

*****

When the Gates of the Fortress of Cameth Brin finally clanged shut behind their backs, the four riders sighed in relief. They were home safely after the dangerous venture into the town below. The page took the horses to the stables, while Gimilbeth dismissed Gwindor and Elvegil and walked alone across the court to the palace, taking care to keep her face in the shadows of her hooded cloak.

The first person she met near the Palace was the Queen Eilinel herself, all flushed and sweaty from supervising the preparations for the evening feast. Smoked hams, white bread, crystallized honey, rashers of meat and various delicacies were being prepared for the delectation of Broggha and his companions, while the table was laid with white cloths and silver cutlery, as befitted an official evening feast.

The queen was of middling years - certainly much older in appearance than her relatively young age allowed; her dark hair was tightly pulled back in an unflattering fashion, with small strands struggling out and plastered to her sweaty forehead. She was dressed sedately in a brown gown. "Motherly" was the only word which could be used to describe her, thought Gimilbeth. "Mother-hen, indeed!"

Gimilbeth curtsied, keeping her head down. The queen nodded and rushed past in the direction of the dining hall, not recognizing her step-daughter in her dark cloak. Looking at her receding form, Gimilbeth noticed gravy spots on the Queen's dress from her previous visit to the kitchen.

Gimilbeth shrugged. She always despised the way the Queen ran the household. All this meddling, running around and shouting at lowly servants led nowhere, making the maids arrogant and irresponsible. Gimilbeth herself never deigned to appear in the kitchens; she believed in cold, efficient housekeepers, seamless service and severe punishments of those who failed in their duty. The queen was so kind-hearted that no servant was really afraid of her, and once her back was turned, the maids lapsed into their lazy chatter as if they had not been reprimanded by Royalty a minute ago.

As Gimilbeth finally reached her rooms in the Palace, she smiled as the scent of crushed mint and lavender drifted towards her. Her maid Nimraen anticipated her needs so well… A hot bath and a herbal mask first, then some rest and then to battle, for that is what this evening reception was all about.

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Chapter 2. Those Mysterious Women...

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Broggha's Keep, October 19, 1347. Afternoon
Written by Angmar and Elfhild
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Except for the scuffle between the more rowdy elements of Jarl Broggha's contingent and the king's guardsmen, the trip to Jarl Broggha's keep and land grant was uneventful. As the Jarl's procession wound its way around an outcropping of rock, they could see lying before them, resting on a small knoll, a rather ignoble looking country house. Griss could tell by the way the Jarl set his lips into a stern line and clenched his jaw that the Jarl was not pleased by the sight before him.

In fact, the only thing that did seem to please the Jarl was that there was a good amount of land about the manor that would provide suitable places for his men to camp and construct a small village. Griss and the other captains were soon directing the placement of supply wagons, wains, tents, and the small herds of cattle and sheep that comprised the property of Broggha's followers.

Beyond the house was a sizable forest of worthy timber. Broggha viewed this woodlot with favor, for wood from its acres would provide an ample supply of timber for building, and for the vital firewood that was needed to provide the manor's fireplaces and huts for his men.

As they drew up to the stairway leading up to the manor house, they were greeted by a small group of servants headed by the chamberlain, Rachion, and the chief housekeeper, Mistress Aradien. After the hillmen's mounts were led away by the stable boys, the pair proceeded to show Broggha and his party around the hall. Malaneth and Aewen followed silently behind the Jarl. Both Rachion and Mistress Aradien exchanged questioning glances between themselves, especially when they noted the bruises on Aewen's face and the splint on her arm, but said nothing.

Broggha looked slightly disappointed that the structure was far too small to appeal to his developing tastes for the rich and lavish. As he walked through the rooms, he made notes to himself about which wall partitions could be torn out to increase the size of his hall and other rooms.

"And this is the Lord of the Manor's bed chamber," Rachion explained as he led them into a large room. "The room has been thoroughly aired in preparation for your arrival, and I am sure you will find all to your satisfaction. The lady of the manor's bed chamber is to the right and connects to your room by a hall and a door. The room also has a most charming sitting room. However, since you are unmarried, we did not see the necessity of opening the room at this time. The young ladies Aewen and Malaneth - your wards, I believe you said - will have rooms down the hall. Perhaps they would like to go to their rooms so that they may refresh themselves."

Broggha turned to the dignified, slightly graying man. "This is not satisfactory. My wards will share the lady's bed chamber until I make other arrangements. Have that room and the sitting room aired immediately. Until then, we will use the chambers you have designated."

"My lord, as you wish," Rachion said in clipped, terse affirmation.

"This is most extraordinary," Mistress Aradien's eyebrows raised in disapproval at the notion that the chamber of two unmarried women and an unmarried man would be separated by only a hall and a door.

A fierce gaze on Broggha's face, he turned to the woman. "Perhaps extraordinary to the Dunedain, but I am a hillman and our ways are somewhat different! Keep your long, thin nose out of my business, old woman, or you might find that it suffers some unfortunate accident!"

Aradien bowed to him. "My lord, accept my pardon. All will be done as you have wished." How scandalous! she thought. Why, why, this is most inappropriate and is just not done! The very idea of his wards' bedrooms connecting to his! Who knows what might go on! The thought was enough to make her heart palpitate!

Whatever might go on between the interconnecting doors would be a subject of gossip among the chambermaids and lackeys for weeks to come

"Chamberlain Rachion and Mistress Aradien, I go now to my hall. When my captains have returned, send them in to me. In the meantime, bring out the best Dorwinion wine that is held in the wine cellars. I have a thirst."

***

As Aewen followed Mistress Aradien to her new room, she looked around the corridor where they walked. On the walls, she could see marks where portraits once hung and places where the plaster had cracked. The waist-high geometric border of blue and green which edged the bottom half of the walls was somewhat faded. Obviously, the place was in need of a few repairs and was vacated in quite a hurry. It was so different from the hall of her father, the Count of Pennmorva.

Mistress Aradien's voice broke Aewen's concentration. "Here is your sitting room," the old woman informed her, taking a key from her belt and unlocking the wooden door.

Stepping inside, Aewen saw that the chamber was a spacious one with ample room for entertaining guests. Mistress Aradien ushered her through another door, showing her the bed chamber.

"...And over there is the door which leads to the... lord's chamber," the housekeeper said, obvious disapproval in her voice.

Aewen inwardly winced. She, once the daughter of a petty noble, did not wish to be reminded of her shame by this servant woman. She already knew everyone would be talking about the advent of the Hillman, his entourage, and the scandal of the two women who lived with him. The gossip-mongers would have even more fuel to stoke their fires if she was indeed with Broggha's child. She bit her lower lip, contemplating on how she would inform him of these tidings, and worrying about how he would take them.

"Thank you," she said blandly, her thoughts remaining secret as she dismissed the housekeeper. "That will be all."

Left alone to her thoughts, Aewen wondered what would become of her, and the baby. Perhaps the Jarl would treat her kindly, for he was the father of the child. Or would he lose interest in her and treat her worse than he did already? That is, if the baby even lived to see childhood... so many died in childhood, along with their mothers. Would the Jarl love his child, or would he hurt the little boy or girl just as he did the mother?

Some time had passed when the door flew open, and Broggha stormed inside.

"Do you not have a kiss for your lord?"

Dutifully, Aewen kissed the man, neither love nor lust, or even affection in the kiss.

"Not much enthusiasm?" he asked sarcastically. "Harder!"

Shaking her head, she looked to him fearfully. "I have news to tell you, my lord, that you might not find welcome."

"What is it?" he asked as he stroked her hair.

"I... I think that I am with child..."

"Whose is it?" Broggha exclaimed angrily.

"Yours, lord!" Aewen cried, attempting to rid him of all doubt. "Whose else would it be?"

"Anyone's," he laughed grimly. "How far along is it?"

"Going on two months, I think."

"You little fool, why did you not tell me sooner? At least you are not showing, so no one will be able to tell."

"A - a woman cannot always be sure... Did you not notice that lately I am often sick in the mornings?"

"You are always ill with something, Aewen! I thought the vomiting was but a reflection of your frail constitution! And sometimes in the mornings, Malaneth occupies my attention! This is all your fault!"

Aewen stared at him in disbelief. "What did I do?"

He ignored her question. "Remember that both you and Malaneth are thought to be my wards and under my protection since her family had been slain by orcs and your father's untimely demise! To acknowledge this child would subject me to censure and ridicule! I cannot have it known in court that I have sired a bastard! You must get rid of it!"

"Oh, please, no!" she gasped in dismay.

Ignoring her again, Broggha went on. "I have heard that there is a woman in camp who can take care of things such as this. I will find out - you can be sure of that - and when I do, this minor problem will trouble me no more!"

"You cannot make me kill the child - your child! How could you be so heartless? You are the father!"

"I can make you do anything, Aewen." His hand went to her splinted arm. "Anything!"

Falling to her knees, she began weeping. "Please, no, not this!"

"Your talk is useless because the matter is settled! It is time for you to prepare for the feast tonight... and do something about your face. You look like an old hag!"

Wailing, Aewen clung to the edge of Broggha's tunic. "Please do not make me kill the baby! I can say that I was raped by one of your men... or one of my father's men... or that I betrayed you..."

Broggha laughed coldly. "Can I trust your lips to silence?"

"Yes!" she sobbed.

"Then you must swear to all that an unfortunate affair of the heart with one of your father's guardsmen brought this shame upon you."

Her shoulders quivering, Aewen wailed out the words, "I swear!"

Broggha pulled her to her feet and his blue eyes held a look of triumph. "I will never acknowledge this child as mine. Be grateful to me, Aewen, for I am providing succor to my old friend's wanton daughter and her bastard child."

Closing her eyes, Aewen nodded. Hot teardrops slid from beneath her lashes and trickled down her cheeks. Her honor was already tarnished beyond repair, so whatever lies Broggha commanded her to tell mattered little. At least the baby would be safe.

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Carn Dum, October 19, 1347.
Written by Angmar
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"My lord, the page brought me a message that you wished to see me." Alassar closed the door quietly behind him and felt that inevitable shudder go up his spine as he faced his master.

The King was silent, the only sound in the room being the scraping of the ebony chair as he pushed it across the stone floor as he stood to his feet. Alassar raised his head slightly, awed as ever by the man's massive height of over seven feet.

"I should not feel apprehensive," Alassar thought, "but I cannot help myself in His Majesty's presence." In spite of the chill in the room, Alassar felt the perspiration dampening his robes.

The King walked to the tall, narrow window and peered out. The drapes were always open at night, but seldom in the day. The King preferred it that way.

"Aye, I summoned you," the King replied, not turning from his position at the window.

"You have only to say, Your Majesty, and it will be done."

The King laughed, that chilling, echoing melancholic sound that was mirthless - more a mockery of a laugh than true laughter.

"Would that it were that simple! For there are many things that I would do that will never come to realization!"

"As much as possible, my lord." The perspiration was drenching Alassar's robes now, and he felt very, very cold. He always felt a failure, for no matter what his efforts, he was only mortal! He had his doubts about the King.

The King turned around so quickly that Alassar was startled. "I only pray that he is not angry with me. I cannot sustain it when his eyes take on that reddish tint!"

"You have attained some small degree in magic over the years, Alassar."

"Aye, my lord, I would like to think that I have." Did that sound too boastful? He dreaded to hear any more of the King's laughter, for it was almost as terrible as his eyes when they were angry.

"And what have you read in the entrails of sheep this night? How have the drops of blood fallen into the ashes? What secrets have you seen written there?"

Alassar gulped and felt miserable for it. How craven a coward was he in truth? He had faced men in fighting far better in skill than he, and though sometimes he had been afraid, he had fought on in spite of his fear. At times he had been employed as an assassin by the King, and he had long ago lost his fear of slitting jugular veins and strangling his victims. That was all part of his work for the King, and he took it in his stride. But the man himself? There was nothing that he feared more upon Arda than the anger of the King.

"My lord," he replied quietly, trying to gain control of his old fear, "the king grows deeper in his dotage by the day." He looked towards the King, hoping for some sign of approval, but there was nothing but mystery in those strange eyes. "I see a tumult in Cameth Brin, a smell of smoke, a clashing of steel."

The King threw back his head and laughed. "There is always a tumult in Rhudaur! You have told me nothing of note! Is that all that you could see in the severed intestines of sheep and the dripping of blood upon the ashes?"

"There is only so much that mortals can delve in the skill of haruspicy. I have done my best, Your Majesty. Though you slay me, there is no more that my magick can show me."

"I have no desire to slay you, Alassar, for you often prove valuable to me in my efforts. You know that I reward my successful servants quite well."

With a shudder, Alassar remembered those who had failed the King. Strong men, powerful and mighty... he did not want to think about the stench of the burning flesh that still filled his nostrils with only a thought of it.

"My agents reported to me some time ago that there would be a great feast this night to honor my servant Broggha. Your divinations were correct in some regards, but you see only a part. But that is unimportant." The King waved his hand dismissively, as though he were brushing away an insignificant gnat. The King's forefinger on his left hand touched his ring. "There are other methods for reaching what we want to know. If you have fully achieved a level in the workings of magic, you could sense far deeper things."

"I take it, Your Majesty, that once again you have obtained far more information than I ever could by my means."

"Aye, Alassar, far more. Now I know the identity of the one who tried to kill Broggha. Before I could see her only darkly. Now I can see her in full clarity as though I were looking at her portrait before me."

"Obviously the wench is far too dangerous to allow her to live, Your Majesty."

"A wench?" the King asked curiously. "Not a wench, a common peasant, but far higher - a princess, the King's eldest daughter, Gimilbeth. She thinks she is quite wise and clever. Her wings must be clipped soon enough, but not now. Let her deceive herself for a while longer, but she is not the only meddler close to the king. There is magic awork this night! Can you not feel it as I can? They turn now our own weapons against us. Ahhh," the King lifted up his head and gave a deep sigh that seemed to come from his inner being, "how the Númenóreans sink deeper into corruption by the day! They will destroy themselves! They are close, they are close! I feel them at the tips of my fingers, so close, so close!"

The sweat was running down Alassar's forehead, and he felt deeply embarrassed that the King could see his fear so openly. He knew he could smell the increasing apprehension in his sweat.

"Peace, Alassar. You have nothing to fear from me. I am pleased. You have done well, but I have done better."

While the King could cause great fear, through his magic, he could bring about a great calm, an almost addling of the senses. Alassar was grateful to His Majesty for this soothing feeling that he felt coming over him. The King always expected his servants to do their best for him, and when he encouraged them, it was an overwhelming boon.

"The Princess... when do you wish her to be slain?"

The King chuckled. "Did I say that I wanted the woman killed? Nay, Alassar, you think too small."

"Then what would you wish, Your Majesty?"

"I want her kidnapped and brought to Carn Dum! I understand that she is quite fair, and remarkably intelligent for a woman."

"When, Your Majesty, when do you wish her brought to you?" Alassar could barely contain the surprise in his voice.

"Soon, soon, before the winter snows begin to fall."

Alassar could almost feel sorry for the poor woman. He often wondered how the King's mistresses could abide him, but somehow, they always seemed to be more than fond of him. Ah, women. Who could understand them?

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Chapter 3. Welcome Feast for the Barbarian


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Cameth Brin Tower, evening of October 19, 1347.
Written by Gordis, Elfhild, Serenoli and Angmar
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Algeirr felt happy as he made his way up the winding road to the castle. He eyed his new respectable clothes and the plump redhead woman trotting merrily alongside him. All his dreams seemed to have come true.

Algeirr had been sent to Tanoth Brin two days before Broggha’s party and succeeded in appearing to be a lone wanderer, returning to his land after many years abroad. No one knew he was the chief of Broggha’s spies, and he did his job well: sitting in various taverns and inns he managed to spread a score of favourable rumours about the Jarl and the new, better life awaiting all the Hillmen when Broggha came to power.

Wandering from tavern to tavern, Algeirr had a stroke of good fortune: he got acquainted with a comely, plump widow who ran the best inn in the town - "The Sword of Elendil"- by the market place. Her name was Gudhrun; she was in her late thirties, but still fresh and rosy-cheeked.

Gudhrun was widowed for a year, since her husband the innkeeper was killed in a drunken brawl between Cardolani mercenaries and the King’s guards. She had two unmarried daughters, tasty morsels both of them, but Algeirr was wise and understood where his fortune lay, so he started courting the widow, who proved to be readily amenable to his advances. Now he had the best inn in Tanoth Brin, as well as the widow and all her late husband’s clothes at his disposal.

To his own surprise, Algeirr found himself quite fond of Gudhrun. The two nights they spent together were most pleasurable. Sure, the woman never closed her mouth, but she did the talking for both sides, and was not in the least hindered by Algeirr’s non-committal grunts.

"Perhaps I should marry her," thought Algeirr, " that is, if I don’t find anything better. Perhaps I am destined to marry a noble Tark lady - who knows?"

A month ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated to seize the grand opportunity to become a rich, respectable innkeeper, but now, with the Jarl’s quick rise, everything seemed possible.

Algeirr turned his head to look at Gudhrun’s freckled, rosy cheeks and her funny upturned nose sandwiched between them. She was out of breath while they climbed to the city gates, but once recovered, she resumed her chat about the Royal family, the King and the Queen, the ladies Gimilbeth and Tarniel and the third one with impossibly long name whom the townspeople nicknamed "Lady Oddie." Gudhrun was looking forward to the entertainment after the feast, which the townspeople were allowed to watch. There were rumours of a trained bear that danced and wore clothes!

Nodding and bowing to numerous acquaintances whom they met along the way, Algeirr and Gudhrun joined the crowd at the doors of the tower.

***

After an hour or two of peaceful slumber, Gimilbeth stepped into the delicate dress held out for her, admiring it even as it was fastened. Silver bodice, and the skirts of silver foam over purple silk. She slipped on silver shoes and a necklace of diamonds and rubies, a parting present from her grandmother. Her hair was up, but she wore no crown or circlet. Scattered through her hair were a number of gems like stars in the night sky.

Gimilbeth made her way to the tower, two pages following her with torches. She was a bit late, but she knew the advantage of dramatic appearances. She straightened her back, and with small, slow steps walked up the hall to the dais, oblivious to the gasps she provoked amongst the assemblage, the envy in the eyes of the women, and the raw lust in those of the men.

The feast was prepared in a large hall occupying all the first floor of the Old Tower. Myriad candles burned in silver sconces on the long table in the lower hall, and on the three tables on the dais. King Tarnendur sat in the middle of the main table, his Queen on his right, and Gimilbeth's chair on his left. On the right of the Queen sat Daurendil the Heir with his sister Tarniel on his other side. Next to Gimilbeth sat Amantir, the youngest son of the King, with Odaragariel of Mitheithel at his left elbow.

At the lower table on the King's right sat the most prominent nobles of Cameth Brin with their ladies, while the table opposite them was reserved for Broggha and his captains. Broggha was there, his giant figure clad in rich but too-bright-to-be-fashionable clothes. There were two ladies at his side, noticed Gimilbeth with surprise, both looking like Dunedain. The pale one with delicate features on Broggha's left, the one clad in a high-necked gown, even seemed slightly familiar. Gimilbeth wondered about her while she took her place on the King's left. Only when she was seated and took a good look at the woman did realization dawn on her: the daughter of the Count of Pennmorva, Aewen, a distant relation of the King himself!

Some of her shock must have been evident in Gimilbeth's eyes, as the woman flushed and lowered her eyes as if in fright and shame. Was she Broggha's wife now, Gimilbeth wondered, or just a mistress? And what about another one? This one seemed unfamiliar, though.

Gimilbeth noticed that Broggha's eyes were on her, his blue gaze fierce and intense. Gimilbeth looked back steadily, a mocking smile touching her ruby lips. The brigand could not intimidate her. A woman she may be, but her will was of adamant; no one had ever been able to bear her gaze unflinching. Neither would this lowly brigand. He should know his place, and it was time to show it to him.


***

Aewen sat down at the great feasting table. The sounds of talking and laughing created a lively hum about her, but she was tense, every nerve on edge. She had been to the tower before, but as the daughter of a count, not the mistress of a Hillman.

As she looked nervously about herself, her eyes landed upon the Lady Gimilbeth. Though she had seen the woman before at court events, a jolt of recognition ripped through her very being, as though she had been struck by lightning. A sudden palpitation made her heart lurch, and her vision slid from side to side. Greatly abashed, she dropped her gaze down to the table.

Oh, truly Broggha was cruel, by forcing her to accompany him to this feast! She longed to run away and hide from the probing eyes and curious minds of everyone around her. Instead, she swallowed hard, forcing the urge to pass, and sat as still and calm as a marble statue of a sitting lady.

***

The feast would have been a grand event, Tarniel thought, had not the hillmen been in attendance. Their presence rubbed salt in the wounds of Rhudaur's pride. Somehow, it would have seemed more honorable had they conquered the country in war, but this peaceful defeat seemed unreal, otherworldly. A triumphal entry without a siege, the king's capitulation. Tarniel found herself plunged into the midst of history being made, and it swirled around her at a dizzying rate. No, there could be little enjoyment while the hillmen were around, only superficial happiness, distractions from the troubled times.

So she tried to pretend for a time that the hillmen were not even there. To be sad and woeful would only make them feel they were victorious. Instead, Tarniel thought about those who were dear to her, the delicious food, the lavish clothing of the guests. She felt pretty in her deep blue dress, with its low, oval shaped neckline which skimmed over her shoulders. A band of delicate white embroidery and pearls decorated the neckline of the gown and its hem, as well as the borders of her sleeves, which were wide and hung down, revealing the pale white sleeves of her underdress. Pearls were woven through the braids of her long, dark hair.

She looked about the table, smiling to her family and those among the families of the nobles with whom she was friends. Looking past her brother, Daurendil, her gaze fell upon her mother, the queen, who was dressed in a dark brown and rust colored gown, and she smiled tenderly. She knew how hard her mother had worked to prepare a wonderful feast. She wondered if the hillmen even had wit enough to appreciate the fine foods and splendidly decorated table.

Glancing over to them, Tarniel thought they looked an unsavory lot indeed. Many were clad in furs, not the ermine of nobles, but common buckskin, the dress of hunters and trappers. Their table manners were not too good, either, and they gobbled up their food in a slovenly fashion. Their leader, Broggha, was a giant of a man, with flaming red hair and cold blue eyes. Not one to be reckoned with, definitely. Tarniel subconsciously inched closer to her brother and glanced at the armed guards posted around the hall, taking comfort in their presence. She wondered at the identities of the two women at Broggha's side. One looked like Aewen, the daughter of the Count of Pennmorva... the fate of his family had indeed been tragic, and if that were indeed Aewen, then Tarniel's heart went out to her.


***

Her yellow hair was pinned up with innumerable jewelled pins... though Odare could not suppress the thought that if only her hair had been darker, they would actually have been visible... Her dress, a large, fluffy green affair, full of lace and trimmings, made her look slightly moldy, and the fact that she kept tripping over the hem now and then hardly helped. But she was reasonably pleased; especially as Tarniel had let her borrow a truly beautiful emerald piece, which she now wore on her neck.

She went to the feasting hall, and found herself beside Amantir, and Tarniel on the very other end of the table. Bugger! she thought silently. Amantir was only a year younger than her, and they should have found plenty to talk about; but Odare silently subscribed to the opinion that Amantir was insipid and weak. She had barely seated herself when she saw Gimilbeth enter; a surge of sudden envy passed through her at the sight of Gimilbeth's perfect dark hair, the sea of star-like jewels embedded in it. With a sigh, she turned to talk with Amantir. Out of a corner of her eye, she watched everyone... Tarniel, silent and sweet in the corner; Broggha, the infamous hillman, who kept shooting glances at both Gimilbeth and Tarniel... and the two wards of Broggha. One of them looked so sad, so piteously embarrassed that she couldn't help but pity her.


***

Broggha had been looking forward to this night for some years. Now everything was as his mentor had promised him. By one means or another, Broggha had amassed power and supporters. His kinship with many of the lesser hillmen chieftains had been greatly to his advantage, for his kinsmen were eager to have a powerful man of their own blood who could lead them against the Dunedain.

Now King Tarnendur had given into his demands and appointed him to the Council of Rhudaur. "Look at the old man now," Broggha mused with satisfaction. "His manner lacks confidence and his eyes show fear! His hand is shaking so much that he looks as though he might drop his goblet of wine. His sons look like weaklings, the last of a line of insipid fops. The king is in his dotage, while I am at the height of my power and virility," Broggha thought with malicious glee.

Aewen and Malaneth sat to either side of the Jarl. "Little Aewen seems tense tonight, while Malaneth hides her true feelings from all, including me." He had had them introduced as his wards whom he had taken into his household when unfortunate circumstances had befallen their families. Now he had pledged to protect and care for the both of them as if they were his own blood. Of course, he laughed to himself, Aewen's bastard was of his blood.

He looked towards Griss, who, in his new finery, was cutting quite a dashing figure and was eying several lords' daughters across the way. Perhaps Broggha would see about arranging a marriage between his up-and-coming young lieutenant and one of the lord's daughters. This could not help but improve the Rhudaurian lord's stature in the hillmen's eyes. Then should the noble suffer 'an unfortunate accident' in the future, Broggha would offer his protection and assistance to his young lieutenant and his new family. The Jarl had received nibbles from nervous lords who inquired about the possibility of marital alliances between their daughters and his other promising young men. There were some who were blessed with the perception to see when both tide and history were turning, and wise men knew that history was now running in favor of the hillmen.

Broggha owed much to the secret alliance with the Northern King, who had backed him with both promises of power and good advice. Truly Broggha was grateful, though perhaps, he thought dryly, gratitude was not quite the word. He thought back to that day years ago when he had first agreed to meet the Angmarian king. That was when Broggha's power was first growing in Rhudaur, and he actually had thought that the king would be impressed with his rapidly growing prestige and influence among the tribesmen.

On the contrary, Broggha had been far more impressed with the king than the king had ever been with him. The man actually inspired Broggha, for he had sensed that the king possessed something far greater than finite power, something he wished to obtain. While Broggha was not quite sure what this strange quality about the man was, Broggha had felt it to his very core. Then when Broggha had proudly sealed his fealty in a pledge made in his own blood, he had felt that the King and he had been tied together spiritually, far beyond anything that could be seen visually, and Broggha was his man from that time on.

Malaneth tapped his arm to direct his attention to her, and when he looked in her direction, he noticed her eyes were shining. She was much more pleasant tonight, he noted with satisfaction. "Perhaps she finally realizes that her future lies with me and not with these accursed Dunedain who are her kinsmen." She whispered a promise to him for later that night, and a knowing expression came into his eyes. "Perhaps I have not been paying her as much attention as I should have been. That will change."

He looked away from her face into the cold eyes of Princess Gimilbeth, who was regarding him with what he took to be a disdainful condemnation. He raised his goblet high into the air in her direction and gave her a mocking toast. He was satisfied when he caught the look of consternation on her face. He must put his mind to thinking of ways to get rid of this woman. His plans for his future were grandiose, and they did not include this cold princess. He looked over to Tarniel and smiled.


***

"Blasted Hillman!" Gimilbeth blushed slightly and bit her lip when Broggha, not in the least intimidated by her piercing stare, lifted his goblet to her in mock salute.

The Hillman had more willpower than she had supposed. Gimilbeth frowned, searching for the right word to describe him. "Formidable." That was it, as strange as it sounded when referring to a Hillman.

Gimilbeth studied the brigand, her former disdain forgotten. It would be a bad mistake to underestimate her enemy. The man had big, bright, piercing blue eyes that she could have liked, were they set in a nobler face; a beaky nose and revolting, sensuous lips half-hidden by the red mustache.

Gimilbeth narrowed her eyes. "I will have this head on a golden platter when I strike my deal with the Northern King. It will be my reward for Rhudaur's allegiance."

Back in Umbar, she used to admire human heads stuffed and dried and painted in Haradian fashion, with bright jewels replacing the eyes and elaborate gold jewelry decorating the ears and nostrils. The Men from the East Harad prepared the heads of their enemies in such a way and kept them on display as heirlooms of their houses to be shown proudly to generations to come. Some rare samples found their way to Umbar.

She would ask for Broggha's head to be prepared this way: she was ready to pay an expert embalmer from Harad to do the job skillfully. "Yes, sapphires will do fine to render the color of his eyes." Gimilbeth smiled at the thought.

Heartened, she turned her attention back to the young woman on the Jarl's side, Aewen of Pennmorva. Why was she looking so unsettled and trembling whenever Gimilbeth looked at her? Gimilbeth concentrated and willed the woman to look up. Aewen shuddered and glanced up fearfully, eyes full of anguish, the anguish which felt somehow so familiar...

Gimilbeth felt a cold wave of fear running along her spine. An echo of the pain she had felt after the failed attempt to kill Broggha returned. The flesh between her breasts was burning again. Aewen seemed to be similarly affected, as she gasped and pressed her hand to her breast. Gimilbeth's eyes widened, she noticed that Aewen was the only lady at the party who wore a high-necked gown.

"It was she..." thought Gimilbeth with certainty. "It was she who had attempted to kill Broggha at my urging and suffered for it. So my spell didn't go wrong as I have thought; only the brigand had somehow survived!"

[scribe]

Chapter 4. The Bear’s Dance

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Cameth Brin, the Main Hall of the Tower, Evening of October 19, 1347.
Written by Angmar
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The feasting and revelry had been in progress for quite some time. The ale had been flowing in great, copious quantities, and after imbibing freely, Captain Griss felt the urge of nature demanding his presence elsewhere. Uncertain of where the latrines were located, he asked directions from a young page clad in the livery of the king of Rhudaur.

"Sir, you will find them right on the other side of the kitchens."

"Thank you, lad. With your directions, I think I can make my way there."

The boy bowed and then looked uncertainly at the man, who was staggering somewhat as he went down the hall. After taking the door to the outside, Griss walked across the small open area. Passing by the kitchens, he observed Heggr leaning up against the side of the building and grinning like a fool.

"How are you enjoying rubbing elbows with the nobility?" Heggr gibed.

"A new experience entirely, and I must say I could learn to adapt. And what have you been doing while I have been hobnobbing with the elite? Looking at the serving maids, eh?"

"Not at all, not at all! I have had more important things to do than flirt with the wenches tonight."

"What, pilfering?"

"You guessed it!"

"And what did you manage to snatch?"

"You will not believe it, Griss! You just will not believe it!"

"Suppose you tell me." Griss lounged against the side of the building.

"Perhaps it would be better if I showed you," the scruffy-looking man grinned as he motioned Griss to follow him up an alleyway lit by a lantern hanging off the side of the building and then pulled something out from an inner pocket and held it up to his companion's gaze.

"You mean you stole that?" Griss whispered eagerly.

"Aye, right out of Princess Gimilbeth's bedroom!"

"You rogue!" Griss exclaimed appreciatively. "How did you get inside the room without anyone seeing you?"

"The lady or her maid made the mistake of leaving a bedroom window open. I was able to slip in and out without anyone's being the wiser."

"Did you manage to steal anything else?"

"Only one other thing. I did manage to take this." Heggr reached inside his fur cloak and pulled out a delicate, fluffy undergarment.

"I cannot believe you took THAT! Man, what possessed you to steal it?"

"Down in the village, there is a little tavern maid who just needs a little more encouragement..."

"And you thought a suitable gift might influence her favorably!" Griss pounded his arm across his friend's back as peals of laughter escaped his lips.

"Aye," Heggr smiled proudly, exposing his rotting teeth.

"Good luck to you, but you must be very careful. If anyone ever suspects who burglarized the princess' boudoir, it could cost you a hand... or worse."

"No one has ever caught us yet," Heggr said confidentally.

"Now, my friend, I must pay a visit to the privy, and then get back to the feast. Talk has it that we are to be treated to an exhibition of a trained bear by a Dunedain. Should be interesting. If they open the hall to the soldiery, I am sure you can get a good view of the entertainment."

"Perhaps I will, but the feast and the bear trainer provide such splendid distractions that I am reluctant not to take further advantage of the opportunity," Heggr drawled. "There are other chambers with windows facing the back of the palace. Who knows what more treasure I might discover in some of the other rooms?"

"Just be careful, will you? If you get caught, I don't know if even Lord Broggha can save you from being charged with the crime of felony!"

"I'm always careful, Griss."

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Cameth Brin, at the doors of the Tower, Evening of October 19, 1347.
Written by Gordis
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"Berethil! Master Berethil!"

A tall, middle-aged Dunedain guard at the door of the Tower started when a strident feminine voice called his name. His sharp eyes scanned the dense crowd of townspeople and villagers all striving to get into the Hall to see the trained bear. When a small portion of the crowd was allowed to enter the Tower, the guards barred the doors, as there was clearly not enough space inside to accommodate all the curious.

Soon Berethil noticed a plump, rosy woman with freckled face waving to him frantically. Berethil smiled at her, as Widow Gudhrun, the keeper of the best inn in Tanoth Brin, was a popular person in both the upper and the lower towns. Many a guard spent their nights off-duty in her establishment, the "Sword of Elendil," and Berethil was no exception. He motioned to other guards to make way for Gudhrun.

"Thank you, Captain. Next time the drinks are on the house for you and your fellows!" she said in a breathless voice when she finally reached the door. A decently clad man with a weather-worn, grim face followed her.

"Who may that be, Gudhrun?" another guard asked playfully. "Is he your new man?"

Gudhrun’s freckles went on fire and she replied timidly "Aye, that he is. His name is Algeirr. We are about to marry soon."

Algeirr cringed inwardly. Much as he liked Gudhrun’s inn, the prospect of burdening himself with a family for the rest of his life was far from pleasant. The guard looked at him disdainfully, clearly thinking that Gudhrun might have done better.

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Cameth Brin, the Main Hall of the Tower, Evening of October 19, 1347.
Written by Earniel
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When the dinner was nearing the end, servants came forward and extinguished some of the torches, casting most of the tables in a dimmed half-light. Some of the townsfolk were let into the hall and were given space to stand behind the lower tables, but still a good distance from the royal table.

Now only the open square in the middle of the Main Hall was still brightly lit. The entrance to the hall, where no one stood near, was dark as night. A distant flute could be heard in the corridor, not far from the hall. A hush, filled with anticipation, fell over the great hall.

A man with a game leg, dressed in brightly coloured clothes, hobbled into the light circle. He was not a full-blooded Dúnedan; his blood must have been as mixed as a ten-grain bread. Just at the edge of the light, before the tables, he halted. The little bells sewn on his cap jingled forlornly in the silent hall. In his one hand he held a long wooden stick, while in the other he held a piece of chain which disappeared into the darkness behind him.

He slowly surveyed the hall, his gaze going from left to right. Here and there a nervous giggle broke out. Some bear, this was! But before more laughter could erupt, the game man spoke. His voice was clear and loud, showing experience in speaking before crowds.

“Lords and ladies, gentlefolk, oh most worthy nobles of Rhudaur!” He bowed deeply. “I trust you have been well entertained this evening, but as they say: the best is yet to come. Tonight we have one more act for your pleasure, and what an act it is! You shall see a thing unparalleled in any court in Arnor, nay in the whole of Arda. For only in Rhudaur, at the court of our mighty king Tarnendur, can such splendour be found!”

The man cast a quick look at his master, to see whether the noble was pleased with his performance so far. The noble who employed him was beaming with pride at having the opportunity to entertain the king himself with his dancing bear. This could only go well for the advancement of his political carreer. He gave the game man a short nod to continue.

“I bring before you,” the game man went on, “the most formidable of predators, the king of forests, the fear of countrymen and shepherds. Only the truest of hunters can hope to survive an encounter with this beast, this fur-clad warrior! Ladies, if ye be of faint heart, I beseech you, withdraw from this hall. For the sight of this monster is not suitable for children. Stay and see this wonder at your own peril. For I bring you….the bear!"

The game man hobbled forward, and a large part of the darkness obediently followed him into the light circle. The large brown bear walked on all fours, seemingly ignoring all the cries of amazement and the few shrieks of fear that erupted from the hall. The bear wore a broad leather collar around its neck. Its nose was pierced by an iron ring on which a metal chain was attached. The other end of the chain was held firmly in the hand of the game bear handler. The chain seemed ridiculously feeble for such a formidable beast.

Gasps of amazement and surprise were heard. A hum of enthusiastic conversation started. All looks were riveted on the large animal, except those who were already too drunk to notice what was going on.

Two of the hill men (who had indeed already drunk more than was good for them) were more amused by the admiration the crowd showed for the bear than the bear itself. One of them suggested something to the other, which caused the other to grin madly and nod his head enthusiastically. The first got up drunkenly, pushed through the crowd, and staggered to the door as fast as his unsteady legs allowed.

After allowing his public a few minutes to gape and stare, the game man motioned for silence.

“Fear not, lords and ladies of Rhudaur, have no fear, for by art the beast is bound to my will, but do not approach it lest you seek a terrible death. See and be amazed!”

The handler turned to the bear and ticked firmly with his staff on the bear’s shoulder. He dramatically raised the staff high. “Bruin, arise!”

The bear raised itself on its hind legs, now standing taller than most men in the hall, and evidently possessing a lot more muscle. A woman sitting nearby on the lower tables screamed shortly and fainted against the guest sitting next to her, making him spill much of the wine he intended to drink.

At command of the handler the bear roared, a deep-throated sound that raised the hair on the back of the neck. In a long yawn, it showed the crowd a frighteningly large maw, but in the commotion of the roar no one paid any attention to the old scars in the gum where the deadly canines were conveniently lacking. Their imagination was well capable of filling in the blanks unnoticed.

More women screamed and some of the men grew visibly pale, too. But the game handler laughed and raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

“Fear not, fear not. Bruin has shown you he is a dangerous animal, yes? But for you, honoured spectators of the noble court of Rhudaur, he will dance!”

At the signal of the game man, the flutist started a new tune, festive and glad. A tune that encouraged the public to clap their hands. The handler ticked with his staff against the legs of the bear. “Dance, Bruin!” he commanded.

The bear, responding to the old memory of red-hot plates under his feet, obediently raised his left leg. The large form of the bear swayed for a moment before the foot came down on the stone floor. It repeated the gesture with the other foot. The bear danced.

Cheers of encouragement and merriment went up in the hall. People laughed and clapped their hands. Mugs and chalices with drinks were raised and toasted to the odd dancing couple. The game handler took the cap with bells from his head and expertly tossed it on the bear’s head, where it continued to jingle to the tune.

But the dance was about to end rather abruptly.

In the entrance of the hall, the hill man that had left the hall a little before suddenly appeared again. And he was not alone. Two large hunting hounds stood at his side, their leashes in his hand. The hounds were nervous; the lights, the noises, the smell of many people close together mixed with a smell of a bear confused them.

The flutist, who was just beginning a new tune, fumbled the first few notes at the sight of the hounds and stopped all together, uncertain of what to do.

The bear handler’s smile faded as soon as he caught sight of the dogs. “Get them out, you fool, get them out!” He staggered between the bear and the dogs, his staff held defensively before him. The drunken hill man just smiled stupidly and dropped the leashes.

“Go laddies, get the bear!” he shouted before losing his balance and ending up on the floor.

The hounds, trained to obey commands to a fault, charged forward. The handler dropped the bear’s chain and but was too late to swing the staff in an attempt to divert the first dog that barrelled into him. Both man and dog rolled screaming over the ground in a bundle of fur and cloth. The flutist and the handler’s assistant jumped in the fray to get man and animal separated.

The second dog leapt towards the bear, landing on the floor dangerously close to the other animal. It barked angrily, attempting to get the bear to flee. It pranced around the larger animal, coming closer, trying to nip it, and then jumping back again.

The bear, freed of the compelling music and chain movement, turned and roared back in challenge. The cap with bells fell off, and it was as if the bear was suddenly transformed from a tame to a wild animal. And it was not inclined to lose ground to the dog. The blood-chilling roar startled everybody out of their stupor.

People stood up in confusion as the bear act clearly had gotten out of hand. Somebody shouted for guards, another for more wine. A few thought it was a good time to leave the hall, and with a large detour around the fighting animals, went straight for the exit. But mostly, the guests cheered on the fight. The sight of a fighting bear was almost as exciting as a dancing bear. Bets were made on who would win, or which of the animals would draw first blood.

The entertainment had obviously changed, but was by no means already over.

The roaring of the bear and the hound’s angry barking were loud and drowned out most of the other noise. The dog darted out the way as the bear struck at him. The bear’s large forepaw, even with the claws removed, could still pack quite a punch and the hound wasn’t keen on finding it out by experience. It jumped back and forth, avoiding the bear’s paws and looking for a vulnerable spot. It darted away again.

But the bear was a split second faster. It dropped back on four legs, bringing him suddenly a lot closer to his adversary, and simply swiped the hound off its feet with its massive paw. The swipe had enough power to splinter bone. With a sickening sound, the hound smacked against a table, bringing the entire thing down by momentum. Blood dampened its fur where the bear had torn the skin. The hound yelped pitifully and then lay still amid the scattered food and remains of the dinner, its spine broken.

Now chairs and benches were thrown backward as almost everyone stood up from their seats in fear. A few with much self-control (and that had bet on the dog) cursed, and some money changed hands. Other people shouted more urgently for guards. Still others just screamed, as it seemed the right thing to do.

The more sensible guests who wanted to flee the hall now found the dog and bear blocking the main exit, so they turned back and collided with the people behind them. Some of the dishes were shoved off of the tables, adding the rattling of metal to the din.

The other dog had broken free from the bear handler, foaming at the mouth and barking like mad, and turned on the bear. It was a little more cautious than its companion, keeping a farther distance.

[scribe]

Chapter 5. The Fight at the Fire

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Cameth Brin, the Main Hall of the Tower, Evening of October 19, 1347.
Written by Serenoli, Gordis and Angmar
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Odare twisted her head for a better look at the bear, who was dancing to applause.

"Did you know there was going to be a bear?" she whispered to Amantir, who was watching, quite hypnotised, the movements of the beast. He nodded, "No..."

Then, quite suddenly, chaos broke loose. A drunken hill-man arrived, with two hounds in tow; next moment, there was a fight in progress. She had hardly started to scream her bets on who would win, when she felt Amantir drag her behind him, blocking her view. "Hey!" she protested, but he was pulling her backwards, and she suddenly realised that Amantir had decided to act the hero and protect her from viewing atrocities.

"Amantir, you fool, stop pulling me away!"

"The bear is out of control! You should get out of here!"

"Where's Tarniel?" He didn't seem to hear her, tugging her again. Behind him, two burly men were approaching, pushing aside the panicky crowd, and she recognised them as the two guards assigned to her protection. She quickly wriggled free from Amantir, and ducking under the people before her (for once blessing her short height) she pulled out her dagger and forced herself towards the other end of the hall to where Tarniel was.

***

King Tarnendur watched the bear performance absently, a benevolent smile plastered upon his face. He felt bone-tired and only wished for the dinner to be over and for his humiliation to end. The Hillmen, however, seemed happy with the novelty, so the Queen Eilinel had chosen wisely, preferring this simple barbaric entertainment to the refined songs of southern minstrels so favored by Gimilbeth. The king stole a glance to his left and almost chuckled, seeing Gimilbeth's disgusted frown. Further away, Amantir and Odaragariel seemed fascinated by the spectacle and were whispering to each other excitedly.

Tarnendur turned to the Queen, took her white hand weighted down by priceless rings in his, and squeezed it gently in gratitude. Eilinel was the pillar of strength and endurance in this chaotic life he was plunged into. She was the one who had prepared this feast, while the others only muttered and shook their heads in disapproval.

"Thank you for everything, my beloved!" he whispered fondly.

Eilinel's warm grey eyes met his, and some ice from his heart melted away. They looked at each other, oblivious to the sudden silence in the hall.

A sound of barking covered the Queen's reply. The King watched in disbelief as two large hunting hounds attacked the bear. Soon all hell broke loose: the injured dog and screaming men were rolling over on the floor, the angered bear roaring back in challenge. Some guests cheered, others recoiled in fright, shoving some of the dishes and cutlery off the tables.

In his prime, Tarnendur had been a resolute man and a seasoned soldier, a veteran of Rhovanion wars. But now he was growing old. He sat there in a stupor watching the fight, unsure what to do. He felt the queen's hand tugging at his sleeve, but it was Gimilbeth's voice that finally rose in command.

"Guards, stop it! Take the dogs out! Daurendil, Amantir, go fetch the rest of the guards. Now!" Gimilbeth stomped her foot impatiently and waved towards the doors.

The young heir's face turned red. The witch had no call to order him around like that! He spat back, "Go fetch them yourself, if you need them!"

Daurendil fixed his half-sister with a venomous stare, obstinately refusing to move. Amantir paid Gimilbeth no heed; he was chasing after Odaragariel, shouting something.

Gimilbeth shot them a withering glance and disappeared in the crowd.

Daurendil smirked, pleased to have the upper hand in the confrontation. He was to become King soon, so he had to make people obey him, not the other way round. And he would not follow in his father's steps. Far from it! The day Rhudaur gets a new young king would be a bad day for Hillmen. They would be hunted down and killed mercilessly, like orcs. They deserved no better. Only Dunedain, the chosen of Eru, had the divine right to rule Middle-earth; the rest should bow to them or die. Daurendil was not alone in feeling that way. Many hot-headed youngsters followed the popular young Heir, waiting impatiently for the rule of the old, timid king to end and a new dawn to come to Rhudaur.

While the fight progressed, Daurendil found himself surrounded by half a dozen of his friends. They didn't bring their swords to the feast, but now they drew their daggers openly, hoping to stab a hillman in the growing confusion.

The lithe, wiry Nauremir, the Heir’s kinsman and closest friend, showed Daurendil a notched old knife of crude workmanship, the blade covered with some greasy dark substance.
"Do you know what it is?"

"Looks like an orc knife ... but where have you come by it and what do you want to do with it?"

"It is poisoned, don't you see? All orc blades are poisoned as a rule. I've found that the tower cellar is full of enemy weapons. Even a scratch from this knife must be deadly... I will try to edge nearer to Broggha."

Daurendil looked at his friend in open admiration. "Just use as much stealth as possible," he advised. "Probably the brigand will not even notice the scratch... "


***

All evening, Jarl Broggha had been enjoying the uncomfortable looks on Gimilbeth's face as he repeatedly raised his tankard to her. Her father, King Tarnendur, had a look of benign, aged stupor upon his face. "Well-lapsed into his dotage," Broggha thought smugly. Broggha had been bored the whole evening, but it would be over soon, and so he entertained himself with thoughts of Malaneth. Aewen, the little mouse that she was, sat beside him in resigned silence. The only thing that promised any interest that night was that a trainer and his dancing bear would entertain them later.

Broggha roared in laughter when the bear "danced" and he raised his tankard, cheering, "Here! Here!" when the bear stepped particularly high.

"My lord, the bear is indeed marvelous," said Malaneth. "Whoever has such skill that they can train a bear to dance?"

"Put red hot plates under your pretty little feet and you would dance high, too," Broggha guffawed.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, and let it go at that.

"Ah, look there at the entrance to the hall! Two of our fine Northern hunting hounds! This should be interesting!" Broggha exclaimed. "If I did not know better, I would swear old Heggr or Griss had something to do with this! Good lads, both of them! They know how to stir up some lively entertainment!"

Broggha suddenly rose to his feet, knocking the chair in which he had been sitting backwards with a great crash. Aewen screamed and Malaneth's face went white.

"My lord," Aewen reached up, tugging at his sleeve, "the bear is loose and the brutes are fighting! I am afraid! The child! I think I should leave!"

Not taking his gleaming eyes from the fray, Broggha ordered two of his bodyguards who were close by, "Take the women out of the hall! Make sure no harm comes to my wards!"

As the guards escorted the two terrified women from the hall, pandemonium broke out. The bear rose to its feet and roared a challenge to the hounds. Aewen screamed again at the blood-curdling sound. The pregnant woman was close to fainting, but one of the guards and Malaneth gripped her by the arms to steady her.

Some of the men were betting on the bear, others on the dogs. Broggha finally spotted Griss. "Captain, place my bets on the bear!"

Struck by the bear's paw, one of the dogs crashed into a table and fell to the floor, its spine broken. Broggha lustily cheered the bear and waved his tankard in another toast to the brute.

Griss returned to the table, grinning broadly. "My lord, the fight is getting better and better!" The second hound, teeth bared, foam dripping from its mouth, was facing the bear. The bear's bloodshot eyes gleamed in rage as it prepared to deal with the last of its tormentors.

Out of the corner of his eye, Broggha caught some sort of disturbance between Gimilbeth and her brother. Broggha laughed to see her stamping her foot wildly, and then in a fit of pique, disappearing into the crowd.

"That curly-headed fop over there is the crown prince, isn't he, Griss?"

"Aye, my lord, that is Crown Prince Daurendil. Sneaky-looking little weasel, isn't he?"

"Aye, and it looks like he has gathered some of his friends about him."

"My lord, perhaps this would be a good time to leave," Griss whispered nervously, his thoughts going to the two daggers he had hidden on his person.

"Why?" the big man laughed. "We might get some true sport now!" The giant looked around the room until he saw what he was looking for - a large, double-bladed broad sword displayed as part of the room's decoration. With Griss at his side, Broggha strode over until the sword was just behind him.

***
Broggha's bodyguard had rushed to him at the first sign of a threat from Prince Daurendil and his friends. The great Rhudaurian broadsword felt good in Broggha's hands; the weight perfectly balanced.

"Too much to drink, Prince Daurendil? It must have taken a great quantity to give courage to a coward such as you!" Broggha taunted him.

"Prince Daurendil," one of his companions, who was having second thoughts, whispered, "this man is a giant! He will show you no mercy!"

"And I will show him no mercy!" the prince cried as he grabbed a chair from the floor and threw it at Broggha. The determined prince then rushed in low with his dagger, thrusting, trying for his enemy's stomach. At the same time, Nauremir, the orcish blade held in his hand, came at Broggha from his other side.

Griss and the other bodyguards were having their hands full with Daurendil's other friends. Even the reluctant courtier had plunged into the fray.

"Broggha, beware!" Griss screamed as he saw the knife in Nauremir's hand. The smoke from the burning tablecloth was becoming intense to the point where Griss was having trouble seeing much of anything at a distance. They had to protect the Jarl! Griss heard the chair crash into Broggha's head and then fall to the floor. The Jarl had been a little slow and seemed stunned from the blow.

Nauremir's back now was turned to Griss. Griss was fond of taking every advantage he could, and a vulnerable back was fair game. With a mighty lunge, he flung himself on Nauremir, plunging the blade into his back, causing him to drop the knife. With a bewildered look on his face, Nauremir fell stumbling towards the table.

Prince Daurendil was skillful with his dagger, quick on his feet, and kept low to avoid the swing of the great broadsword. But his range was no match for the great weapon. Shaking his head to clear the confusion of the chair's blow, the Jarl roared in fury. As their eyes burnt with the smoke, temptation to rub them was great. Dodging a sweeping swing from the broadsword, the smaller man moved in quickly, his dagger drawing blood from Broggha's side. Totally enraged, the Jarl saw red. He lifted the great sword, made a feint with it to Daurendil's left, and then brought it crashing down on the man's skull. Dazed, Daurendil relinquished his knife.

The Jarl cursed as he picked up Daurendil in his great arms. "You little dog! You will die soon enough, but not tonight!" Throwing the man back into his companions, the Jarl lifted the table and picked it up on its end. With a great shout, he flung it into his attackers, knocking some of them sprawling to the floor, struggling to free themselves of the burning cloth.

"Men, we have to find a way from this hall before we choke on the smoke!"

"I think I know a way out," Griss exclaimed. "But, my lord, you are injured!"

"No worse than I have suffered before," the large man laughed.

"This way, Jarl!" Griss quickly led them to a side door in the hall. He found it locked. "Men, we are going to have to knock it down!"

With willing shoulders against the barrier, they soon had the door crashing from its hinges. They quickly fled down the hall.

"Griss! Are my wards out of the hall?" The Jarl was now holding his bleeding side.

"I think so. I could not see anything after a while through the smoke."

Far behind them, they heard the bear bellow out a scream of rage and then they heard the sound of a great crash.
Wounded worse than he had thought previously, Broggha leaned on Griss for support as they made their way to the stables. "That impudent little fop! He tried to murder me!"

"Aye, my lord," Griss exclaimed, out of breath from helping to support the heavy man's weight. "My feeling is that it was a plot by King Tarnendur all along to entice you to come here so he could have you murdered!"

"The king will not get away with this. He will pay dearly!" Broggha muttered as he slumped against the side of a stall.

"Bring more light!" Griss shouted, and soon one of the other bodyguards had fetched a lamp from its sconce. "Hold it up!" Griss implored him as he helped Broggha take off his fur robe, bloody tunic and shirt. Once again, Griss saw the strange amulet that Broggha wore about his neck on a silver chain. Griss' face went grimly white as he looked at the wound. "My lord, this will have to be bound up. You are leaking too much blood!" Although the light was not the best, Griss could see that Daurendil had ripped a jagged, bloody wound in Broggha's side.

"Where is Malaneth?" Broggha bellowed as he clutched the amulet and felt it giving him strength. "Bring Malaneth!"

"She will be coming directly, Jarl," Griss assured him. "I have been informed that one of the men has located her and is bringing her to you now."

Broggha grunted his satisfaction, and sagged down, leaning against the back of the stall.

"My lord!" A confused and worried Malaneth looked about the stable, and when she saw him, she rushed to him. "You are hurt!"

"Aye," he grumbled. "What took you so long to get here?"

"Aewen and I became separated, my lord, and in the panic that ensued, my guards tangled with some of the other men in the hall. I - I have no idea where she is!"

"We will not leave without her!" Broggha growled. "Now bind my wound, woman!"

With an embarrassed look towards Broggha's guard, Malaneth lifted up her skirts, and after taking off her petticoat, she began tearing it into strips. Placing a wad of cloth into a grimacing Broggha's wound, she wound the strips of material around his chest and tied it.

"That should staunch the flow of blood!"

"Griss, bring me your flask," Broggha demanded. "I need a staunch draught of ale!" Griss pulled the flask from his cloak and, unstopping it, handed it to Broggha, who took it and greedily swallowed. "Now, Griss, take some men and find Aewen!"

[scribe]

Chapter 6. Hell breaks Loose


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Cameth Brin, the Main Hall of the Tower, Evening of October 19, 1347.
Written by Elfhild, Serenoli, Gordis,
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Tarniel watched the trick bear in fascination, clapping her hands as he danced, though she was glad Daurendil was sitting beside her. But then her excitement turned to horror, as suddenly two hounds charged forward and attacked the bear.

Screaming, Tarniel looked wildly about the scene of chaos. Gimilbeth was shouting out orders, which Daurendil refused to obey. Angered, she stormed off into the crowd. At the other end of the table, Amantir was dragging a protesting Odaragariel away. A riot of confusion all about them, the King and Queen watched in dismay all that was transpiring.

Before Tarniel realized what had happened, Daurendil left his seat and disappeared somewhere in the crowd. "Where did he go?" she asked her father.

"I do not know..." The king shook his head, feeling old and helpless.

But Tarniel was already upon her feet, dashing off into the crowd. The sounds of people screaming, the roaring of the bear and the barking of the dog filled her ears, and she dodged out of the way of panicked men and women who were trying to flee from the chamber. She wished that her brother had not abandoned her. Her eyes scanned the crowd, looking for Daurendil, but she saw instead Odaragariel approaching.

"Odare!" she gasped. "What are you doing here? I thought Amantir was taking you to someplace safe!"

Odaragariel shrugged, "Well, he tried. I knew Daurendil mightn't be so kind, so," she dodged as a burly man came hurtling their way, "I thought I'd get you. Come on!"

She grabbed Tarniel, and turned towards the entrance to the hall. but at that moment, a wave of people, repulsed by the sealed doors, pushed them back. A fire started somewhere in the hall, there was more screaming, a stampede in progress, and all Odare could do was hold on to Tarniel and steer her as best as she could to a corner.

The crowd seemed to pass; for a few moments, they ran unimpeded, but Tarniel was suddenly rooted to the spot, her wide eyes riveted to where Broggha and Daurendil fought. She screamed as the hillman bodily picked her brother up, and threw him away, but it was lost in the chaos of the hall. Odare, her fine robe now torn in places, and her jewels hanging lopsided in her hair, pulled her again, now frantic to be gone, when a roar issued from behind them. The bear was almost upon them.

At this point, Odare did something stupid.

Instead of running away as fast as she could, she lost her head altogether, and attacked the bear with her puny little decorative curved dagger. Her desperation gave her some strength, and the dagger penetrated the bear's hide, but no more; it gave yet another roar, this time echoing through the hall. It pulled at the dagger, and in the process managed to knock down several tables with an almighty crash; and then it turned to the two frightened, and by now, completely paralysed princesses. It lifted a paw, and slashed out, but already the second hound was upon it; true to its training of protecting humans, it sank its teeth into the bear's left leg just in time and the bear only grazed Odare's left arm.

The next moment, Amantir and the bodyguards all seemed to catch up to them at once, and Odare, with a sigh of relief, let herself be carried out of the hall, bleeding profusely and whimpering in pain, and her only regret was that she had managed to lose Tarniel's emerald necklace in all the rush.

***

Meanwhile, Hurgon had put on his best robes; i.e. the only ones without paint on them. He had brushed his hair, but paintbrushes tend to mess up hair, so he left it at that. Carrying a bottle of red wine under his arm, and with a huge smile hitched on place, he was ready for the feast.

He was a bit late, but no matter. He knew the back door to the hall, the one so conveniently hidden behind a curtain. He would just slip in, find a seat, and no one would be the wiser.

He jauntily made his way, pulled the curtain free, and strode in. Someone collided with him; he was pushed back onto the wall and his bottle crashed, the wine drenching him. "Hey!" he protested, "that's my only clean robe!" but the man had discovered the hidden door.

"Come this way, there's a door!" he shouted, and before Hurgon knew what was happening, he was crushed into the wall by the hundreds of eager, desperate people trying to escape. He recognised the two Princesses, one of them being supported between others, and bleeding. He bowed to them in the crowd, and a harassed-looking guard escorting them saw the wine-stains on his yellow robes.

"I suppose you have been attacking bears as well! Better get you fixed up." And with that, he hauled Hurgon bodily back through the very door he had just entered through, ignoring completely the meek protests of the bewildered painter, for they sounded too much like painful groans to him.

***

Her eyes fixed upon the movements of the two fighters, Tarniel watched in horror as Broggha strove with her brother and his comrades. And then danger was behind her, the bear's earth-shaking roar bellowing out like a blast from a massive horn. Before she could comprehend clearly all that was happening, Odaragariel flew by her in a rush, attacking the bear like a madwoman. Tarniel's screams joined the hound's vicious growling as the wounded bear struck out at Odaragariel's arm.

And then the danger passed as Amantir and the guards rushed forward and pulled Odaragariel out of harm's way. Picking up her skirts, Tarniel dashed behind the men as they carried a bleeding Odaragariel away. Oh, she was bleeding! How badly was she hurt? Tarniel was filled with fear for the other girl.

As the men hurried towards the door, a flood of people pouring in behind them, Tarniel caught sight of Hurgon Fernik, pressed up against the wall. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw that his chest and stomach were covered with a gruesome-looking splash of red. One of the guards seized the dazed man and pulled him along. Tarniel thought she could hear the painter groaning as if in pain, and she flinched in fear. How had Hurgon gotten wounded? Maybe one of the hillmen stabbed him in the stomach; if so, alas! he was doomed for sure.

Almost out of her wits with fear and worry, Tarniel wished that the men would hurry up and expedite Odaragariel and Hurgon to the healers. She felt her heart palpitate when her thoughts returned to Daurendil back in the hall fighting with that giant of a man. She could not rush back to find out what was going on; if she did, surely she would be crushed beneath the feet of the crowd. Saying a silent prayer for Daurendil's safety, she then turned her attention back to Odaragariel and the bewildered painter, whom she thought was grievously wounded, but in truth, was not really hurt at all.

***

Once inside the Tower, Algeirr and Gudhrun found a nice place on the pedestal of a statue and watched first the bear tricks, then the fight. When the fire started, Gudhrun was one of the first to panic and bolted for the doors, leaving Algeirr behind.

Algeirr hardly turned his head. He remained where he was, his eyes alight at the possibility of looting the hall where so many nobles wore priceless jewellery. Soon he left his perch and, mixing with the crowd, he was able to cut away a brooch and a rich string of pearls, not counting a golden earring which he tore off a fainted woman lying on the floor.

But Tulkar was smiling at him this evening. Algeirr almost reached a small door leading out of the hall, when a tall obese Tark noble knocked him down. When Algeirr tried to get back on his feet, his fingers closed on something lying on the floor. It felt like a necklace, so the mercenary lost no time slipping it into his pocket.

Soon, concealed in a quiet corner behind the tower, Algeirr watched in awe and rapture as the moonlight glistened and reflected in the thousand facets of emeralds of Odaragaiel’s necklace.

***

Fuming after the confrontation with her silly brother, Gimilbeth struggled through the crowd trying to pick her way to the outer doors. As she found out shortly afterwards, the exit from the hall had been solidly blocked. Some of the guests were striving to get out, while the crowd gathered just beyond the open doors to watch the performance was now streaming in, attracted by the shouts, roars of the bear and general confusion.

Someone had knocked down one of the tall candle-holders in the middle of the Hall and it fell on the noble’s feasting table. The table cloth ignited and the flames ran along the table. Women screamed and rushed to the doors. Now Gimilbeth couldn’t return back; she was jammed in the panicky crowd in the semidarkness illuminated by the ominous glow of the spreading fire.

She was taller than most and this advantage allowed her to breathe and to see what was happening. The others were less fortunate and started to suffocate. Someone was crawling underfoot screaming pitifully. Men were using their elbows to get through; some women fainted and fell to the floor to be trampled.

Gimilbeth saw Gwindor making his way to her and sighed in relief. Her faithful knight was almost at her side, when a burly Hillman stinking of sweat pushed him aside. Infuriated, Gwindor punched him in the face. Cursing obscenely, the man and his comrade, who happened to be nearby, both obviously Broggha’s cut-throats, drew their knives.

Gwindor had a dagger as well, a long, gleaming Numenorean blade. The crowd, frightened even more by the impending fight, somehow made way for them, pushing Gimilbeth away from her rescuer toward the wall. Gimilbeth collided with someone with a force that drove all the air from her lungs. She hissed like an angry cat and turned to face the offender, only to see a half-fainted young woman who slumped against the wall breathing in painful gasps.

The girl’s face was so ashen that Gimilbeth recognised her only when she met her grey, pain-filled eyes. It was Aewen, Broggha’s "ward", in her high-necked gown, now torn at the seam of the right sleeve.

Gimilbeth’s heart raced. She would have given anything for a private talk with this girl…

Standing on tiptoe, Gimilbeth scanned the hall. Broggha had a broadsword in his hands now, his brigands were assembled around him. Someone was lying on the floor at his feet. The two men who were escorting Aewen to the doors were busy slashing at Gwindor with their knives and parrying his expert thrusts.

Nobody looked at the girl. Without a by-your-leave, Gimilbeth dragged Aewen to her feet and propelled her a short way along the wall into a recess, where a small door led to a stair. The girl muttered something, pleading or protesting, but Gimilbeth paid it no heed and dragged the girl up the winding stair to Daurendil’s rooms.

***

"Bjarki! The Tark is not worth fighting! Let us get out of here!" the smaller man cried.

"This pig struck me and then insulted my honor!" The big hillman's right eye was beginning to swell from the blow that Gwindor had struck him in the eye. Squinting slightly, he moved in, trying to land a blow to Gwindor's chest, but the other man was quicker.

Bjarki yelped in pain as Gwindor's dagger sliced through his tunic and into his forearm. Taking advantage of Gwindor's slight turn to the left, Forni rushed in, but Gwindor quickly parried his blow. Forni's courage failed him, but not his cunning. Bringing his knee up, he thrust it savagely into Gwindor's groin.

"I have settled the score! Let's get out of here now!" Forni shouted as he watched Gwindor double up in pain.

"Stay out of my business, Forni! You have settled nothing!" the bigger man raged. Wincing at using his wounded arm, Bjarki pulled Gwindor up by his tunic and plummeted blow after blow in his face. Laughing, he then let the battered man sink to the floor. "Now we leave!"

***

Smiling placidly, King Tarnendur had seemed almost dazed throughout the chaos that had reigned in the hall. "Why is Queen Eilinel screaming?" he wondered idly.

"My lord," he heard the alarmed tone in her voice as she tugged gently at his sleeve, "are you quite well?"

"Certainly! Why would you think that I was not?" he replied churlishly.

"The dogs have attacked the bear and driven him mad in his fury! Are you not aware of this, my lord?" she asked timorously. The king had not seemed himself early in the evening, and as the night had progressed, he had become... what could she say in all kindness?... Strange, as though some spell had been placed upon him.

"Of course, I was aware of it, but I thought the bear's handler could bring the beast under control. Since it is obvious that he cannot, where are the guards?"

"I am not quite sure," she replied almost absentmindedly, for her attention was riveted on Prince Daurendil, Nauremir, and some of the prince's friends. "My lord!" she exclaimed, gasping as she placed her hand over her mouth in alarm. "They are fighting, and that beast Broggha has taken up your family's ancestral sword!"

Pushing his chair back, the King rose to his feet and moved towards the scene of the fighting. He was too late! Daurendil was down with a wound to his head and that giant had overturned the table and hurled it upon the men, knocking them down. The room was filling with smoke, and the king could hear Queen Eilinel coughing.

His son was trapped under the table! Summoning all his strength, he lifted the table, tumbling it over and burning his hands in the process. He found his son unconscious. Nauremir lay by his side, coughing and choking. Bending down, King Tarnendur picked his son up and slung him over his shoulder. The exertion made his head swim dizzily. One of the other young men who had been trapped under the table was rising on shaky legs.

"Get the queen out of here!" the king shouted as he stumbled to the door that the guards had at last cleared.

***

The fortress guard had worked frantically to aid the injured who had blocked the main exit. First the captain had to issue orders to forbid any from entering the hall except for the soldiers. It took a few cracked heads to persuade the idle curiosity-seekers that the hall was no place for them.

Now the corridor was completely cleared of the injured, and the guard advanced into the hall itself. Partway down the corridor, they met King Tarnendur, an injured Nauremir, and one other young buck.

"Your Majesty!" the captain exclaimed "Your son..." He turned to another guard. "Assist the king!"

"No, attend to Nauremir," the King commanded. "I will get my son to his room. Find the queen and tell her what has transpired!"

"Yes, Your Majesty," the captain bowed. He was relieved that he could attend to the disaster in the hall. When he and the other guards rushed into the hall, they found that the room was filled with smoke. The men had brought leather pails of water with them and quickly doused the fire, leaving nothing more than a pungent odor and a vaporous trail of smoke from the sputtering remains of the tablecloth.

The bear was standing up on his hind paws, roaring in fury.

"Spear him!" the captain shouted. "Kill the brute!"

[scribe]

Chapter 7. Magick Awork

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Cameth Brin, Daurendil’s rooms in the Tower, Night of October 19, 1347.
Written by Elfhild and Gordis
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Once in the upper room, Aewen quickly spun around to face the one who had dragged her away from the chaos in the feasting hall. She gasped when she saw Gimilbeth, then quickly lowered her eyes and curtsied. "My lady Gimilbeth..." she begun.

"You are Aewen, daughter of the Count of Pennmorva, are you not?"

"Uh, yes—"

"Come, let me pour you a goblet of wine... you do not look at all well... you must be distraught after witnessing all the chaos in the hall."

In a state of bewilderment, Aewen watched as Gimilbeth glided over to a wine cabinet in the corner and poured a goblet of wine. They were in a man's room, perhaps belonging to one of the two princes. Aewen gasped slightly as the goblet was placed in her hand, for she was still quite a bit shaken by the madness downstairs.

"Let us sit down and talk." Gimilbeth led Aewen over to a covered bench alongside the wall. When both women were seated, Gimilbeth continued, "Now I have some questions which I want to ask you, and I want you to answer them truthfully..."

Aewen wondered what she meant, but soon enough she found out. She swallowed hard and took a draught from the goblet, trying to calm herself.

"Tell me, child, are you Broggha's mistress? Do not seek to deceive me."

Gimilbeth fixed Aewen with a cold, penetrating stare, and Aewen's heart seemed to freeze within her chest. Then the blood rushed to her cheeks and she dipped her head down, averting her eyes. Her fingers clutched tightly about the goblet stem. "My lady, I am his ward," she said quickly, and then proceeded to tell her story before Gimilbeth could challenge her. "After Pennmorva was attacked by orcs and its people taken as captives, Broggha demanded that that the elders swear their fealty to him and pay tribute. My father, the count, tried to defy him, but the Hillman bested him and left him nigh unto death. When my father died the next day, Broggha turned the manor over to one of his chieftains, and then took me as his ward, for there were no men left to protect me. It is not wise for a woman to live alone, especially in these dark times..." her voice trailed off.

That was not exactly the truth, of course, but Aewen was too ashamed to tell what had actually happened, even though Gimilbeth already guessed at it. She was one of the Hillman's mistresses, but shame stayed her tongue and she could not bear to admit the horrible truth.

Gimilbeth listened to Aewen's pathetic explanations, trying not to let her anger show. At one point, not sure if she was able to maintain the placid smile on her face, she stood and wandered over to a large mirror in a gilded wooden frame hanging on the wall by the dressing table. Daurendil was a vain little fool, very proud of his good looks and fond of expensive clothes. His room was full of trinkets, weapons, heraldic devices and other silly things appealing to a boy of twenty summers.

Her reflection in the mirror left Gimilbeth appalled to a point where she almost forgot about Aewen. Her fine silver cobweb bodice and skirts were torn and hung in shreds around her waist. The red under-dress of heavy silk was hopefully whole, except for a gash in the lower hem. Gimilbeth took a small dagger hanging on the wall and proceeded to cut away all the remnants of the ruined upper garment.

The girl, having finished her lame story, was silent now. Gimilbeth took her time to finish the re-adjustments to her toilet, while thinking about the next question. She decided to come to the most important issue at once, while the girl was totally confused, ashamed and close to tears.

Gimilbeth turned back from the mirror and looked directly into Aewen's tearful eyes.

"Tell me, what happened right before midnight on the seventh of Narbeleth?"

Aewen paled, struck by terror. She opened her mouth, but no words came out of her parched lips. Gimilbeth noticed that the girl's left hand was pressed tightly to her breasts, as if covering a recent wound. The right hand lay lifeless in her lap.

Gimilbeth stood towering over the sitting girl, the dagger still in her hand, and continued in a deliberately ominous voice that echoed faintly in the vaulted roof.

"I will tell you the tale myself, Aewen of Pennmorva, for I know far more than you can imagine. On this night, you tried to slay the Jarl with a knife. You were punished for it, the flesh between your breasts burned by hot iron. Do you want me to rip your high-necked gown to show you the evidence?"

Aewen gulped, closed her eyes and made a weak attempt to crawl away from Gimilbeth along the bench where she was sitting, but the Witch of Cameth Brin gripped her shoulder, long nails biting deeply into the girl's flesh. She shook Aewen back into awareness.

"Why did the Jarl survive? Tell only this!" she hissed.

"The Jarl ... rolled away from the knife as if he sensed it ... somehow..." Aewen muttered in a small, broken voice. She was looking, fascinated, at the gleaming dagger in the witch's hand.

Gimilbeth was puzzled. What had gone wrong with her spell? Was it a mistake on her part, or some other intervention? Did Broggha have a charm against evil magick on his person? She had to know the answers and was ready to use all possible means to learn the truth.

Her grandmother Serinde had possessed mystic knowledge and an intimacy with bodiless spirits of Middle earth. Back in Umbar, Gimilbeth had seen her practice her arts with success. At Serinde's bidding, Gimilbeth used to peer in a magic black mirror and tell her grandmother what passed in array before her eyes.

Gimilbeth's eyes narrowed with determination. Disregarding Aewen's whimpering and pleading, Gimilbeth took her right hand and held it in her own. With the tip of the dagger Gimilbeth scraped a rune upon the palm of the other's quivering hand. The girl was too weak and frightened to resist. The blood oozing from the scratches pooled in the palm of Aewen's hand. Then Gimilbeth cut her own forefinger and added a few drops of her own blood to the red liquid, while she chanted softly in a strange tongue. Suddenly the liquid turned black as ink, forming a small mirror the size of a silver penny.

"All is ready," said Gimilbeth; "now, Aewen, what see you in the mirror?"

"My own face," whimpered the girl.

"Think of Broggha and of that night... when you stabbed him."

For some time nothing happened. Gimilbeth was chanting. Suddenly, as if cut in the middle by a sharp knife, the veil parted.

Aewen saw again the interior of the hated longhouse, back in Morva Torch. She was standing naked, rusty knife in her hand, over the Jarl's sleeping form. She saw herself approach and drive the knife down, aiming at Broggha's unprotected chest.

Gimilbeth's cheek was pressed to Aewen's now, both women looking in the enchanted mirror side by side, their minds linked again by a powerful spell.

Suddenly the vision changed. They saw silent trees over the narrow forest path. An owl hooted. A horseman clad in black was holding a naked blade... He was chanting something... and there was some object shining brightly on his right hand... A ring? Gimilbeth strained her eyes and steeled her will trying to see the face of the black horseman. But the figure was vague, eluding her eyes and concentration, seen as through a thick mist.

Gimilbeth started another spell to clear her vision, but had to stop abruptly. Suddenly she felt an icy hand squeeze her heart. Her blood froze in her veins as pure terror took hold of her mind. With a strident cry of dismay she let go of Aewen's wrist and fell to the bench writhing in pain. Aewen fared not much better. The girl slipped to the floor and moaned pitifully, her bloodied hand pressed to her aching heart.


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Carn Dum, night of October 19, 1347.
Written by Angmar
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"My lord?" In spite of the black ermine-lined robe which she had thrown over her silver nightgown, the tall, dark-haired woman shivered. The king seemed deaf to her words as he looked down into a globe. The murky crystals were dark and filled with strange images which swirled like ink poured into water.

"Come and gaze inside and tell me what you see." His deep voice held a trace of mocking amusement as the woman walked over and looked into the crystal whose visions had now shifted again.

"I see nothing through the portal," she replied nervously as she looked into his face. He picked up the glass and put it into her hands. She winced as she felt a cold harsher than ice on her palms and fingers.

"Press the ball between your breasts and hold it there for a while. Perhaps you will see something soon."

Her eyes darted from the crystal to his face, a look of questioning surprise upon her face. "But it is so cold!"

"Not long... be patient."

Pressing the globe to her chest for a short time, she then extended her arms and held the object at a distance. "No longer is it cold, but seems warm! The mists inside are clearing!" she exclaimed, marveling.

"What do you see?"

"A form... a lovely girl with dark hair and sad face... her brow is wrinkled with worry... No, it is fear!"

"And why does she seem to be frightened?"

"My lord, I do not know. I cannot read the mysteries of the unknown as can you."

"Perhaps someday, my flower, you will be able... but there is more there for you to see. Look again!"

"The girl... I feel that she has experienced great pain... she has been hurt... Oh, how ghastly!" The girl's hands trembled as she held the mystic object. "She has been burnt grievously - there is a horrible scar, the shape of a dagger betwixt her bosom." She looked away from the crystal, which now was filled with creeping mist that danced beneath the surface. Transfixed, she looked again. "I see another woman... older... very beautiful.. her dress is damaged... I sense she is angry about something... the dress perhaps?" Uncertainly, she looked to the king. "I can see no more."

"That is enough. Return it to me, my flower."

"Certainly, my lord," she demurred, her eyelashes lowering as she extended the orb to him.

"I will allow you to see what you will never be able to see." He held the globe in the palm of his right hand, and when the device touched the ring on his hand, blue sparks flamed up around the outer circle of the crystal. In the center fell a single drop of blood which grew until the interior was filled with it. The woman gasped and took several steps back.

"Never have you shown me anything like this before!" she exclaimed, fear and amazement filling her face.

He laughed in cold amusement, then bent his head, placing his other hand on top the arcane object and began a low, melodious chant in that strange language which he sometimes used. "Gaze now and you will see clearly," he commanded as he took his hand away from the top of the globe.

"So strange... the two women look into the first woman's hand.... What are they doing?" she mused. "A pool of reflection has formed in the woman's hand... and I see... I see... a man..." Her gray eyes filled with terror. "And I sense it is you!"

The King laughed and began to chant again... this time the chanting was wild and untamed. In her mind, she could see dark forests and ancient, bizarre, distorted plants that crawled up the sides of the trees. A chill raced up her back, and then somewhere, far, far away, she could hear screams. Blood began to fill the interior of the globe once again as blue sparks raced through it. There was another high, piercing, wailing scream, and then there was darkness.

The woman's mind felt as dark as the globe. Brushing her hand across eyes to clear her vision, she grasped the arm of the king's dark ebony chair to steady herself. She felt weak, her legs trembling. Unable to support her, her legs collapsed and her body began to pitch forward on the table. Before she could fall, she felt a strong arm catch her and lift her up in his arms.

"What do the visions mean?"

"Princess Gimilbeth has become a dabbler in the old arts. She has worked a trifling spell, and by doing this, she has involved a reluctant victim. But what she does not know is that once someone has used the power, it is llike a stone cast into a pool, and the circles are neverending. What has once been done can never be undone. Remember that, Gelireth. You should have remained in bed and resisted the impulse to curiosity. You are only a mortal and not strong enough to bear such sights."

"My lord," she clutched both arms around his neck and looked longingly up into his face, "allow me to remain with you! Teach me these secrets. I want to learn!"

"Perhaps, perhaps not. Some secrets you could never learn, no matter how long you study the old texts. Some of the mysteries can be revealed if you study. Some knowledge can come only from me, and then only by the expenditure of blood."

"I will do anything, anything!" she murmured. "But please, never send me away! I love you!"

"Mortals give their love too easily," he chuckled.

[scribe]

Chapter 8. Black Shadow

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Cameth Brin, Daurendil’s rooms in the Tower, night of October 19, 1347.
Written by Gordis and Elfhild
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The doors to Daurendil’s room were violently pushed open and King Tarnendur entered, carrying his wounded eldest son in his arms. The crying Queen and a small crowd of attendants followed.

"What is this devilry here?" roared the King in anger and bewilderment. The sight of a bloodstained Gimilbeth lying pale and lifeless on a bench made Tarnendur stop dead in his tracks.

The Queen, her face wet with tears, tugged at his sleeve urgently. "My Lord, I beg you, think about our son! Daurendil is dying!" she cried. "Put him on the bed there. Where is the healer?"

The King obeyed. The surge of energy he had suddenly felt when Daurendil had been wounded was passing, leaving in its wake weariness and frustration. Tarnendur approached the bed, covered with rich furs, and gently placed his son onto it. Eilinel rushed to Daurendil’s side and started wiping her son’s face with a wet towel.

"My Lord, the healer will be here shortly. He only stopped to get his herbs," announced a servant.

Tarnendur nodded and wandered over to his daughter. He touched her cold, clammy cheek, then pried the bloodstained dagger out of her hand and took her hands in his.

"Gimilbeth…" he called. There was no reaction. The King frowned and called his daughter again by the Sindarin name she was given at birth. "Menelien, come back!"

Still there was no reply. Gimilbeth floated in a swirling gray mist, a nameless shadow among other shadows. She knew not who she was and what was this strange and frightening place, full of stifled moans and hushed whisperings. The only thing that seemed real was bitter cold and pain that radiated from her head and filled all her being to the tips of her fingers and toes.

Tarnendur looked from his grievously wounded son to his unconscious daughter and cursed aloud. Then his eyes riveted to the third figure – a moaning girl on the floor. He gasped in recognition and his hands balled into fists.

"What is your business here, you Broggha’s trollop? What have you done to my daughter?"

Through a murky haze of darkness and pain, Aewen heard the booming condemnation of the king. A distant voice in her mind, the tongue of her own conscience, told her that this was quite an incriminating situation and that she should be attempting to defend herself, but at the moment all she could do was weather the storms of agony which clutched her body. Clenching her pounding head with the hand that had not been cut, she writhed on the floor, moaning, as spasm after spasm of supernatural pain reverberated through her being.

She heard the king speak again, but could not clearly make out what he had said. With a sense of detachment, she vaguely fretted what would become of her if the king should become wroth at her. But yet the power which was currently punishing her was far greater than mortal rulers who are feared by the common folk, even those in whose veins flowed the blood of Dunedain.

The pain began to subside, like a deluge which eventually diminishes into a pattering shower, and Aewen's tongue found speech. "I... have done nothing... to... the lady," she gasped. She was aware, through blurred vision speckled with rainbow dots, of a young man lying on the bed, an older woman fretting over him... her vision cleared somewhat, and she realized that the woman was none other than Queen Eilinel, and the wounded man one of the royal princes.

The king was stooped over Gimilbeth, attempting to rouse her back into the world of the waking. "Then why does she lie here, unspeaking and unhearing?" The king's eyes were drawn to the dagger which Gimilbeth had been holding, and then to Aewen, whose dress was smeared with blood. "Did you try to harm her?" he demanded, accusation in his voice, his fists clenching threateningly.

"No, no!" Aewen cried in desperation, shrinking away from the ruler.

At that moment, the door creaked open and Sarador the Royal Healer entered the room. He was very tall, bony old man, somewhat stooped with age, with beaky nose, long scrawny neck and a completely bald, gleaming head. No wonder everybody called him "the Vulture" behind his back. But, unfortunately, he owed this unsavory nickname not so much to his physical appearance, but to his way of treating patients.

It was widely known that Sarador, once a field surgeon in King Romendacil's army, preferred amputation to all other methods of healing. And he was good at it, brilliant even. Indeed, most of his amputees recovered, which was a feat in itself. The problem was that he often used his saw on those who could have fared better without this radical intervention. The soldiers at the barracks feared Sarador worse than the Enemy and praised Eru to have their own, not so skilled, but at least more compassionate physician, the one occupied with Odare at the moment.

King Tarnendur, however, held Sarador in high esteem, ever since years ago the young surgeon saved the young Rhudaurian prince from certain death, after a spear wielded by a savage golden-haired Northman pierced his chest, leaving the barbed head inside.

Now called to attend to the King's Heir, Sarador proudly carried his gleaming saw under one arm, a bag of other frightening instruments in his right hand and a satchel of herbs in his left.

"Oh, Sarador! Here you are at last!" exclaimed the king with obvious relief. "Daurendil is hurt. Why have you tarried for so long?"

Unperturbed, Sarador stalked to the bed and started probing Daurendil's scalp with his white spidery fingers. He replied in an old, strident voice, unpleasant to ears.

"I was tending to this cockerel... don't remember his name, one of the Prince's friends. He was knifed in the back and bleeding to death. I had to staunch the blood first. I think he might survive."

"That must be that fool Nauremir!" snapped the King angrily. "Accursed hothead! It was he who started the fight in the first place. He only got what he deserved. Ever he tries to lead Daurendil astray toward the path of peril!"

Eilinel turned her tear-stained face to the King and pleaded, "Pray, think about our son, my Lord. Nauremir's crime could be judged later!"

The Kind approached the bed and asked softly, "Tell me the truth, Sarador. How badly is he hurt? Will my son live?"

The King and Queen watched in apprehension as the Vulture pinched his long beak.
The surgeon cleared his throat and announced gravely, "I am afraid I can do nothing." The healer sighed, his eyes wandering longingly to his unnecessary saw. "There is a concussion, and a cut in the scalp, but the skull is intact. Wash the wound with athelas and put a bandage over it. Then call him back. Master Daurendil will have to stay in bed for a week, but that is all."

The Queen was caught in another bout of crying out of sheer relief, but the King tugged at Sarador's sleeve urgently. "Now take a look at my daughter. She is wounded."

Sarador stooped over the prone form on the bench. Squinting, he examined Gimilbeth's dress, then shook his head.

"I don't see the wound. Though with this red gown it is hard to see the blood...Perhaps she was hit on the head...Do you know what happened?"

"I heard Gimilbeth's anguished cries while I was coming up the stairs. Broggha's wench here stabbed her, most likely! There was no one else in the room!" The King turned to point an accusing finger at Aewen, but she was gone.


***

Aewen ran down the stairs, her racing feet thudding down hard upon each one. Her heart pounded in her chest and her breath came painfully fast. Her mind reeled with all that had happened and all that she had seen that night. She had been forced to become the unwilling participant in some dark ritual and accused of attempted murder. Oh, why was all this happening to her?

She would have time later to dwell upon these matters, but right now she had to concentrate upon escaping unhindered. Exiting the stairwell, she ran through the hall, which was now considerably less crowded, for most of the people had fled from the tower. Finding a door, she dashed out into the cold night, the cool air giving her welcome relief from the stifling chambers inside the tower.

There were groups of people clustered together on the grounds, talking anxiously about the calamity which the feast had become. Aewen darted in a meandering path among them, trying to avoid colliding with anyone. However, the night was dark, and she gave a shrill cry when someone seized her and pulled her to him.

"Aewen! Where have you been?" Griss demanded harshly. "You have kept us waiting for over a half an hour!"

Oh, where had she been? Should she dare tell the truth? Would anyone believe her if she told it?

"I – I... got separated in the chaos and became lost in the crowd," she mumbled weakly, too dazed really to even speak.

Griss muttered a curse and shook his head in disgust. "The others wait at the stables. Hurry up – try not to make them wait any longer!"

Soon they were standing before the long, rectangular building which housed the royal horses. Broggha was there, leaning against the side of the structure, surrounded by his men. As Aewen neared, she saw that his chest was bare and a wide bandage was wrapped around it. Malaneth was beside him, fastening his fur cloak about his bare shoulders.

Broggha glowered at Aewen and she cringed, lowering her gaze. The look in his eyes assured a confrontation later, and she almost quaked in dread. She wondered what lie she would tell to rescue herself – if she told the truth, she risked incurring the wrath of the royal family. Already, the king might issue a warrant for her arrest, for he thought that she had tried to murder Gimilbeth. What would Gimilbeth tell him when – if? - she awoke? Would it be the truth, or perhaps a lie? Everyone said that she was a witch, and now Aewen knew the rumors were indeed true. Would Gimilbeth decide that Aewen knew too much and wish her dead?

Broggha's anger no longer seemed as threatening as the anger of the whole royal family.

These thoughts occupied Aewen's mind as she rode down the hill with the rest of Broggha's folk to the Hillman chieftain's estate. When they arrived at the manor, Broggha's men helped the jarl dismount from his horse and walk into his house. After changing into fresh clothing, Broggha retired to his great hall and sat down in a chair by the fire in brooding silence. Servants quickly prepared the meal, and soon Broggha and his men were seated at the table, eating and drinking. Malaneth sat at Broggha's side, but Aewen was dismissed to her own chambers to wait in nervous anticipation her master's ire, her only company the jumble of her confused, tormented thoughts.


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Cameth Brin, Gimilbeth's rooms in the Palace, night of October 19, 1347.
Written by Gordis
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"Where is my lady's nightdress, I ask ye?" Nimraen hissed dangerously, scaring a group of lowly maids assembled in the room. The Gondorian maid, Gimilbeth's favorite, was quick to anger, and at such times her southern accent, which usually caused many a laugh in the kitchens, became even more pronounced.

"We did nothing wrong! We weren't in here since the morning!" pleaded a small, white-faced Hillmen girl. The others nodded in approval.

"You better look at this open window," said another maid, pointing an accusing finger. "Anyone could have sneaked in!"

Nimraen shrugged, and shut the window with a bang. In doing so, she noticed a large, dirty footprint on the spotless windowsill. The geraniums in a flowerbed below the window looked trampled, even in the feeble light falling down from the lighted room.

Frantic now, Nimraen dismissed the maids and searched the room. Everything was in place... except... yes, the golden jar with a lid studded with gems, heirloom of the House of Dauremir, was unfortunately missing. About two hours ago, Nimraen prepared Gimilbeth's green herbal mask in this jar and left it on the dressing table as usual. Close to tears, Nimraen cowered silently in a corner, anticipating the inevitable reprimand from her lady.

Gimilbeth, however, was in no position to reprimand anybody when she was finally brought back to her room, battered and hardly conscious. Nimraen helped her lady out of the wreck of her once elegant dress and into her bed. The old surgeon who followed Gimilbeth looked concerned, especially when a thorough examination revealed no wound, either on the head or the body. Nimraen spent all night by Gimilbeth's bed, bathing her forehead and chest in athelas infusion.

At dawn, King Tarnendur himself came. He took Gimilbeth's hands and called his daughter's name repeatedly, trying to bring her back into the world of the living. This time, in the clear morning light, he was far more successful than the previous evening. Gimilbeth sighed and focused her eyes.

"Father... what happened?" she asked.

"I thought you would answer this question, Gimilbeth," replied the King. "Who has hurt you? Was it this Broggha's 'ward' we found by your body?"

Gimilbeth remained silent for a long time. She felt weak and her brain refused to work with its usual speed and accuracy. Broggha's "ward"? Ah, Aewen, yes... Broggha's mistress... it would be easy to accuse her... but no... she needed Aewen... her accomplice... her spy at Broggha's side...

"Gimilbeth?" prompted the King.

She looked away and said slowly "I hardly remember...Several hillmen surrounded me, Gwindor tried to help, they fought. Another one hit me on the head...hard. This girl, Broggha's ward, dragged me away upstairs, to safety. She is our relative, you know, from the Pennmorva branch. I think she was wounded too - I saw blood on her hands. I was in great pain... then all went dark."

Tarnendur bit his lip. He could have sworn Gimilbeth lied. The King was able to read the hearts of Men - to an extent. He shook his head and said in a suddenly old, grating voice, "I see, my daughter. It seems I accused this young lady unjustly. Sleep now, I shall come to see you later."

The King climbed the stairs to his own rooms, thinking again and again about Sarador's words. The old surgeon told him last night, "Never before have I met such an affliction. Her body is deadly cold and her soul wanders on the paths of the Shadow world. Such an illness was unheard of for many lives of Men - since the Downfall of the Great Enemy in the Dark Land. It was called the 'Black Shadow'. "

How on Arda could Gimilbeth catch such an illness in the present time in Rhudaur? And why had she lied about it?

[scribe]

Chapter 9. The Aftermath of the Storm

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Cameth Brin, October 19-20, 1347.
Written by Serenoli
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The first person to scold Odaragariel was Amantir. Tarniel was much too frightened and concerned to start on her yet; she was quietly holding Odare's hand, watching as the healer tore off Odare's sleeve and examined the wound. It looked ugly, and was still bleeding copiously, but it wasn’t too deep.

The healer began to swipe it clean with a thick paste of his own concoction, and at the same time, Amantir started berating her.

"What were you thinking? Didn't I ask you to come with me? Who asked you to act the hero?"

Mulishly, Odare replied, "I was looking out for Tarniel."

"Thats all very well, but once you got her why couldn't you do the sensible thing and run for it?"

"We were trying!" Odare said half-rising. Her arm stinged painfully, and with a muffled cry, she sank back onto the pillows again. The healer looked annoyed, but didn't dare interrupt the prince. "But the bear was about to attack us!"

"And so you attacked it first - How very sensible, I don't think! Look at you now! And you were endangering Tarniel as well!"

Odare felt close to tears. Wouldn't anyone tell her how brave she had been to attack a vicious bear for the sake of friendship? Instead, she was being told off! She sullenly turned her face to the wall, and Tarniel, still very quiet, turned to Amantir and said sharply, "Leave her alone. Can't you see she's in pain?"

Amantir opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it, and stalked out. Meanwhile, Odare was still pouting, not at all mollified by Tarniel defending her by evoking pity for her. Who asked her to butt her head in? But she said nothing to Tarniel about it, and silently sat through as the healer bound her arm up. When he was done, he told her strictly to stay in bed for a week, and after some more instructions to Tarniel, he left. He had plenty of other injuries to deal with. Tarniel stayed long enough to help Odare change out of her torn dress into something simpler... and then, she left, too, anxious about Daurendil's fate.

Odare, now in a thorough temper at having to stay in bed for a week, growled a little at the maid left with her, ordering her about for trivial things... and only stopped when she started feeling weak and tired. She leant back, and closed her eyes, trying to sleep.

It was only the next day, alone in her room, after the King and Queen had seperately come to visit her, that she remembered the necklace. She had been distracted all morning... for although no one shouted at her like Amantir, they had all signified, by word and gesture, how disappointed they were in her. The King actually seemed rather impatient at her for unnecessarily lying in bed like an invalid for a simple scratch on the arm, while Gimilbeth and Daurendil were so seriously injured, and while he didn't say so directly, it was clear by his manner. It was all she could do to shout at him that it wasn't her fault that others were injured - she still deserved the same amount of sympathy!!

While she was thus angrily ruminating, her mind turned once again to the dread events of yesterday, and she remembered the emerald necklace. She sat bolt upright in bed, almost getting up to search the Hall right away. Then she realized how ill-advised it would be, especially as the night-gown she had on was probably the simplest, least expensive one she had.

So she rang the bell, and immediately sent a guard to look for, and enquire after the necklace, and report immediately should it be found.

***

The burly guard that had caught up Hurgon did not relinquish his hold on him, as they jostled their way to the front of the crowd. In fact, the man was so intent on ramming through that he scarcely noticed it when Hurgon banged his head off the stone wall as they turned a corner. And when he finally broke through the crowd and noticed Hurgon's unconcious form, he only dashed even faster to the kitchens.

Why to the kitchens? Well, he may have been silly enough to try and rescue a perfectly healthy Hurgon, and he may have been insensitive enough to crush the said Hurgon's skull against stone walls and cause him to lose his health, but he had sense enough to know that the official healers would never have time for Hurgon... not while a prince and a princess and other nobles lay bleeding. And Hurgon, it seemed to him, needed help immediately. His hands were now stained with the blood off Hurgon's clothes. He broke into a slight run.

In the kitchens, complacently stirring a cauldron, was his old, slightly stooped aunt, and she was famous, at least in the lower ranks of the castle, for her herbs and expert remedies. He took Hurgon straight to her; she did not even ask him what the matter was, but putting a fresh betel leaf in her mouth, she beckoned him towards the back of the kitchen where there was a small room. He laid him on the floor, fetched all her herbs and instruments, and hovered anxiously as she, chewing slowly on the betel, examined the prostate Hurgon carefully for his wounds.

Time and again she looked, she felt, she searched, and no wound did she find. Her nephew joined her, and both their faces registered bafflement as no wound, except for the slightest protusion on his head, appeared.

Then, suddenly, she bent forwards, and sniffed. Even through the distinctive smell of the crushed betel leaf in her mouth, she could make out the smell of the wine. She laughed, and then after scolding her nephew soundly, she sent him back, instructing him to leave the artist in his room, and leave him strictly alone.

It is perhaps not surprising that the first thing Hurgon thought, when he woke up the next day - with a swollen head, his best robes splattered with red wine-stains, and a completely empty stomach - it is no wonder that he vowed firmly to himself to never, ever go to a feast again. Ever.



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Cameth Brin, night of October 19, 1347.
Written by Earniel
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It took quite while before the activity in the Palace finally subsided and gave way to the peaceful quiet of slumber. Well, Wilwarin thought wryly, if this day is any indication for what’s to come, I’ll have my hands full for many a season to come.

She had missed much of the excitement. While bear, hounds and people had been fighting one another randomly, Wilwarin had been moving her belongings to the small bedroom she now would occupy in the princesses’ wing. Sure, she had heard some commotion and screams, but she had not thought much of it. After all, a dancing bear was not something that came everyday, not even in the Royal court of Rhudaur, and the presence of the Hillmen would be cause of noise enough.

It was only when Odaragariel was carried in, wounded by the bear, that Wilwarin learned what had happened. When the princess of Mitheithel had finally fallen asleep, her maid had excitedly informed Wilwarin of how the bear act had gone awry. Now Wilwarin was quite relieved she had not been responsible for the safety of the two girls at the feast; she wouldn’t have been prepared for a full-grown bear. Here, in the princesses’ wing, she had taken every precaution she could think of. For the umpteenth time, she ran along the list again.

There were only two doors in: the door to the rest of the palace, and the door to the gardens. Both had been securely locked and bolted and Wilwarin had been allowed to keep a key of them. And because Wilwarin knew even the strongest lock could eventually be picked, she had drawn a thin silk thread across them which she would remove every morning, and restring every evening. On the end of the thread hung small bronze bells which, while not very loud, she should be able to hear. Entrance would not go without notice.

The next barrier was, of course, herself.

She carefully checked her own equipment. She wore a riding tunic and leggings for optimal movement. Over the tunic came a leather vest for protection, and a cloak for when the evenings turned colder. On her feet she wore leather shoes with flexible soles. Her father had come by them on one of his foreign travels and recognized their usefulness. They were said to be enduring and comfortable, while allowing for stealth.

She had not owned a sword when she had arrived in Cameth Brin; she had not dreamed about needing one in the capital of Rhudaur. But she had been given access to the weapon room and there had chosen a gladius to her liking. The sword was short, but well made, sharp and light, and also similar to the ones she handled before; it now hung at her side. In her vest, she had also hidden a small dagger.

Realising that even the best sword could not hold against a majority, she had discussed it with Tarniel’s bodyguard, and on his advice carried also a small horn that would alert the guards in the entrance hall nearby.

Satisfied her precautions were all in place, Wilwarin continued to watch during the remainder of the night.


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Carn Dum, Morning of October 20, 1347.
Written by Angmar
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Alassar stood upon a high balcony, which he thought of as little more than an extension of his room. The air was chill, coming from the North, and in his excitement, he had forgotten to drape the fur mantle around his shoulders when he left his bedroom. The wind ruffled the bird's iridescent feathers as he sat on the railing of the balcony.

"Pretty, pretty bird," Alassar cooed as his fingers stroked the bird's head.

"Pretty, pretty," the bird mimicked back. Alassar had always greeted the bird in the same way, and with the constant familiarity of the expression, the bird had learned to repeat it.

"What have you brought me from Lord Belzagar today, my fine Lord Âmbal, my friend?"

"Brought Lord Âmbal," the bird's voice grated out.

Alassar had such a close kinship with his "pets," as he called them, that he always expected the bird to reply in comprehensible speech. The bird was unable to do such a thing, however, for it was only a mimicker, a repeater of expressions that it had learned. Alassar bent down and unfastened the strap that held the silver cylinder to the bird's right leg. Unfastening the stopper, Alassar pulled out a parchment and read the words that it contained. The script would be incomprehensible to anyone except those versed in reading the code.

Alassar's eyes skimmed over the message and, smiling, he rerolled the parchment, placed it back in its cylinder, and fastened the cap. He knew he should never have read the message, for it was meant only for the king's eyes. If His Majesty wished to make its contents known to any others, he would do so. Alassar had become overcome with curiosity this morning, though. He knew that such a tendency could be his undoing, but that was only a small fault, was it not? Things had become too interesting in Cameth Brin to wait until the king decided if he wanted to divulge the information to him.

He had selected the perfect treat to reward Ambal, three large mice, just freshly killed. He was certain that Ambal must have smiled at him in appreciation in his own way as the raven tore into the tender meat.

"Satisfied with my gift, my pretty pet?" Alassar asked hopefully.

"Cur-ruk tok," the bird croaked in a metallic voice, its black eyes gleaming.

"Rest now, my gleaming treasure. Another will be called upon to do the lord's bidding. Ukh and away with you!" The messenger spread his wings and flew away. Alassar smiled, knowing that the bird would return in his own time, for he was quite tame. He looked to another raven tethered by a silver chain to the balcony.

"Are you pouting, my lovely Lord Honalnût? You should not be jealous of Ambal. He is your brother in this work, and I love you both."

Alassar took a silver tube from his cloak and buckled the strap around the bird's leg. He picked the bird up and looked deeply into its black eyes. "What do you see that I cannot? Can you perceive things unknown to me? You can travel quickly to places that would take me hours. Oh, that I had the gift that so many others have to speak with the birds! It is to my constant misery that not all has been revealed to me." Alassar closed his eyes and peered into the blackness beyond his lids, seeking meaning in the darkness.

"Go now, messenger of the skies, Lord Honalnût." He intoned a chant of protection to ward against any mischief that might befall the bird on its journey south, and then turned him loose to mount upon his ebony wings into the skies. Alassar watched him as he disappeared and then turned and walked into his room, closing the balcony door behind him.

"Now to take the message to His Majesty," Alassar thought with an unpleasant guilty feeling, suddenly realizing the silver cylinder held in his moist palm had grown strangely cold.

***
NOTE
Ambal - "Handsome" in Shadowlandian Black Speech
Honalnût - "Sky Watcher" in Shadowlandian Black Speech
"Ukh" - "Go" in Shadowlandian Black Speech