"Shadow II - Intrigues and Sorcery" - Final

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Chapter 10. Things That Go Bump in the Night

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Broggha's Estate near Cameth Brin, afternoon of October 20
Written by Angmar
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Captain Griss had spent the better part of the morning and early afternoon looking for Heggr. The man had not been present for roll call that morning, and when Griss asked the other bodyguards about him, none of them had seen him. Griss paused in the hallway, thinking, and decided to go out and look around the stable area.

He paused and watched some grooms lead away the horses they had just exercised in the courtyard.

"Move back!" he heard the frantic voice of the head ostler. "Clear the way!"

Griss had barely time to jump back against the walls of the courtyard when a gigantic horse, chugging and blowing, with four grooms frantically clinging to the lines in its halter, came charging from the stable into the courtyard. Jarl Broggha's new mount had just been delivered that day, and as Griss watched the desperate struggles to control the beast, he could see what an apt name the huge beast possessed - "Destroyer."

Standing eighteen hands at the withers, weighing 2,500 pounds, it was said that it took twenty-five inches of iron to make just one shoe for the giant animal.

"He is in a foul mood today!" the ostler cried. Griss did not question that statement one bit as he sidled along the wall and made quickly for the stables. All the gold in King Tarnendur's treasuries would not be nearly enough to persuade Griss to mount that tawny devil's back.

Walking into the dark, pleasant interior of the barn, which was lighted by a few lanterns hung from hooks, Griss enjoyed hearing the sounds of the horses munching their hay and grain. He was not there that afternoon to admire the horseflesh, though. He was there to find Heggr.

"Heggr? You in here?" he shouted. Peering over the door into one unoccupied stall, he thought he saw a mound lying in the straw bedding upon the floor. He heard a slight moaning sound and opened the door and walked in.

"Heggr, you drunken fool! Is this where you have been all day?"

His answer was a snatch from a bawdy tavern song.

"Oh, I had no alarms when I tested her charms..."

"Be quiet! You're drunk!"

Through bleary eyes, Heggr looked up. "I drank only a few nips," he slurred.

Griss shook him roughly by the shoulders, but could get no sensible reply. Walking outside the stall, he spied a leather bucket and made his way to the watering trough in the courtyard. Scooping up a whole bucket of cold water, he walked back into the stable and upturned the contents on Heggr's hungover head.

"What? What?" Heggr sputtered. "You trying to freeze me? I will catch my death of cold!" His rotting teeth started chattering, one snag rapidly hitting on top the other. "Oh, my jaw!" he moaned.

Griss pulled him up by his shoulder and shook him roughly. "Sober up! I need to talk to you!"

"Please don't ever do that again, Griss! You nearly scared me to death, and now I'm freezing!" It was difficult to understand him through the chattering of his teeth.

Griss stopped shaking him and supported him by his shoulders. "You lifted a few items from the Lady Gimilbeth's rooms yesterday. What have you done with them? Did you give them to that woman you've been seeing down at the tavern?"

"Griss, I was planning to do that very thing." Heggr's whole body was shaking now. "But my teeth were killing me during the night because of the cold. I was desperate for something to ease them!"

"What does that have to do with the things you stole?"

"I opened this fine jeweled jar and found what I took to be a remedy of some kind. It was all I had, Griss! The only thing I could find. The ale and wine weren't doing me any good."

"So what did you do?"

"I - I put some of it in my mouth, hoping that green stuff would soothe my aching teeth. I never tasted anything like it in my life and spat most of it out! It tasted horrible!"

"Did it help the pain in your teeth?"

"I don't know if it did or not, Griss," Heggr was blubbering like a baby now as he held onto Griss' arms to support himself. "I drank the rest of the wine after that, and I didn't know anything until you woke me up just now. What time is it?"

"About two o'clock in the afternoon."

A look of shock and fear went over Griss' face. "Tell me you don't mean it!" He clung tighter to Griss' arms. "I missed my appointment with my lady last night! Ohhh," Heggr put his hands on his head and groaned.

"What about the lady's fluffy night dress? Do you still have that?"

"Of course, I do! Did you not hear me? I never got to see her last night!" Great tears were falling down Heggr's cheeks and drool ran from the corners of his mouth.

Griss sighed, exhaling in relief. "Good, good!"

"There is nothing good about it! I missed my appointment! She will hate me!" Then Heggr's expression brightened. "I still have the gown and the jar, and there is a little of the green goo left inside. She will be thrilled when I give it and the gown to her tonight!"

"You're giving her nothing, Heggr, nothing at all!"

"What?!" He grasped Griss' shoulders in a death grip.

"I'm confiscating them, Heggr. Someone else wants them!"

"Who, who?" Griss cried. "You have to tell me!"

"Don't ask so many questions, Heggr. Someone important wants them and you don't need to know his name. As a matter of fact, it might be dangerous for you if you did. Now tell me where they are."

"They are right over there in that sack in the corner of the stall, wrapped up in a piece of red velvet I took from the lady's room. But please, Griss, please don't take them! I had promised Fainwen that I would take her something fine, such as she had never seen before!"

Griss released Heggr and gathered up the sack in the corner and began striding towards the barn opening. Heggr, sobbing and crying, followed him and tried to wrestle the sack from his hands.

"I've taken a little too much from you today, Heggr!" Griss exclaimed angerily as he grabbed the man by the back of his tunic and the seat of his breeches and hurled him into the water fountain, much to the mirth of the stable boys. The splash startled the stallion Destroyer, and in a royal bad humor, he dragged the four protesting stable boys behind him as he tore after Heggr, who was just crawling out of the water trough.

His eyes rolling as he viciously tossed his great head back and forth, he shook the four boys loose and narrowed the distance between Heggr and himself. Heggr could feel the horse's hot breath close upon his back. He screamed in pure terror as he felt the horse's powerful teeth grip his backside. The horse began to shake him, but fortunately for Heggr, the material ripped, and he was free, with only his pride and his backside injured.

Griss looked over his back and laughed to see the stable boys scurrying about, trying to capture the horse. Griss walked away from the stable and across the King's Road and entered the alley behind the Hare and Thistle Inn near the Cameth River. A man in a nondescript brown-hooded cloak turned to face him.

"Do you have it?" the man's gravely voice asked.

"Aye, here it is." Griss extracted the sack from beneath his cloak and handed it to the man, then walked out of the alley without another look and headed back onto the road.



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Belzagar's house, Cameth Brin, late afternoon of October 20
Written by Angmar
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"My Lord Belzagar, the boy is here from the tailor with your new cloak," Authon, one of Belzagar's assistants, informed him in his private chamber.

"By all means, show the lad in!"

The boy walked in and bowed respectfully.

"Place the parcel on the table, boy. I will settle up with your employer later." He looked towards his assistant. "Authon, give the boy something for his trouble. Now, lad, go out to the antechamber and wait. I have some more work for your master."

Belzagar watched as the boy left the room. "Now, what do we have here, Authon?" Belzagar opened the sack. "A jar of some sort of green ointment, foul looking stuff!" He wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Now what is this?" He looked with interest into the sack and drew out a frothy, feminine negligee. "I never thought I would see this!" he exclaimed.

"Master, I cannot help wondering how the princess would look when she was wearing it." Authon flushed slightly.

"Neither one of us will ever have that good fortune! Now we must inspect over the garment! Look for dark hairs or flakes of skin. Hair of any other shade or color is to be thrown into the fireplace and burnt."

After a long time spent inspecting every fiber of the gown, the two men found three long black hairs.

"Those must be the princess'!" Authon exclaimed.

Belzagar dipped his quill into the ink pot and penned a letter in code. Then taking the three hairs, he tightly rolled the parchment around them and inserted the missive into a silver cylinder.

He quickly set to work writing another coded letter. "My dear tailor," it read, "see that this gown goes to the Fox, who will make certain that it travels to its appointed destination." Wrapping the gown in the velvet cloth, he put it and the letter in the sack.

"Authon, take the package now to the boy. Inform him that he is to tell his employer that my new shirt needs a repair, and he is to complete the job as soon as possible. Pry out the jewels on the ointment jar and put them in my vault. Destroy the rest of the vessel. While you are doing that, I will be up at the bird cot. One of our black messengers needs to take a flight this afternoon."

In less than an hour, the business was completed. The package containing Gimilbeth's gown was delivered into the hands of Griss, who reported its arrival to Broggha. The parcel was then transferred into the hands of one of Broggha's two messengers, who placed it in his saddle bag. No letters were to be exchanged by the receiver or sender, and only this brief, droll verbal message was to be committed to memory and delivered by the riders:

"Your Majesty, perhaps the owner of this will be reunited with it as soon as possible."


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October 19, in the woods by the road, North of Cameth Brin
Written by Rian
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Golden light, green shadows ... golden light, green shadows ...

The rich colors alternated back and forth in Caelen's weary eyes, lulling her to sleep.

Callon looked down at his sister, then caught Eryndil's eye and mouthed a "Shhh!" Eryndil nodded, and the word passed around his men to keep voices as low as possible. This was hardly necessary, as they were already travelling as quietly as possible, but every little bit helped.

Callon brushed a gentle kiss on top of his sister's head and breathed a sigh of relief. To his knowledge, Caelen hadn't slept at all the last two nights, ever since they left Eryndil's family home. The first night, she alternated pacing the floor and staring out of the window of their little room, until she saw that she was keeping Callon up. Then she lay down on her bed, but every time Callon looked over at her, she was in the same position, and he could see the glimmer of her eyes, wide open in the dark. She had managed to nap a little during their rest stops the next day, but hadn't been able to sleep last night at the Crossroads Inn, either.

"Maybe we should have just stayed at Ostinand," he mused, but really, they couldn't stay there forever, and this seemed as good as conditions as they would ever have for travelling.

Yesterday, she had ridden her mare and Callon their gelding, but today, Callon rode double with her in front of him - she was so tired that he was worried about her falling off and injuring herself.

Caelen's eyelashes fluttered momentarily, but the golden lights and green shadows lulled her back to sleep, and Callon released the breath he had been holding.

It was quiet - very quiet, and warm, with just a gentle breeze starting up.

Suddenly, the mare's ears flicked back. She turned her head slightly to one side, widening her nostrils and slowing down ever so slightly. Callon turned his head to where she was looking, careful to not jostle his sister, but he could see nothing. The mare swung her head back around and twitched her ear to shake a fly off, and Callon forgot about the incident as his sister woke up with a faint cry.

"Everything's fine, Caelie, go back to sleep," he said softly, and she smiled up at his familiar face framed by the tree branches as she drifted back to sleep.


***
That evening they made camp in a little glade surrounded by trees. Caelen walked quietly around the outskirts of the camp, unable to sleep. She had stayed with her brother until he had finally nodded off, then had slowly and carefully stood up and walked off without waking him.

She walked past several more sleeping men, as well as some awake and on guard, until she heard Eryndil's voice and peered through the darkness to see his friendly face.

"Can't sleep?" he asked. His eyes caught hers momentarily with a sympathetic look, then returned to scanning the dark woods.

"No," she said slowly. Then not wanting to appear unfriendly, she added, "I really miss your sister! She was a lot of fun."

Caelen could see the smile cross Eryndil's face at the mention of his sister, although his eyes didn't leave the woods. "Yes, you two seemed to be having a lot of fun - especially at the expense of your poor brothers!"

Caelen smiled back. "Oh, you men - you need teasing, you know, or you get too full of yourselves! That's what sisters ..."

She stopped suddenly as Eryndil placed his hand on her arm in a warning gesture. They remained quiet as Eryndil peered through the darkness, then turned to catch the eye of the guard to his right. They exchanged some signals, then Eryndil turned to Caelen.

"I'm sorry, what were you saying?"

"Oh, nothing," she said, shrugging her shoulders, not in the mood to talk anymore. She felt weary, yet restless. "Can I walk around for a bit? I just can't seem to settle down."

Eryndil looked undecided, then said reluctantly, "Just stay within my guards, and please be as quiet as you can." Caelen nodded, and Eryndil added, unable to hide his concern, "Try and get some rest after that, though - all right?"

"All right," agreed Caelen, and getting up, she started walking slowly around the camp. She let her fingers brush against the tree trunks as she walked, smelling the night air and gazing at the frosty stars twinklng down on her through the tree branches. Eryndil's eyes lingered on her for a brief moment before returning to his watch.

Caelen reached her mare and stroked the silky nose that she offered to her mistress. "Hwesta, my sweet, how are you?" Caelen crooned to her mare, and Hwesta put her head on Caelen's shoulder and nuzzled her ear. The mare's breath was warm on Caelen's face, and her familiar smell was comforting. Enjoying the sensation, Caelen felt that she might be able to get some sleep tonight after all. She reached up and scratched behind Hwesta's ear, and laughed softly as the mare arched her neck in pleasure. Finally, with a parting kiss on the mare's soft nose, Caelen quietly walked away, heading around the edge of the camp so as to not disturb the sleepers nearby.

The mare's ears suddenly flicked forward, and she stared into the woods with dilated nostrils, pulling back on her line. Caelen, hearing the mare's movement, turned her head to look at her. Hwsta threw back her head in alarm, her nostrils flaring wide, and spooked, pulling back hard against the line. As Caelen turned back to see what the mare was spooking at, suddenly everything turned into a wild mixture of movement and sounds, and something with rough fur hit her hard and knocked her over. She could hear the men yelling and the horses neighing, and suddenly it was over and the heavy weight was off of her. She sat up, blinking in confusion and breathing hard.


***

Tyaron looked over towards the girl. She was going to be fine, he could tell, although she (understandably!) looked rather confused and breathless. One of the men (brother? husband?) was attending closely to her. He turned his head back towards the captain of the group of Dunedain, who was speaking to his friend.

"Marvellous shot!" said Eryndil admiringly. "You saved her life! I thank you!"

"I wanted to stop him before he had time to get in a little taste of the meal he was going after," said Tyaron's friend Alagos, the archer responsible for the shot into the spine of the warg that had caused him to immediately lose all ability to move right in mid-jump, turning certain death for Caelen into merely bumps, bruises and a scare. He caressed his bow lovingly and looked critically at his arrow imbedded in the warg - yes, rather good shot, that ...

"How long have you been following us?" asked Eryndil, slightly miffed that they had gone undetected, even though he knew the wood-craft of elves was beyond the skill of his men, good as they were.

"Ask the mare over there," said Tyaron, the taller of the two elves, nodding his head towards Hwesta. "You sensed us this morning; didn't you, cousin?" he finished, speaking to Hwesta, who was stretching her nose out towards the two elves. Alagos smiled and went over to her, unable to resist the mare's pleading look. Hwesta half-closed her large, dark eyes in pleasure as Alagos' fingers found her favorite scratching place - that difficult-to-reach area behind her ears.

"What are you doing here?" continued Eryndil, trying to get the situation under control and gather all the information he could.

Tyaron raised an eyebrow. "And what are you doing here?" he queried in his turn.

An exasperated sound came from the direction of the mare. "Don't mind him; he gets cranky whenever I prove that I'm a better archer than he is!" Alagos said to Eryndil as he gave Hwesta a parting scratch and rejoined the group. He put a hand on Tyaron's shulder and spoke to him in a language with which Eryndil was unfamiliar, but which had a music and a depth to it that was very pleasing to his ear. A smile was finally extorted out of Tyaron, and he bowed to Eryndil in apology.

"What were we doing? We were watching," said Tyaron. "First, the wide world; then you; then the warg; then the warg watching you. And when the warg decided to stop watching you and start eating you, that's when we decided to step in."

"And for that, I thank you with all my heart," said Callon, who had joined the group, supporting a shaky Caelen. Caelen stared up at the tall elves, her eyes wide.

The elves smiled their "don't mention it!"s, their bright eyes shining in the dark.

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Chapter 11. Arthedain and Cardolan

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Arthedain, 40 miles west of Amon Sul. October 20, 1347
Written by Valandil
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The slow pace of the caravan had kept Beleg restless for days. With men on a march by road, it was an easy four days from Fornost to Bree, four more from Bree to Amon Sul. Now mounted, they were doing barely more than half that pace – and they had spent four DAYS at Bree! And all along the road, it seemed like always some local thane or householder wished to speak with his father, Celebrindol. Of course, Malvegil’s years as king would draw to a close before many more – and Celebrindol was Heir to the throne of Arthedain. So all about the kingdom, men wished to gain his favor, or at least to be known by him.

Beleg wondered what that would be like. Eighty years from now, he could be in the same position himself, as his father's reign neared its end. His father was taking it all in stride in his own turn, but Beleg had found it more and more tiresome, so he had dropped steadily back in the line of their train, behind his father and the entire vanguard, and was now among the wagons.

“Oh Beleg…” taunted a feminine voice beside him, “Calafornien wants to know whether it is her charms that have brought you back among us?” followed by an eruption of laughter and giggles. Beleg turned his head and saw next to him the canvas sides of the royal carriage drawn up, and sitting right beside him were four ladies wearing a wide gamut of expressions. His youngest sister, Estelien, who had spoken, looked mischievous and triumphant, while the young lady in question sat next to her, trying to hide her face from embarrassment (and indeed, Beleg was not unaware of her charms – although they had not summoned him to this interview). Across sat his mother Sulawen, giving his sister a sharp look of disapproval, and next to her, a young noblewoman who was his mother’s favorite lady-in-waiting, trying her hardest to show no expression at all.

“Discretion now, Estelien!” said their mother, her eyebrows knitted together. Perhaps she indulged her youngest daughter too much, she thought, that she was bold enough to speak like this to her eldest son, in front of others. Besides, she would not mind at all if Calafornien drew her son’s interest, a daughter in the House of Fornost’s Prince, so it was no good giving him reason to despise her.

“Besides Estelien,” she continued, “You should be happy to have a friend along for the winter, while your brothers go without.”

“But mo-THER!” protested Estelien, “They weren’t going to send Calafornien along to Cardolan with the others, were they? Especially not to Tharbad!” ending in a half-scandalized tone.

Sulawen rolled her eyes, but Beleg just stammered, “Cardolan? Tharbad?” He longed for the company of his other sister, Ethuiliel – but she was back at Fornost, enjoying her newly-wedded bliss with one of Calafornien’s more fortunate male cousins.

Seeing his consternation, but not quite yet comprehending it, Estelien looked square at Beleg once more and chided in mock-soothing tones, “Aww Beleg… what is it? Are you sad that you don’t get to spend a winter with the Cardolani girls? And find out for yourself if what’s said of them is true?” Estelien and Calafornien broke into giggles and Sulawen’s attendant couldn’t contain the blush creeping up her face. Estelien went on, “Too bad you don’t speak Dwarvish… but then, who does?” Sulawen began to address Estelien once more, but Beleg spoke first.

“What is this about Cardolan? Were my companions sent there? On what task?” he demanded.

The giggling came to an abrupt halt and for a moment the only sounds were those made by horse and wagon. But at last Sulawen replied evenly, “Perhaps you should ask your father.”

His lips grown tense, Beleg nodded sharply and spurred his horse toward the front of the convoy.

Before her mother could rebuke her further, Estelien continued, her face now a picture of genuine surprise, “He really didn’t know!”

***

Beleg pressed his mount to a canter, running up the right side of the column before him. There were forty mounted men riding by twos – nearly half of Arthedain’s budding cavalry. Most turned at the sound of a steed drawing up from behind them, and nodded when they saw that it was the Heir’s first son. At last he reached the side of his father, Celebrindol. Beleg’s younger brother Aramacil – the better horseman, drew back from the Heir’s right side to allow Beleg to come in between them and address their father.

“Father!” exclaimed Beleg as he drew near. Then reining in beside him, “Father, what is this news of my companions being sent to Cardolan this winter? And why am I not among them, to lead them?”

Celebrindol at first kept his eyes forward, drew in a breath, sighed and then clearing his throat, turned to his elder son, “Have you only just heard this, my son?”

“Yes… YES!” replied Beleg, and turning briefly saw the look of consternation on the face of Aramacil. Beleg turned back to his father and continued, “What, am I the LAST to know of it?”

“Well… ah-hem, I am startled that you have only now learned it. An oversight, perhaps?”

“But what is the nature of this visit to Cardolan? The formation of a treaty of some kind?” Beleg knew that the last of Isildur’s line there had died an old man just two years before – his sons long ago slain in civil strife. There had long been talk of reunification between Arthedain and Cardolan – even while bitter old Dirion lived, though not in his presence of course. His hatred for the land of his cousins was too great. But now, nobles on both sides of the border seemed ready to accept it – and King Malvegil was privately elated at the prospect of reuniting all Arnor again, maybe even while his days lasted.

“That… and something more,” answered Celebrindol.

Beleg only waited, expectantly, so at last his father continued, “Some months ago, a scribe of little note found an old scroll of Numenorean lore. It was part of a greater work and the ending described the fashioning of… well, of enchanted weapon-making.” At that last, Celebrindol’s voice had dropped to a whisper.

“It was found also, that more on this matter was held in the lore-vaults of Cardolan… but not the portion that we held in Arthedain.”

“Now, your grandfather, the King,” Celebrindol paused before continuing, “Placed much stock in the timeliness of this discovery, deeming it a portend of some coming need of these things. Some thought it might be happenstance, but he was determined to pursue the venture.”

“So,” replied Beleg at last, “a mutual effort to create new weapons. But what was this about Dwarves?”

“The scroll in our holding calls for a small amount of mithril… which seemingly can still only be got from the Dwarves of Moria. Tharbad’s nearness to Moria, and the abundance of master-metal workers there made it a logical place to begin the effort. Well… either there, or Harnost.”

Beleg rode in silence for awhile, digesting all this information. Finally, he spoke once more.

“Father, why was I not sent to Cardolan for this myself?”

“One reason,” his father replied, “is that your grandfather and I are slow to trust the life of a future King in that land which was so long against us. But… there is another.”

”Yes?” asked Beleg, curiously.

“Well… some… on the Council… thought this a worthy project for an Heir to undertake. But it is your grandfather’s sincere hope – and he asks that you give it proper consideration, for he believes he has foresight in it – that you will take up the charge of strengthening the defenses of Amon Sul.” What Celebrindol had not said was that he himself had tried to place the weapon-making task under Beleg’s care, but that his father the King had refused it – deeming Amon Sul’s strengthening as of even greater importance.

Beleg started slightly. It was customary for a Dunedain Heir to spend the time of his father’s reign on a special project – something to better the kingdom. This gave the Heir work to fill the long days of his father’s reign, gave him practice in leadership, and should, in theory, give him a better kingdom to rule when he came to the throne himself. It also might signify how the realm could change when he came to the throne. Beleg’s father Celebrindol, for instance, had taken on the task of creating a cavalry arm for Arthedain’s army. Even in Gondor, years ago Tarannon had built up Gondor’s navy, and gone on to become the first “Ship-King” there.

Soon his grandfather would go the way of all their ancestors, his father Celebrindol would be King, and as Heir, Beleg would have the choice of what great task he would undertake. Here were two possibilities before him. Of the two, he found that the idea of making enchanted weapons appealed to him much more. A revival of old Numenorean craft sounded interesting, and might spur a more general re-awakening of Numenorean culture in the kingdom. Besides, a joint effort with Cardolan could speed reunification. Amon Sul, on the other hand… didn’t seem of much great worth. There was no great city there, only a few small towns. It was fairly defensible anyway, and there were no enemies capable of taking it. Cardolan and Rhudaur had both exhausted themselves in long generations of fighting one another for it. And maybe familiarity with the place had made it less exciting – after all, he had spent every second Yule there for as long as he could remember, and other times as well. Besides all that… for some reason he couldn’t put his finger on, the place had always felt a little unsettling to him – while he was there, each time he first saw it on arriving… even just thinking about it.

But – there WAS the Palantir, of course.

“I will consider it father,” Beleg answered at last. “But for now, I already look forward to returning home to Fornost in the spring. At this time I wish to be alone with my thoughts. I shall ride up and join the scouts.”

As Beleg rode away, Aramacil pulled closer to Celebrindol. “‘In the spring?’” he asked. “Father, does Beleg not yet know that he is to stay at Amon Sul through all the next year and the winter after?”

Celebrindol looked a bit uncomfortable, but replied, “I suppose not, my son. I suppose not.”

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Tharbad in Cardolan October 20, 1347
Written by Duilin
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As they crossed the great bridge at Tharbad, Duilin looked back nervously at the Gondorian guard towers. “Almost safe now, eh Thurisind?” he said to his companion. He looked forward, to the Cardolani side of the bridge, and squinted at the sun, now low in the western sky. Whereas the Gondorian half of the city was little more than a dusty military border town, the part of the city in Cardolan was a thriving port. Duilin looked forward to relaxing at a fine inn of the city – since they’d left Osgiliath they’d largely had to make due with dusty roadside inns in Calenardhon and Enedwaith.

“I don’t see how we needed to go all the way to another country to be safe from Castamir and his street thugs. We could’ve headed to Anor, or Ithil, and been fine until things cooled down.” the taller man looked ahead to the city before them.

“Castamir has a long arm, and we’ve made him quite angry. Best to get as far away as we can. Besides, what’s there to do in Ithil? Depressing place, I’ve always thought. And Anor’s as dull as a post. The only other decent city in Gondor is Pelargir, and that’s full of Castamir’s types. Best to make a clean break of it.”

“Well, I’ll admit, I’m a bit relieved to be out of Osgiliath. I always get claustrophobic there. Too many buildings. Too many police.”

“You Northmen, always wanting to be out in the woods, or whatever it is you do. You will admit, the girls are prettier in Osgiliath, though, than anywhere else.”

“The girls are pretty in the city, it’s true. I think all the prettiest girls of the north have gone to Osgiliath to be barmaids. And the native women aren’t bad either, although the Westwomen can be a bit haughty. What do you know about this place?”

“What, Tharbad?”

“No, the North Kingdom. My folk have little contact with this place. I think I had a distant cousin who joined the army of Arthedain, but nobody ever heard from him again. And then there was that fellow in the regiment. What was his name?”

“Which one? The fellow from Cardolan?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Can’t remember. And I don’t know much about these parts. Never been, just like you. Rougher than Osgiliath, I expect. They say these kings are always fighting each other. I’d thought we might go to an inn, and see what we can learn about possible job opportunities.”

“So you’ve led us to a country you know nothing about, eh Duilin? Well, then, lead on.”

They crossed the rest of the way in silence, and once on the other side, looked for an appropriate inn. The Stone Bridge was right by its namesake, and the two men decided to take a look inside. The inn was about as one might expect – pretty barmaids, at least, and a good number of patrons. The innkeeper walked up to them, glancing nervously at the blonde giant as he addressed his smaller, more usual looking companion. “What can I do for you gentlemen? Would you like rooms? My boys can stable your horses.”

“Yes, that all sounds good. For now, we’d like some tankards of ale.”

The two men sat down. “This seems adequate enough,” said the smaller man, still surveying the establishment.

Hearing no response from his companion, he saw that he was in the midst of a flirtation with the buxom little serving wench. Ah, the amenities of the city, thought Duilin. Hoping to give his companion some space to succeed in his seduction, Duilin stood up. These Cardolanis seemed like good enough folk – most of them reminded him of his own family, back in Lossarnach – brown hair, medium height and build. He’d seen some Dúnedain in the town, but they seemed rarer than back in Osgiliath. Duilin noticed a group of about a dozen men, armed, but not in the uniform of the army of Cardolan he’d seen worn by the guards at the bridge. “Mercenaries,” he thought to himself. “Well met, lads,” he cried, greeting the group. “If I am not mistaken, you are in the same line of work as I.”

The men looked at him, not saying anything. After some time, one spoke, “you came in with that giant northman, didn’t you? You’re not from these parts, are you?”

“Indeed not, friend. My tall companion and I are lately released from service in the army of Gondor, and we’ve come here to the north to seek our fortunes with whichever kingdom is in need of our services.”

“Ah, then you’re right,” the man paused, “friend. We are in the same line of work. You’ll find little enough work here in Cardolan, I’m afraid,” the man said. “We’ve just been dismissed from service. The kingdom is in strange shape since old Dirion died two years ago, and the nobles aren't willing to pay for soldiers. We had thought to go south to seek our fortunes with old Rómendacil. Maybe see some action against Easterlings or Southrons, or see the great city. But if you’re here up from there maybe Gondor’s a bad choice. Is the King in Osgiliath also not in need of men?”

“Ah, no. Gondor’s always in need of good men to serve in her armies. My friend and I just ran into some, er, difficulties back home.” Seeing their looks o f incredulity, he clarified. “My home, I mean – obviously my friend is from the wilds of the North. Anyway, we thought it would be best to leave Gondor for a time. You say Cardolan isn’t hiring. What about the other kingdoms?”

“Well, Arthedain is how you say Gondor is. They always are looking for good men. Are you horsemen, perchance? The heir of Arthedain is building up a cavalry for the kingdom, they say, and needs good horsemen, in particular. Some of our companions are headng up towards Kings’ Norbury to seek service there.”

Another of the men broke in here. “I wouldn’t go to Arthedain, though. My brother is in the Arthedain army, and it seems deadly dull. Lots of garrison duty, and training marches. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with that, but it’s in Arthedain, and Arthedain’s terrible. They’re all haughty Dúnedain there, and the women turn their noses up at good men of Middle-earth. If you’re lucky, you get put in Norbury, and Norbury, they say, is even duller than Tyrn Gorthad, and the rest of the country is even worse. Garrison duty in Tharbad, or even Tyrn Gorthad, is a pleasant enough job, but in Arthedain it’s meant to be awful.”

“So there’s work and pay in Arthedain, but it’s not very interesting. What about Rhudaur?”

“Well, Rhudaur’s more interesting they say.” said one of the men. “My cousin does business with Cameth Brin, and he was just up there. It sounds like there’s a lot of action – hillmen and orcs and the like. But I don’t think I’d like to go to Rhudaur, either. Those hillmen are bad sorts, and nothing but trouble has ever come out of Rhudaur.”

“Aye,” said another. “If you have to stay in the north, Arthedain is the safest bet.”

“I’ve heard talk of another kingdom, away up north,” Duilin said.

The men looked at each other nervously. “Yeah,” said the leader. “We’ve heard talk of Angmar ourselves. Don’t much like the sound of it, though. Away up north, and they say the King is an evil sorceror. They say he’s always taking in new soldiers. We talked to one of their recruiters in an inn in town, earlier today. Something about him gave me the creeps. No Angmar for us, thank you very much. We’re going to head down to sunnier climes.”

“Thank you, friends, for the words of advice. I wish you luck in Gondor. There should be plenty of excitement in Rómendacil’s army. At the very least, Osgiliath has the prettiest girls in the world – and not all haughty Dúnedain girls, either.” Not that all Dúnedain girls were so haughty, Duilin thought to himself. He remembered Lothiel back in Osgiliath, and the nights they’d spent together – there was a lovely girl. And, as a bonus, she’d still be just as lovely if he didn’t get back there for ten years. But it was probably best to play along with their prejudices.

“And good luck to you as well. Old Malvegil may not give you much excitement, but he pays well enough, they say.”

Duilin returned towards his own table. The Cardolani soldiers had given him much to think about. There was Arthedain, reliable but boring. The Cardolanis assumed that they’d go up to Fornost, but the prospect didn’t seem terribly appealing. On the other side was Rhudaur, exciting but dangerous. He’d want to know more of the place before committing to go there. He realized that, without even considering it consciously, he had already rejected Angmar. Something about the way others talked about it made him want to stay as far away as possible. He looked for his friend, to tell him what he’d learned, but he saw that Thurisind had abandoned their table. Going up to the innkeeper, Duilin inquired as to his friend’s whereabouts.

“Oh, I think he went up to his room.” The innkeeper winked at him. “He may have company.”

Duilin groaned. Here he was, doing the hard work of discovering more about possible opportunities, and the barbarian was off making love to a serving girl. Ah well, he thought to himself. He might as well find a girl of his own for the night. Seeing a pretty young thing glancing shyly at him, he beckoned her towards him. Decisions could wait till tomorrow.

[scribe]

Chapter 12. Honorable Men

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Tharbad, October 21, 1347
Written by Duilin
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Thurisind awoke with the sun, somewhat disoriented. Looking to his side he saw a pretty brown-haired girl. Through the cobwebs of his half-sleeping brain, he tried to recall her name. Well, no matter. He left a few silver pennies by the bed for the girl and dressed. She was well worth it, he thought. Not as beautiful, perhaps, as the women in Osgiliath, but pretty enough and great sport in bed. He wondered if his companion had found a girl for himself the night before – he had left him talking to a group of men. He hoped his friend hadn’t gotten himself into any trouble.

He thought back to Osgiliath. His friend could make trouble indeed. The two men had become fast friends during their service together in the army of Gondor, serving together in a small fort near the end of the Ash Mountains. Their term of service up, the two had decided to make their way to the capital, and see if they could make their fortunes there. Duilin had some kin in the city, and so, as it happened, had Thurisind. While Duilin’s kin were honest, hard-working folk of the people – his uncle was an innkeeper – Thurisind’s relations were of a higher kind. For he was distantly kin none other than the Lord Vinitharya – that is to say, of Eldacar, only son of the King’s Heir of Gondor. Thurisind had presented himself to his kinsman, offering himself and his friend in service to his mighty cousin. Eldacar had taken a liking to his enormous cousin from the north, and to his friend. He remembered fondly his childhood in the north, and wished to learn of its present state. Eldacar, too, hoped to gather men around him he could trust, seeing the Dúnedain of Gondor murmuring against him. Thus, Duilin and Thurisind had fallen in with the personal retinue of the Heir’s so, being taken on as his private bodyguards. Ah, what a time those two years in Osgiliath had been. Favorites of the King’s heir! They had been free most of the time to roam the city as they would. But then, of course, Duilin had mucked it up.

While Thurisind came to know his kinsman and caroused about the city, Duilin had somehow become involved with a great, but mysterious, and almost certainly married, Dúnadan lady. It was unclear to Thurisind how they had met, and which had seduced the other, but before he knew it, he had taken up the job of acting as look-out and guard for his friend’s assignations. “Come now, Thurisind,” Duilin had said brightly, “you know I would do the same for you. All you need to do is make the signal if anyone approaches, and delay him as long as you can. I’ll make it up to you.”
One night, about a month into the affair, Thurisind, who followed his friend and his lady at a distance, began to suspect that another pair was also following. Once the lovers entered the spot of their tryst, one quickly departed, while the other remained. Thinking quickly, Thurisind feigned drunkenness, and stumbled towards the remaining man, hoping to gain information. “Friend,” he slurred. “Might I ask how to make the Star of the North Inn?” he named an inn in the city that visitors from his own land often used, “I seem to have lost my way.”

The other looked at him uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with it. Sir, if you don’t mind, I have a task which I am at, and I cannot be distracted.”

“My pardon, I hadn’t meant to disturb you,” Thurisind stumbled, slightly bumping the man. “And my pardon for that, as well,” he laughed drunkenly. “I hadn’t meant to disturb anyone,” he repeated, stumbling back towards the door of his friend’s lair.

The man’s response had been enough to suggest that he was, in fact, an agent of the woman’s husband. Thurisind made the agreed-upon signal, and sat down upon the step before the door, pretending to pass out. Soon he heard footsteps approaching, and then, voices. The other man had returned, but he had brought with him others. “Sir, they went into that building, and have been up there since,” said the man Thurisind had spoken to.

“Outrageous!” bellowed another voice. “If she believes she can cuckold me, the King’s grand-nephew, with no consequences, then she is sorely mistaken.”

Thurisind opened his eyes to take a look. The voice was familiar to him, as was the man – he was tall, nearly as tall as Thurisind himself, but slender, with long, dark hair of the sort typically worn by the aristocracy of Gondor. It was Castamir, who was, indeed, grand-nephew to the king, and, from all Thurisind’s brief encounters of him, an arrogant ass. The men approached, and Thurisind continued to feign unconsciousness.

“What is this?” said Castamir. “Who is this oaf?”

“Just some drunken Northman,” replied t he man Thurisind had spoken to. He was looking for some inn, and spoke to me, but I sent him away, and I guess he passed out on the stair here. Should we wake him?”

There was a pause. Thurisind wished to open his eye to see what was going on, but thought it best to feign unconsciousness for as long as he could. Finally, Castamir spoke. “Wait, I know this man! He is no ordinary drunk Northmen – this man is in service of my cousin. If I remember rightly, he is some sort of kin to my cousin’s northern whore of a mother.”

Now Thurisind roared awake. He would have to reveal himself at some point, and given that the game was basically up, this was as good a time as any. Thurisind hoped that his friend had heard the signal, and was on his way. There were half a dozen men surrounding him. “The Lady Vidumavi was no whore. She was a great lady of my people, and my own kinswoman.”

“And I suppose your beloved kinsman has you act as pimp, to bring him the wives of other men to befoul, and then to act as a murderer, to kill their husbands when they seek revenge.”

Thurisind laughed. “You think your wife is cuckolding you with Eldacar? Absurd. He is devoted to his wife and family. I have told no lies to your men today,” he lied. “I have had too much to drink and gotten lost in this part of the city, which I know poorly. I know nothing of your wife, and my presence here must be a coincidence – if there is any truth to your story at all.” Where was Duilin? He couldn’t still be in flagrante with the lady, could he?

“Insolent knave! If what you say is true, then you can have no objection to our passing by. For I tell you that my wife is inside, and you have no right to refuse me passage.”

So it came to it. There was still no sign of Duilin. Now he must either let them pass or draw his sword, unless he could devise another artifice. His hand was moving to his scabbard when there was a noise above. A half-clad pair – Duilin and his lady, had moved onto the balcony. Seeing her husband below, Castamir’s wife fled back inside. Castamir, seeing her, roared in anger at Duilin, “You knave! Come down here and face me.”

“I think I’d rather not. Grabbing his clothing under his arm, he clambered up to the roof, then, running, leapt to the roof of the neighboring building. Some of Castamir’s men ran into the house, while others pursued Duilin from the streets below. Thurisind, with his hand still on his sword, turned to the angry lord of Gondor. “My lord, you will not mind, I trust, if I try to make my way from here. I should not like to disturb any marital conversations.”

Castamir looked at him in disbelief. “You knave. We shall have words in the future.” He pushed past Thurisind to go deal with his wayward wife.

Thurisind, relieved to have, at least for the moment, avoided a fight with the powerful nobleman, made his way back to Duilin’s uncle’s inn, the Grey Cat. It was late, and the common room was nearly empty. An hour later, Duilin arrived. “I think I’ve lost them,” he laughed. “That was a bit of fun, eh, my friend? I wasn’t expecting it, I must say – she told me her husband was down in Pelargir tonight. I mostly had you come along to annoy you..”

“You find it fun to make an enemy of one of the most powerful men in the kingdom?” Thurisind decided to annoy the insult to himself.

Duilin looked back at his friend. “Well, at the time it was enjoyable. That girl is insatiable, I have to say. And lovely, too. Can you believe she’s the same age as my grandmother? These Dúnedain!” But seeing the warning in his friend’s eyes, he paused. “Why are you looking at me like that? What’s that about the most powerful man in the kingdom?”

“Don’t you know whose wife she is?”

“What? No. Whose?”

“The Lord Castamir’s, you lecherous fool! And he knows who I am, and will easily discover who you are as well.”

As the information sunk in, Duilin spoke again. “Well, this has not turned out nearly so well as I’d hoped. What do we do now? Can Eldacar protect us?”

“That is most doubtful. He has little enough interest in drawing attention to his Northern kin, and we have genuinely wronged a kinsman of his. After this foolishness, I doubt he’d want to protect us.”

Duilin, now completely sober, stood up. “There’s no helping it, then. We must get out of Gondor.”

“Out of Gondor? That’s madness. Can’t we go off to Anor until the heat’s worn off?”

“You think we would be safe in Minas Anor? That Castamir has no eyes there? For all we know, he is going to go to the King with this! Gondor is not safe for us, at least not for the moment. We must go, and now.”

Duilin rushed off towards the quarters above the inn where his uncle stayed with his family. A few minutes later he returned with his uncle, squinting sleepily at the two men. “Uncle. We need horses, now. We’ve run into a spot of trouble and must leave Gondor for a while.”

“Horses? Leaving Gondor? What on Arda are you talking about? Where are you going? And you know I only have a few horses – sparing two would be hard on me, especially if I’ve no idea when you’re returning.”

“We head for Tharbad,” Duilin said. “When we arrive in Cardolan, we’ll find someone to send you your horses back.”

Within an hour, they’d left Osgiliath behind them, riding hard up the road through Anórien towards Calenardhon. And now they had finally arrived in Tharbad. Thurisind quietly left his room, leaving the girl to sleep. Entering the common room of the Inn, he wondered what Arnor would have in store – and what trouble his companion would lead him into.

***

Duilin awoke late in the morning. He found last night's girl had already left - presumably she had to go about her work for the day. Duilin yawned and stretched, and wiped the sleep from his eyes, trying to get his bearings. After dressing, he made his way down to the common room. As he waited for attention from the innkeeper for his breakfast, Thurisind came in - it seemed his companion had already been up and about for some hours.

Sitting down, Thurisind greeted his friend. "Ha, Duilin, finally awake I see. I've been using the morning hours to investigate this city and see what of interest might present itself."

"And did you discover anything? I have already learned much from my conversation last night."

"I have also learned much. Tharbad seems promising. There is much private work to be had, I think - the nobles and merchants here are much concerned about theft, and would like to hire men to protect their wealth. And there is also work of more illicit kind, should we be so inclined."

"No, Thurisind, I don't think that Tharbad is wise. Staying here too long risks getting word to Castamir. And I imagine that much work would involve us in going over relatively frequently to Gondor's half of the city. I want to be as far from the reach of that arrogant ass as possible."

"Yes, I was afraid you'd say that. What have you learned?"

Duilin related his conversation with the soldiers last night, but for some reason neglected to mention Angmar at all. Something about the place made him wish not to think about it. "I'll say that of the other kingdoms, I don't much like the sound of Arthedain. It sounds like the army of Gondor all over again, but worse. I think those years in Osgiliath have spoiled me for proper garrison duty."

"Aye, me as well," Thurisind said, after a moment's thought. "But Rhudaur sounds worse - dangerous, chaotic, and, most importantly, with very little cash on hand. I've heard, though, that there might be other opportunities, if we go along the road to the town of Bree, at the crossroads with the great East Road. That town, they say, is full of all sorts, and work of various kinds can be found there."

"Bree is on the way to Norbury, Arthedain's city, as well. " said Duilin.

"Shall, we, then, make our way there?"

"It seems the best option. I'd like to avoid Arthedain's army if we can, but penniless hill country full of barbaric hill men seems like a last resort. We should see what Bree has to offer before we give ourselves over to King Malvegil."

"I agree entirely. But first we have to figure out how to send your uncle back his horses, don't we?"

Duilin groaned. "How on earth are we going to find someone we trust to get our horses back to Gondor, in a city where we don't know anybody?"

"You're the one who promised your uncle. I've no idea. I thought you might have some family connection here - they all look just like you."

Duilin looked irritatedly at his friend. "Why on earth I should I have family connections in Tharbad? I grew up in Pelargir - it's hundreds of miles from here! This is quite a spot. Maybe we can ask the innkeeper."

"He'd cheat us as soon as help us - recommend some corrupt relation of his who'll steal them as soon as we look the other way."

"Well, I don't see you having any ideas."

"Hmm..." Thurisind thought for a moment. "I've a thought. Would your uncle be able to recognize his horses?"

"I think so, yes."

"Is there any sort of proof of ownership back in Osgiliath?"

"Yes, there's deeds of some sort, and descriptions."

"Then here's what we do. We find some travellers who are going to Osgiliath and looking for horses. We sell them the horses, and also recommend them an inn in Osgiliath."

"My uncle's."

"Yes, of course. We provide them with a sealed letter of introduction to your uncle, so that he will give them the best rate, and so forth."

"And the letter will tell them that these are his horses, and that we are returning them, as promised, but that the men bringing them aren't aware of this. Then he can threaten to sic the police on them as horse thieves, and get the horses back."

"That, my friend, is a brilliant plan. We are going to get men to pay us to return my uncle's horses to him. I am glad I will not have to break my promise to my uncle."

"Of course not, Duilin, we are honorable men," he laughed. "Now let's go find ourselves some marks."

[scribe]

Chapter 13. The Road to Cameth Brin


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Northeast of Cameth Brin, early afternoon of October 21, 1347
Written by Rian and Valandil
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"Go on," Callon whispered to Caelen, who was staring at Eryndil, who was staring at ... well, it looked like he was staring at the road they were planning on taking that morning, but who knows? If only we could see what a person is staring at inside their mind ... surely it would be more interesting than that quiet road was this bright morning.

Caelen bit her lip ("Stop that!" whispered Callon - it was a bad habit she had, and their mother had often tried to break her of it) and walked resolutely towards Eryndil, Callon following close behind her.

"Excuse me," said a soft voice behind Eryndil, but he was already turning around - with the reflexes of a man used to surviving in the wilderness, he had heard and felt their approach before Caelen had spoken.

"Yes?" said Eryndil gently, with an encouraging smile. Since they had left the safety of Eryndil's father's home, where Caelen and his younger sister had gotten along famously, whispering and giggling and playing outrageous tricks on their long-suffering brothers, Eryndil had noticed Caelen regressing back to how she was after the attack on the road and her mistreatment by the brigands. And he noticed the worried furrow returning to Callon's face when he looked at her.

Caelen bit her lip again, took a deep breath, and continued. "I was just wondering if you would be so kind as to grant me a boon I would ask of you," she said, looking up at him tentatively, glad that her brother was near her - she had not had much interaction with men outside of her family in her short life, and so far, the men had not made a good showing. But in the days after their rescue by Eryndil, he and his men had done a great deal towards improving the average, and Caelen had a feeling that perhaps - just perhaps - she might be reconciled to the sex one day.

Eryndil bowed. "If it is within my power, I would gladly grant you what you would ask," he answered graciously.

"It's this," she said simply, opening her hand to disclose a broach. "It's a broach of mine ... would you please take it ... as a gift ... I mean, for all your kindness to us ... I ... I really want to give it to you ... please take it," was the somewhat incoherent request.

Eryndil bent down to look at the broach, moving slowly so as not to startle her. Even so, he noticed with sorrow that she drew back from him just a bit.

"It is lovely indeed," he said with admiration, and it was - the head and arched neck of a stallion worked three-dimensionally in gold, against a silver mesh background dotted with a few tiny golden elanor blossoms. He was just opening his mouth to state his polite refusal - he had just been doing his duty, after all - when Caelen spoke again.

"And look!" said Caelen, forgetting her reticence in her excitement to show a secret. "It opens," she said, smiling up conspiratorily at him, and with a quick movement of her fingers, the horse's head swung up on a small hinge, displaying a small cavity underneath.

"Isn't that fun?" she demanded, holding it up to him and waiting impatiently for his admiration of her gift. Eryndil took it carefully and looked at it more closely. The workmanship was exquisite - the horse, worked in a slightly abstract mode, looked as if he had just paused for an instant before galloping off again - the artist truly knew horses and how to portray a figure in motion.

"We used to put all sorts of things in there when we played "Rangers and Princesses" growing up - pretend jewels, coded messages, mysterious poisons ... you know!" She turned her head to look at her brother. "And Callon would put a spider in there whenever he got mad at me!" she finished, with a glare at Callon.

Callon smiled at the memory, and then laughed as Eryndil pretended to shake something out of the broach and then jump back in fear before smashing it with his boot.

"Guess there was one left in there still!" laughed Callon, as Caelen shook her head at them with her hands on her hips. But she was laughing, too.

"I thank you very much, but I'm afraid there might be more spiders in there - you'd better take it back!" he said, offering it back to her with a wink. But Caelen put her hands behind her back and looked up at him stubbornly.

Eryndil grew serious. "Seriously - I thank you very much - it is an exquisite piece, and very interesting, and I appreciate the heart behind it - but I was only doing my duty. This is a lovely family piece, and you should keep it. I am glad that I was able to restore it to you."

Caelen's expression grew more stubborn, and then suddenly softened. "But I want you to have it," she said plaintively. "If you hadn't come along, it would have been gone forever. And we would have been dead!"

Or worse, thought both Callon and Eryndil grimly, looking at the lovely young lady with the morning sun shining on her red-gold hair.

Eryndil was not quite sure what to say. He didn't like taking things for having performed his due service. But she was so insistent. Then a thought struck him. He smiled and bowed as he said, "This is such a princely gift that surely you must be wandering royalty in disguise, generously bestowing your favors abroad." Eryndil hoped his acting hadn't sounded too ridiculous - Callon had walked over to get the horses. "But here, that you may have a token yourself...please take this in exchange."

And he reached into his pouch and brought out a small wooden object. He had intended it for Hendegil, and having not yet finished, had hoped to give it to her this Yule - but maybe now he could make her something else.

"It's not finished, and it's not really that good," he said, holding it out to her. "But at times on watch in the forests, I have time to carve little trinkets. This is one of three goats," and he wished intensely that he had carved a horse instead. Still, Caelen leaned in close, curious, and saw a large goat in the middle, flanked by two smaller ones - all a little box-shaped or stubby.

"You see, there's a fable I was told as a child, of three such goats who defeated a troll. Why - there's an inn up north, near the bridge where this tale is set - the inn is named for these goats. Anyway, not as lovely as horses, and you can't ride them - but goats are more sure-footed on the hills of Rhudaur. To our family, they're a sign of good luck!" He stopped there, unwilling to tell her where the gift was originally to be bestowed.

As Caelen's face lit up and she took his crude carving, some strange thoughts began to pass through Eryndil's mind. And he realized how they had been playing around the edges of his mind for some time, as he gazed on her bright smile, her gray eyes, her auburn hair... that lovely form. And she seemed like a sensible girl, as girls went. It didn't hurt that she had become such quick friends with Hendegil.

His new position with the King would keep him busy - but should also provide him with enough to make a keeping of his own. And Caelen and her brother were going to the same town. But no - best not get attached so quickly. The girl had been through so much, and had indicated no special favor toward Eryndil.

Except for her gift of course - and his gaze dropped to where he held it in his hand. But then, realizing how long he had stood unmoving, he slowly set it into his pouch and offered to help Caelen onto her horse, which Callon had just brought up behind her. For the time had come to be parted.

Eryndil waved his farewell to Callon and Caelen as they headed back onto the road toward Cameth Brin. The brother and sister should be alright the rest of the way. This stretch of road was well-traveled, and might be about the safest in all Rhudaur (if that was saying much), so they should soon be in town, only two leagues (six miles) away. It was better this way too. Riding in with just his own men, straight to the palace and an audience with King Tarnendur would send a stronger, clearer message than if he had extraneous companions along. And Eryndil suspected the King wanted a strong, clear message to be sent by his arrival.

His father had managed fifteen horses for them, which left a couple for baggage. The Thane had twelve of his own that were fit for the road, and had rented out three more from one of his householders. Once he reached town, Eryndil hoped to send as many back as he could. Could he keep four? Six?

They had started early in the morning of the 17th. His mind drifted back to the partings and the farewells – and the handsome tunic that Hendegil had made with her own hands and given him to wear “in town”. He would wait until tomorrow to put it on – so it was clean and unsullied for his arrival.

They had made reasonable time, all things considered. Eight or ten leagues (24 or 30 miles) per day was not the speed of a messenger though. If his men were all trained to the saddle, they’d have easily reached Cameth Brin the day before, but the stops worked better for a five-day trip anyway. And the way was hilly. He had broken up the riding for his men by spells of walking in the mid-morning and mid-afternoon. Callon and Caelen had chafed somewhat at the slow travel – so it was all the better that they go on ahead now.

Their first night out they had stayed at an inn on the outskirts of Penmorva, where there was still some to-do about an execution there just over a week before. On the 18th they made it to the Crossroads Inn. The 19th was the only night they had to sleep in the open. There had been a guardhouse within reach, but Eryndil wouldn’t risk it, with young Caelen along, so they went off the road a bit and found a secluded place to camp. Last night, the 20th, they made it all the way to River Crossings, and today could have easily reached Cameth Brin. He was a full three days ahead of the due date by his orders.

But Eryndil knew that his men were not used to the saddle. Resting tonight would let them arrive fresher the next day. But it was Gwaerod’s horse losing a shoe that decided him. There was a smith here in the little town of Riverside who could do the job nicely.

First, the Inn. Around the remoter parts of the Kingdom, Eryndil was known and liked by the various innkeepers. They knew they wouldn’t get trouble from his men – and would likely keep trouble away. So – they let them stay at little or no cost. But here, so close to Cameth Brin, it wasn’t going to be the case. Still, the price surprised him.

“Ha-penny each to putchee up fer the night – Ah can get the lot o’ ya intuh two rooms. Three-quarter penny, and yee’ll get supper tonight – what comes with one ale, and breakfast tomorrer, with coffee.”

Eryndil knew the moneybag was running low, but he agreed. So he had Ivanarth count out the nine silver pennies and the coppers to reach the total. They had just spent almost two pennies at the same place - The Riverside Inn, to get a midday meal for fifteen – counting Callon and Caelen. Good enough fare, and plenty of it – and served outdoors under a shady oak. Well – just one more thing to settle up, then his spending should be done until they reached Cameth Brin. And the smith’s work shouldn’t be more than a few coppers.

He motioned for Ivarnarth to follow, and called for Gwaerod to leave his seat, grab his horse and come along to the blacksmith. He couldn’t help but notice that Gwaerod, Gwiroth and Lothrond had met an old friend from town who was passing through the other way. He smiled to think that these three, who had grown up in Tanoth Brin and had been the most useless of his men in the forest, might be the most valuable to him on this new assignment.


***

The first several miles had gone well - no, more than that, they had been downright pleasant. A fine autumn morning, the two of them on their horses - Callon felt like maybe adventures weren't all bad after all. And perhaps they would find their aunt and uncle and cousins soon - the few inquiries they had made so far hadn't yielded any information, but Callon was still hopeful. From what he had remembered from so long ago, they were somewhere north of Cameth Brin, so maybe when they got there (or the town below it, Tanoth Brin or something like that) they would find out more.

He glanced over at his sister, and she looked back and smiled. She looked rather odd in that jacket of his that he had made her put on - Eryndil had said that this stretch of road was much safer, but after their recent misadventure, Callon felt that taking a little extra precaution never hurt, and the jacket helped to blur her form and hide her nice riding suit. There wasn't much he could do about her hair, though, short of cutting it off. She had tied it back and tucked it inside the jacket at first, but it was just too irritating to her that way, and now it was back outside of the jacket and gleaming in the sun.

"Come on, Cal, let's run!"

Callon answered with a yell to his gelding, urging it into a brisk gallop, and Caelen was right behind him with her mare, who was tossing her head and whisking her tail, saying "it's about TIME!" about as clearly as a horse could say it. They let the horses have their heads for a while, then pulled them down into a walk on a quiet stretch of road, shaded by some tall trees.

Callon reached down to pat his horse's neck. "Good fella," he said. "You liked that, didn't you?" He sat back up and surveyed the view, a wary look replacing the relaxed expression that had been there just a moment ago.

He stole a look at his sister, who was sweet-talking to her mare. "I have GOT to get her married off, I've just GOT to get her married!" thought Callon. "I just CAN'T keep her riding around like this!" His eyes narrowed as he looked at her critically. "Nice hair, good complexion, good teeth, moves well, strong ..." He stopped abruptly as he realized he was evaluating his sister as he would a mare that he was thinking of purchasing. He shook his head. "This trip has been too long!" he thought with grim humor.

Caelen turned to say something to him and stopped short as she saw his expression.
"What's wrong?" she asked him apprehensively.

"Oh, nothing - I was just keeping an eye on things, that's all - Eryndil said this bit of road was safe, but ..." He shrugged, not quite sure how much to say, not wanting to frighten her. How could he say what he was really thinking? "I just don't want you to get brutalized and almost killed again," probably wouldn't be the best thing to say right now, he thought sadly, looking at her innocent, young face with the large, fearful eyes. He had failed her - he hadn't taken care of her, and it was gnawing at him.

Caelen took a deep breath. "It wasn't your fault, Callon," she said firmly.

"I was supposed to take care of you, and I didn't do it."

"We were outnumbered, Callon - you did the best you could - the best ANYONE could have EVER done. If anything, it's my fault - you told me to ride away, but ... I just couldn't leave you, I couldn't ..."

Callon said nothing, and Caelen rode up next to him and put a hand on her brother's arm.

"It took Eryndil and what? 8 men? to save us. There's no way you could overcome all those men by yourself! Now stop punishing yourself!" she said firmly.

"Eryndil," Callon thought pensively, "Eryndil ... he would make a good husband ... " He searched his memory for any signs of interest that Eryndil had shown towards his sister, but couldn't remember anything, and Caelen had certainly not shown any interest in Eryndil - the only males that his sister was interested in had four legs. She was so young ...

Caelen noted with satisfaction that Callon's expression had changed to a more thoughtful one after she mentioned Eryndil and his men. "I hope he'll stop berating himself now!" she thought to herself. "There's nothing he could have done..."

They rode on in silence, and soon came upon the town of Tanoth Brin. As they came into town, Callon looked around in shock. Vacant houses overrun by wandering poultry and pigs, squalor hand-in-hand with run-down finery, and worst of all, Hillmen everywhere. He looked over at his sister and saw his emotions mirrored in her face, with the added element of fear whenever groups of Hillmen would pause and stare at her. Then he saw her clench her jaw and lift her chin and look straight ahead. He felt proud of her for her fighting attitude, but he also felt sorrow for her loss of innocence. The world nowadays was apparently not what either one of them had once thought it was, sheltered in the protected haven of their parents' homestead.

They both breathed a sigh of relief as they passed out through the city gates, but they weren't away from people yet, for before them, on both sides of the sharply rising road, was a makeshift town. Tents dotted the hillside; people and animals moved about; the smoke from campfires rose into the clean air, obscuring the view of Cameth Brin which rose before them. Callon looked around, puzzled - Eryndil hadn't described this to him. But it looked peaceful enough, and surely this close to the town behind them and to the king's residence in front of them, there wouldn't be any trouble.

Nevertheless, Callon turned to his sister, saying, "Tuck your hair in your jacket, Caelie," and she quickly complied.

They kept up a brisk walk by unspoken agreement, and they soon reached the encampment.

Try as they might to be inconspicuous, they stood out like two sore thumbs. Their clothes, their horses, their gear, their skill at riding - everything marked them as privileged Dunedain. And Caelen's unruly hair was working its way out of the jacket, too; curling tendrils were blowing in the breeze, catching the sunlight.

The people, however, made no motion towards them, much to Callon's relief. Most people ignored them; some looked up with a grunt and returned to what they were doing.

They were almost through when they had to pull up for a large group of men lugging some sacks across the road, groaning and complaining. Callon quickly glanced around in a feigned unconcerned manner for the best path through if the men decided to block the road against them, when he heard a voice that was burned into his memory.

"Look what we got here, Griss - some old friends of ours, come just in time to help us!"

Callon's head whipped back towards the men, and was shocked to recognize two of the men from the band that waylaid them on the road.

The dirty Hillman started to make a move towards the riders, but was held back by the man next to him.

"You lazy lout!" said the man. "You know what the Jarl said - we gotta behave ourselves ... for now, at least. Get back to work!" he commanded, and then, turning with mock politeness to Callon and Caelen, indicated that they could pass.

"I'd rather have my hands on her than on these bags, " grumbled Heggr, as his eyes followed Caelen hungrily.

Callon would have liked nothing better than to run his sword through both of them right then and there, but there were just too many of them, and only one of him - they had to move on, and now, before the mood of the men changed. Caelen's eyes were large with fear, but she held her head up and her hands were steady as she moved past the group.

"Come back and visit us again, honey - we'll show you a good time!" they shouted after her, along with other, less-polite comments.

"I have GOT to get her married!" thought Callon desperately, biting his lip till the blood came.

[scribe]

Chapter 14. Married?


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Cameth Brin, late afternoon of October 21, 1347
Written by Rian
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When they finally arrived at the king's stables, Callon produced the letter of recommendation from Eryndil, which had also got them past the outer gates of the upper city and the inner gates of the castle grounds. The stablemaster was thrilled to have such a strong, fine-looking young man applying for his beloved stables. "Times are hard now, lad, not many good men around here anymore," he said with a nostalgic look in his eyes, taking the letter from Callon and starting to read it. A few surly-looking men came by, pushing wheelbarrows full of soiled straw. They slowed, looking at the newcomers. Their eyes lingered on Caelen, and she unconsciously moved a little closer to her brother ...

"I have GOT to get her married! thought Callon grimly, thinking of Eryndil hopefully.

The stablemaster finished the letter and nodded his head in approval at its contents. "I'd be glad to have you, lad - and the young lady? Perhaps like to help a bit inside somewhere with some cooking or cleaning?"

Then Callon got a wild idea. Why wait for Eryndil?

"I'd prefer if my wife didn't work right now - we've had a difficult journey, and I'd like her to rest awhile," he said firmly, emphasizing the word "wife" with a bright smile on his face, then turning to stare at Caelen intently with a look that pleaded, "Just go along with me on this one!"

"Especially right now," he added with a final flash of wild inspiration and a (hopefully) sentimental look at Caelen, and had to look away to keep from laughing at the wild variety of emotions flying across his sister's face.

"Oh, I beg your pardon! Your wife, yes, your wife. Of course, of course! Lovely young lady!" he said with a bow. "Pardon me, but you two just seemed like brother and sister - you look a lot alike, you know!"

"Well, yes, we are closely related - family marriage, you know, known each other for years," said Callon with what he hoped was a convincing smile, praying that this would also somewhat explain their manner to each other, which was decidedly not that of a young married couple.

"I'll have one of my men take your lady and your things to the married servants' quarters, then, and she can rest a bit while I show you around."

Callon assented with a smile and a nod, and the bewildered and spluttering Caelen was led off.

As the stablemaster took Callon around the facilities, Callon forgot his worries about his sister. Back with horses! It was so nice - and something he was familiar with and good at. Unconsciously, he began to relax and even enjoy himself. The stables were run down, but decent overall. There were more empty stalls than occupied ones, but the horses were generally well-kept. The tack needed some repair, but he was good at that.

The stablemaster was glad to see that this young man obviously knew his way around horses, and after an hour or so, let him take a break and check on his "wife".

He found his way to their quarters and entered the room to find Caelen pacing back and forth angrily. She whirled around to face him, but he stopped the impending words with an urgent "Shhh!" and a look down the hall at the people passing by. Caelen pursed her lips together and was quiet.

Callon shut the door and sat down on the bed, wishing he was back with the horses. Caelen sat down next to him and hissed in a loud whisper, "Married!? Married?!"

"Well, what else could I do?" whispered Callon back, standing up and starting to pace just as his sister had done. "Did you see all those men in town? Dirty, uncouth ... and then those two fellows with the wheelbarrows in the stables - they were staring at you, Caelen, and I'm sure they weren't just admiring your hair! Maybe it was crazy, but I just had to do something. I had no idea it would be this way here - the king's city overrun by Hillmen! It's disgusting!"

He stopped pacing and knelt in front of her, taking her hands in his. "I'm sorry if I did wrong, but that's all I could think of right then," he whispered. "As a married woman, you're a lot safer here."

Caelen was quiet. "I guess you're right, but ... but ..." She shook her head and then leaped to her feet. "Why did you have to go and make me pregnant!?!" she exclaimed, her voice rising in frustration.

The two ladies listening outside of the door shook their heads at each other. "That's just the way men are, ducky," said the first as they quickly but reluctantly walked away, conscious that they had been too long away from their tasks and the head housekeeper would be looking for them soon. "What did you expect when you got married?"

The second woman nodded her head sagely. "She'll feel better about it when she's holding the little baby in her arms," she said, thinking of her own brood at home.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin, before noon of October 22, 1347
Written by Valandil
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The breakfast had been as good as promised, and Eryndil’s men were fresh and well-rested this day. They started the horses at a nice easy walk, leading the horses for one spell to stretch their legs, then a last pause to refresh themselves within sight of Cameth Brin’s tower – no more than eight or ten furlongs (a mile or a bit more) away. Then back into the saddle.

At the Four Furlongs Inn – a half-mile from the first bridge – they broke into a canter, Eryndil leading and his men behind in double file, their horses all keeping time. Just as they changed their horses’ gait, they nearly ran down two older men who were walking unsteadily down the road – one in a grey cloak, one in brown. But Eryndil called out to them and they turned in time to avoid an unfortunate meeting. As they turned, Eryndil caught the eye of the taller one – the man in grey. There was something about that face, thought Eryndil. Was it someone familiar? Or was it just the look of dignity in that face, where he expected to see only an old beggar? Well, no time to think about it anymore. There were more than enough displaced Householders and Thanes, and the man could easily be one of them.

Cameth Brin grew larger in their view, towering tall above them. The road, following the Hoarwell River, brought them along the north of it, and over the first bridge, which crossed the stream coming from the High Waterfall. As they passed the tower above them, they crossed the second bridge, which crossed the stream from the Long Waterfall, Eryndil’s favorite, with its run of cascades. Finally, after passing the walled city of Tanoth Brin to their left, where the road ran between the river and a moat which ran under the city wall, they took the left fork and followed it on to another left, over the third bridge and to the gate of Tanoth Brin.

The gate was open and Eryndil was allowed to pass unchallenged – others were coming and going freely, for it was midday. Most of them were townspeople or farmers going in or out with carts they pushed by hand, or in some cases, driving a small wagon pulled by ox, pony or horse. The guards at the gate acknowledged him with a salute, though, for all wore the uniform of Rhudaur. Once through the gate, they slowed their horses and made what speed the roads allowed. But people stood back for them, and a few looked in awe, though their numbers were not so great.


Eryndil had been to Tanoth Brin few enough times before, and up to Cameth Brin but once. He had to admit he felt a little uneasy in the big city - he was so unaccustomed to it. He had positioned Gwiroth just behind him and to his left, in case he had need of direction. Ever-trustworthy Narwaith was behind on his right. Norumar, the big man, was in the second row – he always made a good impression. And bringing up the rear were Nimloss, brother of Narwaith, and Lothrond – one of his other city boys.

On they rode, through the streets of the town, on into and through the crowded, swirling market. Once through the market, the streets became a little more clear and their way easier and faster – for most of the traffic was from the gate to the market at the center of town. At least that was what Gwiroth and Lothrond had told him. Finally, through another gate and out of Cameth Brin, over the bridge that spanned the Cameth River and onto the King’s Road.

Here Eryndil almost stopped but mastered himself and pressed on. For along this road there once had been only a handful of grand estate homes for the highest nobles in the realm. But now the place was filled with rough-looking men, bustling about and in the process of building a new shantytown. He turned to his own men and nodded. This was clearly the place where the King wished him to make a good impression, and his men understood Eryndil's unspoken command to get back into order. Onward then they rode by the camp, with men pausing in their work for a moment to watch them pass, riding in time with one another at a steady, rhythmic trot.

The way soon became a rather steep incline and they slowed their horses to a walk. Then they reached the steepest part of the climb, with the switch-backs. At last they reached the top of the road, and approached the outer gate of Cameth Brin. This gate was also open, but several guards stood nearby and challenged them when they approached. Eryndil was glad for the break. His men had held their order commendably well, but both man and horse were out of breath from the climb. Eryndil brought them all to a halt and dismounted. Before turning his attention back to the captain of the guards, he signaled to his men to water their horses at the roadside trough. Then he turned back to the guardsman and held forth the scroll with the King’s Orders.

The guards were immediately satisfied, but Eryndil waited until the horses were satisfied as well. He then re-mounted and led his men on through the gate and into the outer part of Cameth Brin. They took their horses now to a trot. They were over a bridge almost before he noticed it – really the road crossed over a sort of culvert. This upper city was much more orderly – and clearly a good deal richer. In a short way they were before the second gate. This gate was actually shut, even in midday, and this time Eryndil and his men all stayed in their saddles. The guards there were also quickly satisfied with his , and a call was given for the gate to be opened.

Once through the gate they were led to the left, before the stables, and asked to dismount. Stable hands saw to the feeding, watering and grooming of their steeds, and the men were directed to some benches and tables, where bread, cheese and water were brought to them. Eryndil watched for Callon, curious if his letter had successfully gotten him a position there, but he didn’t see him.

Once the gate had been closed, one of the guardsmen ran off to the right, past the tower and toward the palace. He soon returned with a tall, well-dressed, dignified looking man. The guard pointed out Eryndil before returning to his post. Eryndil stood, and the man approached him.

“Eryndil, son of Camglas of Ostinand, welcome to Cameth Brin. I am Orefim, Chancellor to King Tarnendur. If you will please accompany me…” and he bowed somewhat, gesturing behind himself.

Eryndil had been prepared for this. He nodded to his men. Nimloss and Lothrond came up just behind him. They would accompany him before the King, while Narwaith stayed behind in charge of the other men. Eryndil had decided against bringing Norumar, for if he drew the King’s eye he might be taken into the King’s own guard. So Norumar remained seated, and Eryndil walked beside Orefim, with Nimloss and Lothrond falling into step just behind.

Orefim led them past the tower and on into the royal palace. Past the guards they went, up the stairs one level, then down the hall. Two more guards stood at an open door, and when Orefim reached the threshold, he stopped and called out in a loud voice:

"Eryndil of the King's Service, son of Camglas the son of Borlost, Thane of Nandemar!"

This was the first time Eryndil had been in the presence of the King. Eryndil was a tall man, as most Dunedain nobles were, but King Tarnendur was taller still. And his countenance was noble, though given more to thoughtfulness than to great activity. Yet at the present, Tarnendur stood, as if he had been pacing the floor. But at Orefim's presentation, he struck a very royal pose, and Eryndil strode forth to him and bowed down on one knee about two paces before him, then waited in silence.

"Arise, son of Camglas, the son of Borlost!" said the King. "For now I desire to be seated, and you will stand and hear me out." At that, Tarnendur signalled for the guards to step outside the room and shut the door. Even Nimloss and Lothrond were constrained to wait in the hallway, leaving only Tarnendur, Orefim and Eryndil in the chamber. Eryndil rose and stood still, his hands clasped behind his back, while Tarnendur approached and descended into an ornate, rather uncomfortable looking chair.

"I suppose you're wondering why I have summoned you here?"

Eryndil's instincts told him correctly it was best to keep his silence.

The King turned reflective, his eyes staring off to the side, and paused for a moment before beginning.

"There is trouble in Rhudaur."

He paused and shifted his gaze to Eryndil's eyes to gauge what effect his few words had made.

"Alright then, I will just tell you right out. Things are not as I have always hoped they would be. And the more I try to make them better, the worse they seem to become! The Dunedain of this land are falling... Falling!"

"Our people have strayed from the Faithfulness that marked the Exiles of Elendil from the King's Men of Numenor who went down into the depths long ago. What then will become of us?"

"Even in the Council of the Realm, there is trouble. Not all who sit upon it are worthy of it. As their King, I look at them... and I cannot trust them!"

Tarnendur looked even more closely at Eryndil and sighed. Then he continued further, his words building in intensity as he spoke, "So... a few weeks ago, I said to Orefim and Lord Nimruzir... 'Find me some men I can trust, men to lean on in these trying times to come! Their loyalty to their King and Kingdom must be unquestioned - and they must be men of shrewdness and activity. Of no less than 50 years,' I said, then, 'no ... 40! And they must hold to the Faith which our people once possessed!' " At this, Orefim fidgeted slightly. " 'Find me six such men, and bring them here to me at Cameth Brin, that they might set a hedge about me, and aid me against the schemes that now beset me.' "

"Well," he said, more slowly now, "They found five - but one of them was dead already. Hmmph! No use to me is that one, not even to himself. But you, Eryndil, were one of the other four men named - and in truth, your fame preceeds you. You are known across the land for your faithfulness, your integrity, your fearlessness - and your fairness. Now, will you grant me this and aid me here as I see fit?"

At last Eryndil knew it was his time to speak, "It is not for me to grant, but for you to ask. For I am but your servant, my Lord King, and would ever do as you desire and command."

"And you claim to possess those qualities which I have required for this assignment?"

"Yes, my King, as for loyalty, age and numbering myself among the Faithful and true. As for shrewdness and activity, that can be best measured by others."

"In truth, others attest to them well enough," and his eyes searched deeply into Eryndil's once more. "Then it is settled! My dream, young man, is to remake this land into what it once was... into what it SHOULD be. But first... we must save it! We were to begin to gather and meet at once - but one of your number has not yet arrived - the other two were in town already. Besides there is a special Council Meeting called for tomorrow which gives me too much to think about - it'll be a Balrog of a time! So - we will start next month - just after the Fall, come back and see me then."

The King rose, and placing a hand on Eryndil's shoulder, began walking him toward the door. "Oh - you will be paid 12 gold crowns per month." Eryndil suppressed the low whistle he might have otherwise made. He had hoped for nine. He could staff a house with 3, keep it stocked with food and supplies for 3 more, if he were careful - he could save 3 and live very well on the 3 left.

"You still have all 12 men of your detachment? Haven't lost one, eh? Well - you may keep them all as your retainers, still on the King's payroll, but at half pay, quartered under your roof." That had figured into Eryndil's calculation, as it was the normal practice. And his men couldn't complain - half-pay, but their food and lodging provided.

"And there is a house all picked out for you. I think you'll be surprised to find what it is. It's in the outer circle of Cameth Brin, near a portion of the south wall, that overlooks... the King's Road."

"King Tarnendur?" Eryndil stopped, remembering something.

"Yes, what is it, young man?" and the King turned to face him directly.

"Horses, Sire?"

"Oh yes - and I heard you did a nice job riding them into town. What about the horses?"

"The horses ridden by my men and myself were on loan from my father - all that he has. I judge that I may need some, even here in town. I think that I may buy from him up to six of them - for your service, oh King. I am sure he would take 15 crowns. The rest I must needs return."

"Fifteen crowns for six horses?"

"They're good horses, Sire."

"Alright then - Orefim!"

"Yes, Your Highness?" asked the other, inclining his head and taking a half step forward.

"Get him 15 crowns for the horses, and five more to pay him up for the rest of this month - he'll have to get his house in order, won't he? Then see that he's added to the roll to get his 12 crowns on the First of each month." Orefim bowed in response.

The King turned back toward Eryndil. "Take these days to get your house in order, to learn the city - and to start keeping your eyes open. I will summon you when I need you - probably after the First. From then, you will likely be here every day - at least part of the day - unless you're sent elsewhere at my word. Take heed now, and good day."

Eryndil bowed, the doors were thrown open, and Orefim and Eryndil strode back down the hall the way they had come, Nimloss and Lothrond falling in step.

"So - I am to have a house in the city?" asked Eryndil.

"Yes," said Orefim with a smile. "You will find that it's an old family heirloom."

Eryndil's eyes widened. This could only mean one thing, and THIS he had to see. Rhudaur's third King, Hyarandil, had moved his capital to Cameth Brin, but his eldest son, Tarnendil, had bid all his nobles to build winter homes in the city, that they might be drawn together in unity. Eryndil's great-great-grandfather, the 15th Thane of Nandemar, had built one at that time, by family tradition - though none now knew what had become of it. For his family had left town and not returned to live there again after Tarnendil was slain - over 200 years ago.

And now... the house was to be his! A surge of delight swept through Eryndil as they neared his men, still waiting by the stables.

But a man who Eryndil didn't know stepped before his men and addressed him, his cap held before himself and a smile on his face.

"Begging your pardon, sir Eryndil, is it? I am the King's stablemaster, and I wished to thank you for the recommendation of the good lad Callon, who brought me his letter from you. Knows his horses for sure, that one!" And then he winked and tilted his head, adding in a low voice, "and he has a sweet young wife besides - that Caelen!"

His heart suddenly sinking, Eryndil tried to master his expression, but felt that it must be in vain - his words at least would not betray him. Why would they lie to him, and claim that they were only brother and sister?

[scribe]

Chapter 15. Home in the City

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Cameth Brin, afternoon of October 22, 1347
Written by Rian
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Caelen leaned against the wall moodily, looking out at the blue sky traced with wisps of clouds. Last night and this morning had been awful - she never could lie well, and this keeping up of the pretence of being married and "expecting" was driving her to distraction. This morning was the worst - the well-meaning women smiling and laughing, trying to include the newcomer, not knowing that she was lying to all of them ... At least when Callon was there, she could just smile and remain quiet as she imagined a modest pregnant women would be around her husband, but being around only the women ... She had excused herself as soon as she possibly could, and amid calls of "Go lie down now, dear, you'll feel better in a month or so," forced herself to walk (how did pregnant women walk? Would her walk give her away?) instead of run down the hall to the fresh air outside.

She watched a bird flit across the sky and perch on the wall next to her, flicking its tail and turning its head to examine her with its bright eye. But the bird was not the only one watching her.

"I wish I could fly away with you," she said softly. The bird flicked its tail again and gave a little trill. "You have it easy - you can go wherever you want to ... " She stopped in mid-sentence as the shadow of a hawk darkened the courtyard and the bird flew swiftly for cover.

"I'm afraid none of us can truly do that, and the wise will acknowledge this and work with it instead of fighting it," said a lovely Elven lady as she walked quietly up to Caelen. "I'm sorry to have startled you, but we seem to have the same taste in quiet places! My name is Arinya, and I am the tutor to the Princess Tarniel. You must be Caelen, are you not?"

"I am, my lady," said Caelen, too startled to say more.

"Please, call me Arinya," returned the tutor.

"Even though it is no longer 'morning' here?" answered Caelen, recovering her wits and wishing the tutor to know that she was at least somewhat learned in Elven-lore.

"You have spoken truly, in more ways than one, Caelen - you are 'bright' indeed!"

Caelen looked down and blushed, pleased at the tutor's praise. "My mother taught us much - when she could get us off of our horses, that is! I resented it at the time, but now I'm so grateful! I love to read!"

"Do you have any of your mother's books with you? I would enjoy seeing them, as I love reading myself!"

Caelen stiffened and looked away, as memories of her mother's beloved books, charred and smoking in the ruins of their home, returned in a rush.

Arinya looked at her, intrigued. Most people would have tried to fill the awkward silence, but she remained quiet, willing the girl to continue.

Caelen looked up. "All of her books were burned in the fire that destroyed our home and took the lives of my parents and siblings," she said unevenly, not quite sure why she was confiding in this lady.

Arinya looked at her sorrowfully. "I'm truly grieved to hear that, Caelen," she said. Looking off into the distance, she added, more to herself than to Caelen, "We truly cannot go where we want to..."

Now it was Caelen's turn to be intrigued. However, Arinya did not provide explanations. Instead, she smiled again and said, "But right now, we can go where we want to - if you would like to go to my chambers and see my books, that is!"

Caelen smiled. "I would," she replied, and they walked off together - Caelen very glad to leave intrigues behind her, at least for the moment.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin, afternoon of October 22, 1347
Written by Valandil
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Orefim assigned a servant to show Eryndil and his men the way to their new home. Deciding they needed to stretch their legs, Eryndil commanded his men to walk and lead their horses. They went out of the inner gate of the palace grounds and back into the outer part of Cameth Brin. About halfway to the outer gate, when the market was to their left, they took a right. Then they passed along their course, winding through streets in a succession of twists and turns that Eryndil soon lost track of. It was unusual for a Dunedain city to be laid out in this manner, rather than the usual orderliness - but in fact a Dunedain order had been imposed here, as much as was allowed by the wild contours atop this rocky place - without leveling the whole thing.

At last they reached the house. It was the fourth from the corner on its street and faced north, and all the houses about it had a similar look. It was tall (3 or 4 storeys above the Ground Floor) and narrow - but the buildings here had at least a little space between them, unlike those on the streets of Tanoth Brin below, which were mostly built right up against each other.

Another man from Orefim had been sent ahead as a messenger to prepare the household for his arrival, so when they passed through the gates into a small front courtyard, all the household servants were assembled at the front steps: 4 men, 4 women and two small children as well (a boy and a girl).

The two senior servants stepped forward and bowing their heads, welcomed Eryndil to his home and introduced themselves. Soromo was the head servant. He was a good deal past 100 if a Dunedain (and he was, mostly), tall and slender with a look of dignity and reserve. His silver colored hair was combed straight back, and he was clean-shaven, and wore a long dark gown and usually kept his hands together over his chest, the five fingertips on one hand in constant contact with those on the other. Eryndil would later find that he had a son serving in the King's army in some other part of Rhudaur, but learned little more of Soromo's family at first.

The house-mistress was Soromo's opposite. Naneth by name, she was in her 50's and stout, less than half-Dunedain and rather less reserved or dignified. Her hair, in streaks of gray and fading red, was pulled back and tied in a bun in back. She wore a simple dress and a stained apron. Naneth was a widow and had two grown children - her son was the house lackey and she had no idea where her daughter was, for she had run off with some man a few years back.

Soromo introduced the other servants, all apparently of mixed heritage, to greater and lesser extents (mostly lesser Dunedain), but Eryndil couldn't keep track of all the names at first meeting. They were:

The other men:
* Borngol - the "jack-of-all-trades" that Soromo could usually rely on to get things done. In his late 40's or early 50's.
* The house lackey - the half-wit son of Naneth - strong-looking with blonde hair, in his early 30's
* A young stable hand - no more than 20

The other women:
* A cook who was a little more Dunedain than most, and very dark of complexion and hair. Maybe 40, but hard to tell.
* A maid with long hair. She was in her 30's. Soromo did not introduce the children, but they clung to her tightly, and Eryndil later learned that her husband had left her.
* A scullery maid in her mid-teens - she never spoke a word and was thought mute.

After the introductions, Borngol, the lackey and the stablehand led the horses through a narrow gate on one side of the house, while Soromo led Eryndil and his men through the front door, the other servants bringing up the rear. They passed through the Vestibule and into the Gallery, then back through the house to the high Dining Hall, where a meal was set out for them. They were invited to dine before concluding the tour. The food had a flavor of the far south to it - meats and vegetables roasted with various spices and sauces, rice, goat cheese, rolled grape leaves and flat bread - more like what was served up in Umbar than even Gondor.

Eryndil's men were assigned to their quarters, and then Eryndil was taken through the remainder of the house. He selected a room at the front of the third floor to be his own - it had a high vaulted ceiling in front - for the part of the building that was four floors went back from behind there. It was really quite a spacious place, and Eryndil would later learn that Soromo and Naneth had run a boarding house from it before it was cleared out for Eryndil earlier this month by the King's command.

After completing his tour of the place by inspecting the servants’ quarters on the fourth floor, Eryndil went back to his newly chosen room on the third, and called for writing instruments. In a short time the maid came, with pen and paper, followed closely by the lackey with his bag – containing all his earthly possessions not on his person, and soon after by the cook, who bore a mug of water and some pastry on a plate. “Dessert, sir!” she said with a big smile, and departed along with the others in their turn.

So – Eryndil sat down to eat before sitting down to write. The pastry was beyond his experience (as much of the dinner had been), a flaky, multi-layered crust, with some crushed nuts and something else, he wasn’t sure what – the whole thing was just soaked with honey! He thought it was one of the best tasting things he had ever eaten!

His dessert finished, Eryndil turned himself to his pen and paper to write. But just then there came a tapping on the door.

“Yes?” called Eryndil.

“A message from the palace area for Sir Eryndil.” It was Soromo’s voice.

“Enter,” said Eryndil, rising and extending his hand to receive it. He wondered that some new word would come so soon. Soromo gave him the note and waited. Eryndil gave it a quick perusal and saw that it was from Callon. His insides felt knotted up and he realized his eyebrows were wrinkled and his mouth set. He turned to Soromo.

“The messenger who delivered this, is he still here?”

“Yes, Sir Eryndil.”

“Good – have him wait – and give him refreshment, please. I will call when I have made reply.”

Soromo departed, a bit less than satisfied, then Eryndil went slowly to his chair, sat and drew the letter back before his eyes to read it in full.


Greetings Good Sir Eryndil,
We hope that the final portion of your journey went well and you're getting nicely settled in here at Cameth Brin.
Honestly, our own ride here was somewhat troubling. We made it through the countryside alright, and the lower city, but on the last stretch, The King’s Road, no less – we saw the very men among whom we had fallen into, back on the road, and from whom you rescued us. They were part of the ragtag army setting up huts and shelters along the roadside there. They saw us too – and the looks they gave my sister again made me angry – almost beyond reason. And then, while your letter to the stablemaster on my behalf was well received, and I was given work here (and I thank you again for that), the other stable hands looked at Caelen in a way that left little doubt of where their thoughts were going.
Perhaps I acted wrongly, but I panicked, and told them that Caelen was my wife – and even that she was with child! I only wanted to protect her, and hoped that this little ruse would make everyone keep their distance from her.
It was probably not the wisest thing to do, but I have seen her treated terribly once now – and the clouds of similar treatment had long been over her head – which is why we were on the road in the first place. If it was your own sister, what would you have done?
Nonetheless, since you know the truth about us, that we are only brother and sister, I ask that you not reveal us.
I had hoped to tell you about this in person, but I was out exercising a team of horses when you came. Other duties call me now, but the servant who guided you to your new home offers to return there with my note to you.
Caelen and I have both enjoyed getting to know you thus far, and we truly hope we may see you regularly here in Cameth Brin.
Sincerely,
Callon

Eryndil read it over three times, and finally put it down in disbelief. So they were NOT married? They really WERE brother and sister! Or were they? He wasn’t sure WHAT to believe. Yes, yes – this MUST be true. He picked it back up and re-read they part about ‘why’.

After a few moments he paused and looked away, deep in thought. He needed to make some sort of reply, for sure. Besides, Soromo and maybe all the house would expect that he did – for he had said he would. So – he took up pen and paper at last, but for a different task than his initial intent.

Greetings Callon,
I have received your note, and this is what I think.
I advise against the course of action you have chosen. You deceive, and to deceive is wrong. Even when done to do what seems right, as you have in this case, the wrong always works its way back in, in unexpected ways.
However, I am not insensitive to the pressures you must have felt at the time – alone in a strange place, surrounded by what appeared to be hostile intentions.
Further, I will keep your confidence, and will not disclose the true nature of your connection with Caelen.
Lastly – I feel quite confident that we may see much of one another in Cameth Brin, and rest assured, that to do so will give me great pleasure.
Regards,
Eryndil

That done, he closed it up, sealed it with wax from a candle and wrote “Callon, Royal Stables” upon the outside, went to the door and called for a servant. Within two minutes, he was satisfied to watch the messenger emerge from the house into the front courtyard below, and thence to the street and on up toward the gate to the inner city.

Then he returned once more to his table and lowered himself slowly into his chair. He began to write once more – this time on his twice-delayed task:

Camglas son of Borlost,
Thane of Nandemar at Ostinand,
October 22, 1347

Father,
I have safely arrived at Cameth Brin. The horses you lent me are all well. I ask now a boon of you. My duties here may require horses of my own. I would purchase up to six of them from you, if I could. The King Tarnendur has generously agreed to pay 15 gold crowns for six of them. The rest, the other six of yours, and the three of your neighbor, I here return to you. I ask that you receive also the coin sent along with them, or else return 2 ½ crowns for each horse you keep, of the four ridden by my men. Two I have kept here.
Father – the King treats me well indeed. In addition to my pay, I am given the house built here in town by your great-grandfather, more than 200 years ago! Long ago we left it behind, and now it is restored to us!
More, the house is very spacious, and my pay exceeds my needs. Father – I urge you and mother to come, spend the winter here with me. Dornendur can handle things there for this winter, and you can return before time for spring planting. Bring Hendegil also – or send her, at least, if you will not come. But I hope you will come. It is long since I have spent a Yule with my family. I had hoped to do so this very year, at our long home. But now, that will not be – yet perhaps we can still spend it together – here in this, my new home.
The men who deliver the horses, the coins and this note are under orders to await your decision, and to escort you safely here, if you will come.
Your son,
Eryndil

Pleased with the thought of his family coming soon, Eryndil placed the letter inside the bag with the 15 gold crowns. Then he passed the word for Narwaith. In a short while he came, and Eryndil’s instructions to him were brief. He was to stay over and rest one more day, returning to Ostinand starting the day after next, bringing also Nimloss, Hithirion and Griblung. Eryndil outlined for him which two horses he should leave, which four they should ride, and which others to take, and that they were to deliver these other horses and this bag to Eryndil’s father, Thane Camglas of Ostinand. Eryndil outlined the contents of the letter within to Narwaith, and gave him instructions to wait and bring back his family if they would come.

Narwaith only questioned briefly the choice of horses, for one of those to be returned was the best of the lot, but Eryndil held firm. No need to explain how five years before, he and Hendegil had helped deliver that horse – and that it was still her favorite. She had parted with it five days ago for his sake, but now he would return it to her.

The instructions given, Eryndil led the way back downstairs, and went out through the back of the house, to visit the grounds behind. It was a narrow strip of land, but somewhat nicely laid out, for what space was there. It contained a few outbuildings, and at the very rear, a coach house and stable, the latter of which opened, as did a gate beside it, into a sort of alley-way that ran behind the houses on this block. Meanwhile, an impromptu celebration of sorts was under way, with the arrival of the new master to his home, and Eryndil’s rugged woodsmen getting acquainted with the household servants. Ceruvar had just retrieved his harp, a side of meat was set over a burning fire out of doors, with apples roasting near the coals. A couple of the servants had instruments of their own – the cook played a flute and one of the men had a contraption that made sounds when he pushed it together or pulled it apart. The children were running around and laughing. Only Soromo stood apart, silent.

It had been a good day – and was nearly done, for the sun was sinking toward the horizon, his writing had taken him so long. Tomorrow he would begin to learn his way around the streets of this new city, and take a look over the wall at the camp springing up along the King’s Road. Tonight – he would just enjoy.

But the image of a young maiden with auburn hair kept interrupting his more tranquil thoughts.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tanoth Brin, afternoon of October 22, 1347
Written by Valandil
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Amid all the hustle and bustle at the gate to Tanoth Brin, two old men made their slow, steady approach. Vagabonds, by the look of them - drifters, maybe displaced, trying to find a way to survive. One wore a cloak and hood of gray, the other of brown. The first may have been a good deal taller, but he slumped over so - as if loaded with a great weight. But in truth, they carried little to burden them.

And though all the others were allowed to pass freely, the guards stepped before these two and challenged them.

"Awright you two, move it along! We got plentya beggars in this here town already."

"Sir, you are mistaken," replied the one in brown. "We are not beggars."

"We have..." said the one in gray, haltingly, "family... in this place."

The guard who had spoken first scowled and sneered, but his fellow intervened, "Let them go in, Danion. They'll be no harm. And, if they indeed have family here..."

The guards let them pass, and the two entered the lower city with heads cast down. When they had walked a block or two past the gates, the one in brown spoke once more to the other. "We are here, Master. How shall we pass our first night in town?"

"I don't know, loyal Harma. What money we have will run out fast, if we stay at an inn every night. And we'll have to eat. We need to find work for our hands, I suppose. Oh - I wish for a good sword, but for too many years I've held no other steel than my own chains and shackles." Then he turned to face the other with a look of gratitude.

But his faithful companion was looking up toward Cameth Brin, towering over them.

"They say she's up there... Master."

[scribe]

Chapter 16. Morning of the Council Meeting

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Cameth Brin Palace, early morning of October 23, 1347
Written by Gordis
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Gimilbeth was walking along a narrow path in a shadowy forest bathed in moonlight. She felt small stones and tree roots beneath her bare feet and shrubs clinging to the ample skirts of her nightdress. At length she came under the shade of huge pine trees. Somebody was waiting for her there. She barely discerned the shape of a horse with a tall rider on its back. She stopped hesitantly, hoping to remain unnoticed and ready to turn and run away the way she had come. At this moment, the eerie silence of the woods was rent by a horrible shriek. A piercing cold voice rose and fell, ending in a long wail that froze the very marrow of her bones.

Flinging away the fur coverlets, Gimilbeth sat bolt upright in bed. The shriek was still ringing in her ears and her heart was beating frantically. The room was dark, faintly illuminated by the thin predawn light. Cats that usually slept at the foot of Gimilbeth's bed were now fully awake and visibly frightened. Hissing, they jumped away, and disappeared under the bed.

She heard the thud of running feet in the corridor. Without so much as a knock, several guards with drawn swords burst into the room, followed by a bleary-eyed frightened Nimraen.

"What happened, Lady?" asked Vardir, the captain of the night guard. "Who was here? Are you hurt?"

"I don't know what you are talking about," snapped Gimilbeth. "How dare you enter here unannounced and uninvited?" She pulled the blankets up, covering her shoulders and bosom. Morgoth be praised, she thought gruffly, at least she did not put a herbal mask upon her face this night!

Visibly taken aback, Vardir stammered: "But you cried for help, did you not? We clearly heard your cry!"

Gimilbeth lowered her thick eyelashes. So it was she herself who shrieked... Oh, the shame of it!

Ever helpful, Nimraen chimed in, "As you surely know, my lady had been ill and is not yet fully recovered. Perhaps she had a bad dream. Anyway, there was no need to bang in here with no warning. You see for yourselves that Lady Gimilbeth is safe. Leave now and guard the doors!"

Uncomfortable and visibly suspicious, the soldiers bowed and left, some of them making a sign against evil behind their backs.

When they left, Gimilbeth shook her head to clear it and yawned. "What time is it?" she asked Nimraen.

"'An hour before sunrise, my lady. But Lady Arien is so late to show her face in autumn in this cold country. Most people at the Palace are up already. Today there will be the Council held, they say."

Yes, the Council. Gimilbeth shivered. First Council with Broggha. But there was no way out now. She had to be there to stand against the brigand, if needed. She doubted if anybody else were capable of it.


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The Hare and Thistle Inn, Tanoth Brin, early morning of October 23, 1347
Written by Angmar
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Although he had considered it a great hardship, Heggr bathed that morning. What Heggr called a "bath" consisted of merely washing his face, hands and feet, and putting on a clean tunic and breeches. He had considered even that a great imposition.

Since he was at last "courting," he had even toyed with a concept that would be a bold move for him - a full bath. However, when he set out to instrument the audacious idea, he found that the ice was still upon the pail of water, and he had quickly discarded the plan. Now that he considered it, he could not remember ever having a full "take off all your clothes and get totally drenched in water" bath in his life. He doubted that he had even been washed on the day he was born. He was not about to break an established precedent on account of a mere woman, even though she was very pretty.

Heggr felt the way a thrashed dog feels after it had been beaten for being caught sucking eggs. The treasures that he had stolen for Fainwen had been taken from him, and he had been given no reimbursement. Nothing could be done about it now, for the princess' nightgown and jeweled jar were lost to him forever. At least one thing was in his favor - he had coins in his money pouch.

When he swaggered into the Hare and Thistle Inn near the Cameth River, he saw Fainwen wiping a table with a none-too-clean cloth.

"Where have you been, Heggr?" the woman asked in a none-too-friendly manner. The slightly younger than middle-aged woman went on with her wiping, now judiciously ignoring Heggr, who approached the table where she was working.

"Tending to Jarl Broggha's business and performing acts of derring-do!" Heggr said proudly, puffing out his chest at his own self-importance.

Fainwen arched a brow, held the grayish cloth on the table, and regarded Heggr skeptically. The other early customers of the tavern laughed loudly.

"Derring-do, Heggr? Since when was being drunk most of the time accounted as that?" jibed a gray-bearded man at another table. He cracked a smile, enjoying the sport at Heggr's expense.

"Oddlaug, why don't you shut up?" Heggr muttered at the other man, who scowled and went back to his drinking.

Heggr walked closer to Fainwen, who moved her head to avoid his ripe morning breath.

"Heggr, your breath smells so bad I swear that your entrails are in a state of mortification!"

Heggr had a look of offended dignity and pure hurt, for he was fond of the plump barmaid. "Not much I can do about it," he said gruffly.

"Go to the blacksmith, Heggr, and get some of those teeth pulled out! There are herbs that any apothecary can sell you that would do a world of good at getting rid of that stench! And that brings me to another thing, Heggr!" Fainwen was getting worked up. "Acquaint yourself with soap and water! You smell like a hog in his sty!" She turned from him with a flounce of her skirts and walked back into the kitchen, which was divided from the serving area by a thin curtain.

Heggr sat down at a table by himself. He knew what was really bothering Fainwen. He had not brought her the promised gifts the other night. He knew she was seething at that perceived slight. Only one thing to do for it, he knew - inspire her jealousy. Seeing another barmaid, a fat, red-faced woman, he called her. "What does the house have on its menu for breakfast this morning?"

"Same thing as usual," she yawned as she wiped her hands on the dirty, grease-covered apron over her large stomach. "Porridge, ham, potatoes... pie... bread..." She listed the breakfast menu that seldom varied in the winter. "What do you want, Heggr?"

"A tankard of ale, a large bowl of porridge, ham, potatoes, plenty of bread, and half a pie!"

"Ambitious, aren't you?" She scratched her reddish-veined nose as she stood with one hip cocked and lazily regarded him.

"Aruiniel, after you bring me the food, sit with me, will you?"

Fainwen had just come out of the kitchen, and Heggr saw that she was pretending not to notice them. He smiled as he watched her go to another customer, spying on the woman and him out of the corner of her eye.

"I am particular about whom I sit with, Heggr, and it is not just any gentleman with whom I want to spend my time." She gave him a knowing look that he recognized immediately. "Do you have enough coin, Heggr, to make me want to sit with you?" she asked flirtaciously.

His eyes darted furtively around at the other customers and then fell to the coin pouch tied to his belt. "I think so, Aruiniel. Now get me my breakfast." When she sidled closer to him, he patted her ample hips.

After she had brought him his breakfast, Heggr bought her a tankard of ale. As he ate, she pulled her chair closer to him and put one of her flabby upper arms around his shoulder. Fainwen was back polishing another table, eying them both surreptitiously. Her eyes glowed pure malice as Heggr wiped his greasy mouth off on the back of his sleeve and then kissed Aruinel's chubby cheek.

The huge woman tittered like a young girl. "Oooohh, Heggr! You are a lusty one this morning, aren't you!"

Heggr took another deep swallow from his tankard, and as the ale ran down the corners of his mouth, he pulled the woman's face to him and kissed her rambunctiously, gloating to himself that Fainwen might at last appreciate him. He was correct in his appraisal.

Fainwen walked towards the table. When Heggr told the tale later to Griss, he could not actually say that she "walked;" it was more like the charge of an enraged mare which was guarding her territory.

"Get up, Aruiniel!" she shrilled. "You are sitting with my man!"

"Ooohhh, who is jealous this morning?" came Aruiniel's catty reply.

"None of your business, you slatternly hussy!" Fainwen's gray eyes were full of malice. Fainwen was not a large woman, while Aruiniel would outweigh her by many pounds. Heggr was amazed when Fainwen grabbed Aruiniel's hair and pulled her over backwards in the chair. Aruiniel landed in a hissing pile of skirts and gray, dirty petticoats as Fainwen jumped on top of her, scratching and slapping and cursing in what would not be considered a ladylike fashion by anyone's accounting.

Heggr pulled his chair out of the way, and as he finished eating the piece of pie, he watched the scuffle on the floor.

"Cat fight! Cat fight!" the other men shouted in glee and gave the two plenty of berth as they rolled, wrestled, scratched, hissed and bit as they pulled hair and tussled on the floor.

"I'm betting a coin that Aruiniel will triumph!" the gray-bearded man said and held up a coin.

"I am betting on Fainwen! She's a scrapper!"

Indeed she was, for in a short time, a furious Aruiniel - a lock of greasy hair hanging over her eyes, her clothes torn and her face scratched and an eye looking already swollen - sat sprawled on the floor with Fainwen still pounding her face.

"They're going to kill each other!" the gray beard shouted.

While Aruiniel never admitted defeat, it was obvious that Fainwen had the best of her when she rose to her feet and glared down at her opponent. Folding her arms over her chest, Fainwen watched as the gray beard pulled Aruiniel up. With an air of offended dignity, Aruiniel flounced off to the kitchen to settle her nerves and soothe her injured feelings with a goblet of wine that a patron had not finished.

"Well?" Fainwen demanded as she tapped her foot on the floor.

"Well, what?" a sheepish Heggr asked cautiously.

"Even though you are a sneaking, vulgar, crude, drunken, vile, worthless little man whose breath would gag even a buzzard, you are still my man, Heggr, and never forget it!" She plopped beside him in a chair and drained Aruiniel's unfinished tankard.

"Forgive me, sweetheart," Heggr tried to pacify her by tweaking her cheek.

"What happened to those presents you promised to bring me?" she demanded to know.

"I don't know what it is all about, Fainwen, but I think there are big things afoot." He looked at her doubting face.

"Big things like what?" she glowered at him.

He whispered, "All I know, my dearest love, is that I was told if I asked too many questions, I would never live to be an old man."

Her face sobered at that, for she knew that although Heggr was a shiftless, spineless drunken fool, he was one of the Jarl's men, and the Jarl was marked by destiny for great things.

"All right, I believe you," she sighed.

"I will make it up to you, sweets," Heggr put one hand on her shoulder and sucked on her earlobe.

There was a stir at the door to the tavern as Griss and another soldier walked in. His gaze went immediately to Heggr.

"What are you doing, lounging around in the tavern at this hour? It is past time that you presented yourself for duty! Get up, Heggr! You have been selected as one of the guards to attend Jarl Broggha at the council meeting!"

"Yes, Captain, yes!" Heggr pushed the chair back and saluted his superior officer. Then turning his head, he winked at Fainwen and marched away to the council meeting. After all, the tower where the meeting would be held was close to the palace, and perhaps the princess had left her window open again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin, palace garden, morning of October 23, 1347
Written by Serenoli
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Today the healer had pronunced that Odare, at least, might leave her bed. Amantir, who had not seen her since the day of that disasterous feast, decided now might be a good time to visit her.

He found her in the garden, with a maid close by. Surprisingly, Tarniel was not there.

"Good morning, Princess," he greeted her stiffly, "I trust you are well now?"

She nodded politely to him, "Good morning. I am as well as could be expected, Prince." They faced each other like that for a moment, and next minute Odare suddenly dropped her polite manner and began to giggle. "Princess! When have you ever called me anything but Odare?" She shook with uncontrollable mirth. After a moment of shocked surprise, he found an unwilling smile creep onto his face as well. He began to walk beside her.

"Well, I wasn't sure if you're still angry-"

"Actually, Amantir, I am," she said, but her tone implied otherwise. It was always so with Odare- quick to anger, but not very good at retaining her anger. "I still think you behaved like a fool that day."

"I don't know much about fool," he said, his tone moody, "But yes, I'm not happy... about how I did behave. Not regarding you, of course, I still think you should never have attacked the bear - don't pout, you know very well its the truth - but... I should've done more. Taken control, perhaps. Done something other than think just of running away."

Odare was surprised- she had always regarded him as too much immersed in a weak apathy to even think through that much. But evidently he had woken up from the apathy now - or had he? His next words threw her into doubt again.

"But I'm only the youngest, it is up to my brother and my father, and - how could the let these hillmen into our lands? They caused the entire fiasco, they're untrustworthy"

Odare nodded in agreement to what he was saying. Tarniel's necklace was still missing, and she had a shrewd idea that it might be found in Broggha's camp. "But there is nothing I can do, except sit and watch them have their own way."

"Nothing you can do? Nothing? If you feel so strongly against them, there is plenty you can do! You just have to - I don't know, be a bit braver, develop a spine!"

"What, you want me to fight them and end up like Daurendil, or Nauremir? You think that will help?" he turned on her defensively.

"I didn't say that! No, I mean you should stand up to your father. I don't think anyone trusts these hillmen, and yet, no one is speaking against them! Why don't you do that? So what if you're young, you're still a prince, your word goes for something! Oh, if I was a man, what I wouldn't have done!" and then she stopped short, knowing how unladylike her words must sound. But Amantir was too taken up with the rest of what she said. He had suddenly remembered there was to be a Council today - and maybe he wasn't old enough to be at the Council, but if he could find his way into it, and maybe have a say in what was done - maybe Odare, with all her foolishness, had the right idea about what bravery was, though admittedly attacking bears wasn't bravery, just rashness, but he had to admit she had a point. And taking some kind of action must be better than spending all night and day feeling unworthy and powerless against a few hillmen!



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Cameth Brin, morning of October 23, 1347
Written by Gordis and Serenoli
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In the morning, Prince Daurendil went to visit his friend Nauremir, one of the victims of the memorable night of the feast.

Daurendil himself felt lightheaded and slightly disoriented when he stalked across Bar Aran - the Main Square. Daurendil clenched his teeth and straightened his back and concentrated on avoiding the dirty puddles left after the night’s rain. Old Sarador had let him outside for the first time, and it wouldn't be good if the Vulture saw his dizziness, in case he was still watching his patient from one of the Tower’s high windows.

The Prince made his way to the Dunedain Guardhouse on the south side of the square. When the main hall had been hastily evacuated, Nauremir was brought there and put in charge of the garrison physician. Daurendil found him in the guard’s healing rooms.

"How are you, Nauremir, my poor friend? I see you are doing well." In truth, Nauremir looked ghastly, but the Prince was trying to be considerate, as a noble should.

"Ah… Daurendil…" Nauremir managed to squeeze the Prince’s hand and some color appeared on his pale cheeks. "I am glad to see you in good health. I heard you got a nasty blow on your head. By Eru, the Hillman will pay for it!"

"That he will!" Daurendil balled his hands into fists in hot fury. "The King will order him to make amends today. I am eager to see how the scoundrel will wriggle out of it!"

Nauremir nodded. "Trying to kill the King’s Heir is no small matter. Carcharoth’s pelt! High treason, that is what it is! It is a hanging business!"

"My father will see to it," promised Daurendil. "And if he doesn’t, I will see to it myself. Am I not a member of the Council now?"

He paced along the room, gesticulating excitedly, and speaking of his plans for the future. Soon all the Hillmen would be driven from Cameth Brin, never to return!

At length he stopped and said, "But I must go, I have to say good morning to Mother, and then the Council is in an hour. Farewell, Nauremir, try to get better soon. I need you."

In the garden by the palace, Daurendil spotted Amantir and Odaragariel. They were talking, heads held conspiratorially together. Two bored guards were hanging nearby.

Daurendil approached the pair on tiptoe and tugged at the end of one of Odare’s long blond tresses. When she turned furiously, he grinned

"Morning, lady-Oddie! Morning, Am! What mischief are you planning together?"

"I see you're still alive then." Odare replied, her look of chagrin vanishing. "And as for mischief - hark who's talking!" She grinned, and then said seriously, "That was some display against Broggha at the feast, Daurendil."

Daurendil's face clouded over again. "Don't worry your little head about him. He will pay for his actions!"

Amantir spoke up, "Are you so sure that the Council will take action against him, then? So far they have done nothing to oppose him, and -"

"And he will certainly face opposition today! You seem to forget I'm part of the Council now."

"But, perhaps you'd be glad of some support?" Amantir asked suggestively.

"Support?" he quizzed, eyebrows raised.

"The Council has been hesitant to act against Broggha before, and despite all you can say, they might be hesitant again. After all, no one can deny that you did attack first -"

Daurendil's fists had tightened up in fury again. Odare quickly stepped in to help.

"All he means is that those doddering fools who make up most of the Council will only listen to the wily Hillman, if it is only one man speaking against Broggha. And so Amantir and I thought, maybe, you'd want to take someone along with you, someone to second your voice."

"And who would that be, you, lady Oddie?" now his tone was mocking.

"No, your brother Amantir!"

There was silence. Then uncertainly, Daurendil said, "He's too young, they won't let him in."

"I'm not asking anyone's permission!" replied Amantir hotly. "I'm a prince of this country, and I deserve a say. I don't need permission from anyone!"

For a second, Daurendil looked shocked. Then an unwilling grin crept across his face. "Well, if you can be that spirited at the Council, perhaps they'll listen to you after all. And even little Odare here," (Odaragariel scowled at being called 'little') "has been privy to the Council, so maybe its your turn."

There was a moment of shared smiles, unusual among the three. Then Daurendil departed, saying he had to visit Mother, and "You do know where the Council is being held, don't you? It's starting in an hour, don't forget!"

And with a lopsided grin, he walked off.

[scribe]

Chapter 17. The Droll Trio

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Broggha’s Estate near Cameth Brin, morning of October 23, 1347
Written by Angmar
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As she always did, Malaneth was assisting Jarl Broggha in dressing that morning of October 23. Recently, he had ordered a complete new wardrobe that would reflect his rising prominence in Rhudaur. The tailor was Faron, who was said to be the best tailor in the city. One of the small boys who was apprenticed to Faron had delivered the garments only yesterday. Faron was also Broggha's contact to the highly positioned Rhudaurian lord in the country's government, the spy for the King of Angmar. Broggha did not know the identity of this lord, but he never questioned why this information had not been revealed to him. There were some questions better left unasked. Perhaps Broggha would be told in time if it were the will of his master, but he was not concerned about the matter.

He frowned at Malaneth as she touched the silver amulet that he wore on a chain about his neck. "Woman, I told you never to touch that!"

Averting her eyes, she quickly pulled her hand away. "My lord, my apologies, but the charm is quite lovely."

His glance raked over her face as he slid the blue wool tunic over his head. "Since you are so fond of baubles, fetch the golden amulet from my box and drape it about my neck."

"Aye, my lord." She handed him the magnificent new cloak of stitched-together lynx pelts. The cloak was cream colored, speckled with large patches of umber and tan, and sported a furry ruff around the neck. She fastened the cloak at the neck with a jeweled brooch.

"I am displeased that Aewen did not attend me at my toilet this morning. Deliver the message to her that I am quite disappointed in her."

Malaneth caught the Jarl's gaze. "My lord, she was ill at her stomach, indisposed with the sickness that strikes in the morning," she explained.

Scowling, Broggha said, "Go to the old midwife in the village today and purchase from her whatever elixirs might be needed to settle my ward's distressed constitution."

"Aye, my lord," she replied.

Jarl Broggha reached out for Malaneth, and, clutching her in a tight grasp, he bent down and kissed her soft lips. Her arms clung to his neck.

"My lord, I will miss you today," she sighed. "Will you be gone long?"

"That is a question I cannot answer. It all depends upon how reasonable I find King Tarnendur."

***

As Jarl Broggha and his escort rode up the hill to the tower, the huge, red-bearded hillman reflected on the demands that he would make of King Tarnendur. Crown Prince Daurendil and his friend, Nauremir, had attempted to murder him at the feast. Broggha had considered killing young Daurendil then, but the bloody slaying of the crown prince in the capital city - no matter how good the reason - would cause too much of an uproar and perhaps earn the false sympathies of Cardolain and Arthedain. The prince would die in time, but from purely "natural" causes.

Actually, the assassination plot had worked to his advantage, costing him only a little of his own blood, and clearly putting him in the position of "wounded party." The crown prince and his friends had been clearly wrong and, by every precept of civilized man, Broggha was totally in the right.

King Tarnendur was in a poor position to bargain with Broggha. The hillman had the undeniable support of his own army and of his clans and people. Broggha could ask almost anything he wished of the king, and the king would be hard put to deny him.

Upon arrival at the tower, grooms had led away the horses of Broggha and his men to the stables. He and his entourage walked up the flights of stairs until the fourth level of the tower. He nodded to the guards who opened the doors for him.

As he stood poised to enter, he thought to himself, "The public execution of Daurendil's friend Nauremir and the exile of Daurendil himself to another country? Half the kingdom as wereguild? Or the hand of the maiden, Princess Tarniel, in marriage? What shall I demand of the decrepit old king?"


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Cameth Brin Tower, Council Chamber, morning of October 23, 1347
Written by Gordis and Angmar
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The King looked around the Council table. Everyone was there: Daurendil, flushed and visibly nervous on his right, Gimilbeth, immobile like a wax figure on his left. And in the next chair, there sat Broggha, large, sumptuously dressed and confident.

The Hillman brigand had arrived early and with a great display of chivalry helped Gimilbeth into her chair, taking the one next to her. "It is my greatest pleasure to sit next to the fairest lady in the land," Broggha said with a predatory smile addressed both to Gimilbeth and to the bewildered Curugil, whose place he had taken. The King saw all this but chose not to interfere. The question of precedence was a small matter in comparison with the problem of the attack on Broggha that the stupid youngsters had perpetrated, failing miserably and putting the crown in jeopardy.

Who knows what weregild, what blood money the Hillman would now demand? And what if, indeed, he would ask for more? This very morning, Gimilbeth had advised him to deliver poor young Nauremir, his son’s best friend, into Broggha’s hands to pacify the brigand! How could his own daughter be so heartless? Tarnendur was prepared to pay, to give away money, lands and titles, but he vowed not to waste Dunedain lives. "We have become so few…" Tarnendur thought grimly. "Every Dunedain life is a treasure and the lives of those of the House of Elendil even more so!"

The King rose wearily to his feet. Deadly silence hung in the room. His own voice sounded hollow and remote like that of a ghost when he opened the Council with a few customary words. He greeted the new member of the Council, Broggha, Count of Pennmorva, expressed his regrets on the matter of the unfortunate occurrences at the feast and promised to punish all the instigators of the fight, starting with the man who brought in the dogs that attacked the bear and started all the commotion.

Broggha’s face visibly darkened. He rose to his feet and waited till the King finished his lame speech and sat down. Then the Hillman started talking in a powerful, commanding voice. Tarnendur felt all the blood drain from his heart. It was much worse than he ever supposed it to be…

***

Broggha's cold blue eyes roamed over the council chamber before settling on Daurendil briefly. Perceiving the nervous tension written on the young man's face, Broggha smiled disdainfully at Daurendil and then directed his attention to King Tarnendur. Relishing the power he knew he held over these descendants of the arrogant Númenóreans, he stood for a time as though in meditation before he spoke. Then when his great, deep voice boomed out across the hall, there was a tinge of sorrowful regret in his words.

"My lords and ladies and august members of this council, I take my place here today as a representative of my people. Realizing the great significance of this event, I had prepared a speech of conciliation, calling for unity among our peoples. However, the events that have transpired recently have made my planned words moot." Pausing, Broggha waited for the impact of his words to sink in. He noted with satisfaction that the king's face was slightly paler than it had been before. Daurendil appeared even more nervous than he had before, while Princess Gimilbeth had a look of resignation as though she had expected that Broggha's speech would take this turn.

"A few nights past, I came here as a guest, fully expecting hospitality to be extended to me as would any invited guest in a civilized land. What did I find? Instead of the proffered hand of friendship, I found the dagger of the assassin!" At this point, Broggha looked directly at Daurendil, who seemed to sink into his chair.

"How can there ever be peace in a land where such enmity and perfidy exist?" Broggha's voice rose even louder and he slammed his fist upon the table for emphasis. "Though I came here that night with only the purest motives - that of uniting our peoples for the common good - I met pure villainy! Sorely wounded by the hand of Prince Daurendil's friend and cup companion, Nauremir, I barely escaped with my life!"

Broggha noted with satisfaction that King Tarnendur had a bleak, defeated expression upon his face. His eyes bored into the old man's dull ones. "Your Majesty, as a man of honor and integrity, surely you cannot allow such heinous offenses to be perpetuated in the capital city of this country upon a man who wishes only peace!" Mock sorrow on his face, Broggha looked down at the table before continuing.

"Surely, Your Majesty, you would grant to me as the offended party, a man whose honor has been insulted and whose life has been threatened by your young son and his friends, a proof that my life will not be in danger from the very Crown Prince himself?"

King Tarnendur nodded his head weakly in agreement. "Aye."

"Your Majesty," Broggha's tone was conciliatory, "I know you are a man of honor and integrity. Therefore, I do hereby claim - as the injured party - the right of weregild as reparation for the damages inflicted upon me. I also claim that you should offer some guarantee that my life will not be in continual jeopardy from your own court!" Broggha was satisfied that his delivery was infused with the proper amount of righteous indignation, offended dignity, and firm resolution.

"I would wish there were some other way that I could realize satisfaction, but my people have taken this as an insult not only to me, but to themselves. Should you refuse, Your Majesty, to pay this debt in good faith, I cannot guarantee that peace can be maintained!"

His face grim and somber, Broggha waited for the king to speak.


***

Every word that fell from the red-headed cheftain's lips only enraged Daurendil the more. And then he heard his father's weak, 'Aye,' agreement if you will, to whatever the hillman was saying. And then, the thinly veiled threat... I cannot guarantee that peace can be maintained... that set him off.

He did not wait for his father to speak, but got up. "Weregild? You dare come here, claiming injuries, Broggha? You are not a welcome guest, and I do not hold that you deserve anything more than the point of a sword!"

Gasps swept the room. Broggha looked almost satisfied at the Prince's outburst for a moment, his lip curling in obvious disdain - Tarnendur had risen, and Daurendil found his own hand had crept to his sword-hilt.

Then, from outside came the most dreadful hammering. The door was rattling, and shaking, and could not be ignored. Someone got up, and pulled back the bolts, and pushed the door open. There was a crash, a muffled oath from outside, and when all the dust had cleared, they saw, sprawled upon the floor, Prince Amantir, and the Princesses Tarniel and Odaragariel.


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Cameth Brin Tower, Amantir’s rooms just below the Council Chamber, morning of October 23
Written by Serenoli
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There was a knock on the door. Amantir, who had been pacing around his room, deciding the exact words he would say at the Council meeting, shouted, "Come in!"

Tarniel came in, saying "Amantir, have you seen Odar- … oh, there you are!" she stopped, surprised to see her friend sitting cross-legged on Amantir's bed.

"Shut the door! What are you doing here, Tarniel?"

"Looking for you- the healer sent me to get you, you know it's only the first day since you got out of bed, he says you shouldn't over-exert yourself." Then, pausing slightly, "What are you two doing here alone?"

"Nothing. I'm coming," said Odare, slightly impatient. Outside, the clock chimed the hour, and Amantir and she exchanged glances. Already they could hear the soft thuds of footsteps on the staircase outside, meaning the Council-members were arriving. "When should we go, do you think?"

Amantir sent a repressive look at Tarniel, meant to convey that this was something he and Odare wanted to discuss without her present. When she didn't budge, he replied in a low voice, "We don't want to go at the very start, they'll just try to make us leave. As I see it, we should interrupt them just when Daur is talking, and say... what we have to say."

"And how do we know when he's talking? You want me to eavesdrop? It is not ladylike to stoop at keyholes-"

"That is not a problem, you can hear everything from my window if you lean out far enough, they're only a floor above, you know." Amantir moved to his window and sat down on the wide window sill, leaning his head out. "Hmm... doesn't sound like it started yet." Then catching sight of Tarniel again, he put on an elder-brotherly tone and said commandingly, "Tarniel, why are you still here? Odare will come when she's ready, you can rest assured."

Tarniel looked puzzled and indignant at the two of them, especially Odare, who was staring intently at a bit of lacework on her dress. Then, folding her arms, she sat down on the nearest chair and asked, "What are you two plotting? Odare, you'll get into trouble again!"

"We're not plotting anything! We're doing something very important... anyway, I'd've told you, but it's not just some fun scheme, and besides, you're too-"

"Too young. Scamper off, little sis," said Amantir, now straining to hear the murmured words coming from above, and proving that the most cowardly of men can still be royal with younger sisters.

"I am not scampering! And what are you trying to listen to? Where are you going?"

"Shhh!" Odare put a warning finger on her lips. She was now leaning over Amantir's shoulders, and they could now make out the King's voice. A few words and phrases came floating down to them- esteemed guests... unfortunate occurences... decisions to take...

Then, then there was a scraping of chairs, and Broggha's voice, deeper and rougher than the King's, came floating down. This time they could hear more clearly, and as they listened, it was obvious from both Odaragariel and Amantir's faces that they did not like what they were hearing. Even Tarniel, still puzzled, did not interrupt them anymore. None of them were puzzled to hear Broggha's speech interrupted before long by Daurendil's angry voice. Amantir and Odare nodded to each other, and Odare whispered, "Time to go."

And they slunk out of his room, and up the stairs, with Tarniel following them. She had now realised what they were about to do, and was pulling vainly at them, whispering warnings of what would happen to them if they interrupted the Council.

They came running up the stairs, and immediately encountered their first obstacles, two guards on duty outside the door. Quick as thought, Odare shouted in a frightened, broken voice, "Guards! We're being pursued, downstairs-"

She didn't need to say more. The two guards looked at each other, and then pounded down the stairs, and the three ran to the door.

"Good acting!" Amantir said fervently. He grabbed the door and pulled. It didnt budge. He rattled it some more, scarcely aware that the noise inside had died. Odare grabbed the door and pulled, and at the same moment, Tarniel grabbed both their cloaks, and pulled.

Someone from inside unbolted and opened the door, and unprepared, all three tumbled backwards and fell on top of each other. They got up to find the entire Council staring at them.

For a moment there was a stunned silence. Then, Amantir shakily began, "Um, Good morning, I thought I'd just, um..."

Odare poked him with her elbow, and he went on, "Come up here to lend support to Prince Daurendil. I agree with him," he finished rather lamely, and waited to see what would happen.

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Cameth Brin Tower, Council Chamber, late morning of October 23, 1347
Written by Gordis, Serenoli and Elfhild
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The sight of the droll trio at the door lessened somehow the tension in the room. Old Nimruzir of Fennas Drunin slapped his thigh and laughed aloud approvingly, while the younger counselors, Elured and Belzagar smirked quietly. Gimilbeth arched her brows in disapproval, striving to remain non-committal. Broggha kept a morose silence, biding his time.

"Children," chided the King, "enough of this foolishness! You are a grown man, Amantir, but still you indulge in silly pranks. It is the Council of Rhudaur here and you have no call to attend it, as you know yourself full well. But you have even brought Odaragariel and your young sister here!"

"But that's because we want to help!" Odaragariel piped in.

Tarniel remained silent, close to tears, her cheeks pink from embarassment. When Tarniel had landed in a heap with Odaragariel and Amantir in the council chamber, she had wanted to disappear right then and there. She had tried to stop them, but now, from all appearances, it looked as though she was an accomplice to their little adventure. Her face flushed crimson as she listened to her father's condemnation of their actions, and she wished she was someplace far, far away. She felt the eyes of the Barbarian upon her, imagining that her dress was gone and she appeared before him naked.

"Yes, we want to second Daurendil's voice!" Amantir finally warmed to the subject and now spoke in a clear young voice that carried easily beyond the open doors up to the guards on the roof.

"I'm a prince of this country, and I deserve a say, be I a Council member or not. Nobody likes to see the barbarian here, it is a hypocrisy to pretend otherwise!"

Odare nodded fiercely in approval. Broggha's face visibly darkened, but he didn't deign to argue with the children. He addressed Tarnendur instead.

"Strange hospitality do I find under your roof, my King. You call us "barbarians," but what has become of the famed Dunedain nobility? First your guest is greeted by the assassin's dagger, then his name gets defamed by a young cur who never learned proper manners as a Prince should! I appeal to your Majesty, stop them now before I endeavor to stop them myself!"

"Don't hearken to him, Father!" Daurendil cried, clutching the hilt of his sword with such force that his knuckles went white. He swallowed and continued in a rush.

"At the feast, the Hillman only got what he deserved, the vile brigand and murderer he is! How many homesteads did he burn before coming here? How many Dunedain lives are on his hands? Gibbet is the only weregild he really deserves!"

"We second that!!!" cried Amantir and Odare. Tarniel brought her cold hands to her burning cheeks and remained silent, wishing she were leagues away from this room. She prayed that no violence would come from the meeting. She shuddered to think of another explosive confrontation like the one which had happened at the feast.

Tarnendur's pent-up frustration suddenly resurfaced. He brought his fist down on the table with a crash. "Get out of here! Now! Don't you dare to meddle uninvited into the affairs of State! Get out and close the doors."

The faces around the table visibly paled. Most of those present knew the King only in his late middle years and didn't even suspect he could produce such a powerful roar. Even Broggha seemed impressed and nodded in approval.

Hearing her father's roar, Tarniel was taken aback, for the king was usually gentle and mild-mannered. He must certainly be incredibly wroth! Tarniel grabbed Odaragariel's hand and began desperately trying to pull her away.

Odare winced, and felt the blood rush up to her cheeks. For a moment, just for a moment, she felt just like a child being remanded for trying to be older than it was. She looked at Amantir, and saw his face, crushed. Then after an eloquent look at his father, who was now trembling with rage, he said, "If you insist, father. But I shall speak more on this later!" he ended defiantly, and finally turned away. And then, Odare obeyed Tarniel’s whispered urgings and the pressure on her hand, and after a final nod at Daurendil, she too, moved away.

The three of them walked off, past the two bewildered guards who questioned them as to their assailants, and Tarniel waved them away. There was such an air of defeat that none of them dared speak to each other.

Behind them, they could once again hear raised voices in the Council-chamber, but they no longer bothered to hear who was speaking or what they were saying. It didn't seem worth it.

Amantir went off to his room alone, with a brooding look on his face, and an awkward silence passed between Tarniel and Odaragariel. "Her pride has probably taken a blow, for no doubt she realizes just what a foolish idea sneaking into the council chamber was," Tarniel thought to herself somewhat smugly, for she had tried to persuade Odaragariel and Amantir not to follow through with their plan to eavesdrop.

To break the silence, Tarniel said, "Umm, do you want to come with me to see how Hurgon's painting is going?" It would be a pleasant distraction, she thought, much needed after the excitement of earlier. They might as well enjoy themselves before the king had words with them.

Odaragariel was aware that Tarniel was resisting the urge to say 'I told you so' and trying to divert her thoughts from what had happened. So, with a half-smile, she replied, "Yes, let's do that," and soon the two were walking down the stairs of the tower, heading for the painter's studio in the palace.

[scribe]

Chapter 18. Weregild denied

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Cameth Brin Tower, Council Chamber, around noon of October 23, 1347
Written by Angmar, Gordis and Serenoli
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Relishing the situation, Broggha watched as King Tarnendur reprimanded the three young people - Amantir, Odaragariel and Tarniel - and ordered them from the council chambers. While the king had handled the awkward situation in an appropriate manner, still Broggha knew that the old man must be embarrassed at the spectacle they had presented before the council. "How truly weak he must have grown," Broggha thought, "if he cannot even control the members of his own house!"

He glanced at Princess Gimilbeth, who watched the scene in disapproving silence. From everything his spies and his own observation told him, she was a strong, intelligent woman. Had she been born a man, she might have presented far more challenges than her aging father, and her two impetuous, headstrong brothers. She bore watching.

Broggha could scarcely believe how easily the royal family was falling apart before his own eyes. Everything that had happened had exceeded Broggha's most extravagant hopes. The king was exactly in the position that Broggha had hoped that he would be. Prince Daurendil had shown the weakness of his youth, allowing his temper once again to begin to get the better of him. With a little taunting, the fool would be ripe to challenge him. Prince Amantir had appeared as hardly a noble, but rather as a surly child. How could Broggha ask for anything more? All that remained was to tighten the fist slowly and extract more concessions from King Tarnendur. The old fool would pay dearly for his son's impetuosity!

"Your Majesty," Broggha spoke, "barring any further outbursts from unexpected intruders, perhaps we can now turn our attentions to discussing my terms, or as it would be more appropriate to say, the demands of my people." He looked to Tarnendur, whose somber face appeared even older and more haggard than it had at the beginning of the council meeting. The king nodded to him to continue.

"Actually, considering the gravity of the offenses against my people and me, the requests are modest and easily met. An attempt upon my life was made, and I was seriously wounded. From his words and actions, I can see that Prince Daurendil has not changed but still holds the same ill feelings for me. He has offered no assurances that he will not threaten me once again." Broggha's face assumed a look of patient injury. "Perhaps I am even in danger as I stand here today." He looked towards the angry Prince Daurendil, who was striving to control his rage. Broggha's lips curled contemptuously as he watched the youth swallow nervously. The council chambers had become deadly silent as the members waited for Broggha to state his intentions.

"For a weregild, I require these conditions be met," Broggha spoke boldly. "I demand the ceding of the lands of Imlad Mitheithel and the surrender of all titles which the crown holds and grant them to me and my descendants perpetually. All deeds and titles will be acknowledged and recorded in the muniments of the library of Cameth Brin and all copies duly recorded will be turned over to me."

His face wearied, the king touched his temples at these words. Prince Daurendil almost stood up at his place, but a look from his father kept him seated. Princess Gimilbeth gave Broggha a look of cold hatred.

"Furthermore, I demand an apology from Prince Daurendil to be rendered to me before the council."

Prince Daurendil gripped the table tightly and looked uncertainly at his father.

"For Nauremir, who is a boon companion of Prince Daurendil," Broggha's eyes almost glittered, "who raised his hand in violence against me and would have taken my life, had he been able, I ask what is my right to ask! I desire his head!"


***

A few moments before Daurendil had seen red, his anger not letting him think even. But now his head seemed to clear. He was still angry, angrier than he had ever been in his life, and it made him feel strangely calm, and assured. The Prince, his fingers still gripping his sword-hilt so tight they hurt, did not rise, did not rush at Broggha as it would be so easy to, and instead, spoke in a would-be calm voice.

"I do not deny it. I at least, have been entirely honest in my dealings with you, Broggha, I have shown you just what I think of you. You demand the lands of Imlad Mitheithel as recompense for your injuries at my hand. And yet you choose lands that are neither mine, nor my father's to give, but belong instead to the Princess Odaragariel, who has, as yet, no cause of quarrel with you. Modest request, indeed.

"You demand an apology from me," he continued, his voice losing its calm every moment, and showing the true extent of the passion that had gripped him. "And Nauremir's head," for a moment he paused, as if too overcome to speak, "Neither of which you shall ever have while I am a prince of these lands!"

He turned to his father, eyes pleading and fierce, "Surely you can not accede to his mad demands! For that is what they are, and they show his true character! He is using us, father, he is using this Council, making a mockery of our laws to gain what he really wants!"

***

Tarnendur felt heartened when he heard his Heir's uncharacteristically calm and assured statement about Imlad Mitheithel. "The boy is right." thought the King. "Perhaps he has grown at last to the stature needed to be my Heir ... but no, it seems he didn't!"

The end of Daurendil's speech made the king ball his fists in frustration again. The Heir's stubborn refusal to admit his fault and to apologize made the matters much worse, especially considering that neither of Broggha's other demands could reasonably be granted. Daurendil ended his speech appealing fiercely to his father "Surely you can not accede to his mad demands!"

Pointedly ignoring Daurendil, the King turned to Broggha.

"My son is yet a minor and he can not answer for his childish words. He lets himself be led astray by his hot-headed friends and by the ardent passions of his youth. I am his father and his liege Lord and I extend my apologies to you, Broggha of Pennmorva, and to your people for his rush words and actions. I will see to it that it never comes to pass again."

A whisper ran around the table at those words. Elured winked at Belzagar: both secretly despised the Heir. Old Curugil muttered something and shook his head in disapproval, while Nimruzir, who was always fond of both the royal boys, his great grand-nephews, frowned and gritted his teeth. Gimilbeth fixed her brother with a sardonic stare, which was wasted, however, as the Prince's eyes were downcast in shame. Daurendil sat pale and stricken, fighting back angry tears. The King continued, his voice stronger now.

"You were wronged, Broggha, and have the right for a weregild. But I cannot grant you the boon you seek. The lands of Imlad Mitheithel are indeed not mine to give or to hold, but belong to the Princes of this land, the oldest noble house of Rhudaur, who came here in the times of Arnor's glory, when the Dunedain were young. The last of this house, Odaragariel of Mitheithel, is my ward. A poor King and a faithless guardian would I be if I dilapidated the lands of the orphan entrusted to my care!"

"As for Nauremir, once he is recovered, I promise that he will be brought before the King's Justice as well as the one who stabbed him treacherously in the back. Every man in my land has the right to fair trial, and his guilt should be proven and his defense voiced, before his head could be forfeit. I will not abandon my wounded kinsman for your henchmen to slaughter! Here is my decision."

Seeing Broggha's darkening face, the members of the Council cringed inwardly. Broggha rose to his feet like a thundercloud, dwarfing the others by his sheer bulk, amplified by his rich furs. But before he could utter his angry words, Gimilbeth by his side suddenly stood and spoke, her voice cold and unemotional.

"Pray do not challenge the King's justice, Lord Broggha. There are some boons that even the King is unable to grant, without loosing his honor. The lands of Imlad Mitheithel you will not have, but there are others from the King's personal domain that you may add to your county of Pennmorva as part of the weregild you seek. I hope for a mutual agreement upon this matter."

Looking into Broggha's blazing blue eyes, Gimilbeth continued, somewhat sardonically.

"As for Nauremir's head, it has become futile to argue over this matter. Nauremir is beyond either your vengeance, Lord Broggha, or your justice, My Lord King. Nauremir died this morning and it is Eru Himself who will judge him now!"

Elured, Nauremir's uncle, gasped at the news. Both the King and Broggha looked equally incredulous. "Too happy a coincidence to be true," thought Tarnendur. "Unless... unless Gimilbeth dispatched him herself with one of her hellwrought potions." The King felt cold sweat on his neck and forehead at such a thought.

Daurendil looked stunned by the awful news of his best friend's demise. "But... but... I saw him this very morning," the Crown-prince stuttered. "He was doing well. How...how can he be dead now?"

“What a poor dimwitted fool!” thought Gimilbeth with disgust. Broggha watched them like a hawk, suspicion written plainly on his face. She wished to strangle Daurendil with her bare hands, slowly, slowly... Instead she smiled most sweetly and said, "I understand your grief, my brother. Please accept my sympathy for your loss. Nauremir died of blood infection about an hour after you left him. I was there to bring the healers some herbs and saw him die. He asked to be buried in their family's crypt at Brochenridge."

Broggha looked from one face to another - King Tarnendur, his face a pasty shade of white, seemed stricken; Prince Daurendil's face was puckered and wrinkled like a small child on the verge of tears; and Gimilbeth appeared very cool and calm as she made her momentous announcement.

"Dead? You say he is dead?" Broggha's great voice thundered as his face turned a livid shade of red and a vein on his forehead ridged. "Do you expect me to believe the convenience of his passing at the very moment that I demanded that he answer for his crimes against my people and me?" His great paw of a fist came down and smashed into the table, sending the tablecloth quivering and the vessels chattering. "Do you expect me to leave here empty handed with none of my demands met!"

"Perfidy!" he shouted as he watched the vessels at last come to equilibrium. "Perfidy! Treachery!"

Gimilbeth arched her brows in the most disdainful manner, practiced to perfection over the years. She replied in a voice cold and dry as snows on the peak of Gundabad. "If you doubt my word, Lord Broggha, you can go visit Nauremir's body yourself. He will be laid in state in the vaults of the Palace for all to see and to say their final farewells, before the coffin is sent south - to Brochenridge."

"Can you not have any respect for the dead?" the King asked sorrowfully. "Whatever he has done in this life will be answered for now in the Halls of Mandos."

Gimilbeth took an exquisitely fashioned handkerchief from her left sleeve and dabbed at the crystal tear that appeared in the corner of her right eye. "My lord Broggha, can you not see that we are overcome with grief? Have you no pity upon a family that has been devastated by the loss of the young prince's cup companion?"

Griss, who had been standing at attention along the side of the room, mused to himself, "The Princess seems sincere... I can almost believe her... No! I do believe her! I can see the sorrow written all over her face! In truth, the young fool must have died!"

A look of incredulity on his face, Broggha's mouth hung slightly open. "Not for one moment do I believe that Nauremir is dead! This is all some trick to deceive me! I demand to see the corpse now!" Broggha's voice was both angry and incredulous.

"Whenever you wish, Lord Broggha," Gimilbeth replied dryly, narrowing her eyes to hide their triumphant gleam in the shade of her dark lashes.

That morning, Gimilbeth had not been idle.

At dawn, shortly after she had scared everyone in the Palace by her terrible shrieks, she went to see her father to give him the unavoidable explanations. Soon their conversation shifted to the approaching Council. The King refused to abandon his young kinsman Nauremir to the vengeance of the bloodthirsty Hillman, as Gimilbeth advised him to do. He became angry and sent his daughter away. Yet, something had to be done to appease Broggha, and, after some reflection, she found the perfect solution to the problem.

Gimilbeth was well-versed in the herb-lore. She knew not only simple potions that Dunedain used for healing, but also some darker draughts and poisons - the legacy of the Downfallen Numenor, preserved only in Umbar.

One potion in particular suited the occasion perfectly well. It was made from an herb common in the White Mountains, nondescript looking and awful tasting. Only the wisest of the Numenorean lore-masters knew that this very herb had been used by the Druedain to send them into a death-like trance lasting for days and weeks.

Hastily, Gimilbeth fetched the dry leaves from her extensive herb collection and prepared the infusion. She hid the vial in her ample skirts as she went to see the unfortunate troublemaker Nauremir in the Guardhouse hospital.

Once there, Gimilbeth greeted Nauremir most sweetly and made herself comfortable in a chair by his bedside. The young man was bewildered and scared to see the dreaded witch of Cameth Brin paying him a surprise visit. Gimilbeth sent the assistant healer who watched the sick man away on an errand and quietly poured the contents of her vial into Nauremir's cup, while the boy was looking away.

The wound was making Nauremir thirsty, so Gimilbeth had no need to wait for long, repeating meaningless condolences, before Nauremir took the cup and made a long swallow. Instantly his eyes bulged, his mouth gaped and horror contorted his handsome features. Gimilbeth, who was watching the young man like a prowling cat watches an unsuspecting mouse, pounced. She clutched Nauremir's throat and forced the rest of the liquid into his mouth.

As she did so, she felt Nauremir's heartbeats in the jugular vein slowing, slowing, until they became indiscernible. Her victim's skin became cold and deathly white with a faint bluish tint, usual for the dead.

Leaving the necessary directions to prepare the body for the funeral and to deposit the coffin on a table in the Palace vaults, Gimilbeth left for the Council, feeling quite pleased with herself.

And now she stood before Broggha - false grief on her face and wicked joy in her heart - and repeated "Whenever you wish, Lord Broggha."


***

Certain that he was being deceived and not quite understanding how, Broggha gave Princess Gimilbeth a suspicious glare. "If Nauremir is truly dead, it is certain that he is not going anywhere for quite some time. Let him cool in the vaults! There is still business to be decided between the King of Rhudaur and me!" His eyes turned to meet those of King Tarnendur.

"Your Majesty, I am an extremely patient man, but I am not a man given to great levity when there are serious matters to be discussed. My men and I came here today expecting that our grievances would be amended and that we would be treated with honor and respect. However, we have been met with nothing but petulant outbursts from Prince Daurendil who refuses to do the manly thing and apologize; refusals to grant the land which I have claimed, and that under the weakest of excuses; further insults to our honor; and now, most conveniently, one of the villains who attempted to take my life has suddenly died! We - my people and I - have suffered everything and have been granted nothing! None of these things serve as a redress for the grievances suffered!" Broggha had allowed his anger to grow rampant, and his voice boomed across the hall.

Belzagar's face showed nothing of his feelings, but inwardly, he was irritated. "Broggha," he thought, "is not handling this as well as could be wished. All that has been achieved is a weak apology from King Tarnendur, and the witch Gimilbeth seems to have gained the initiative here with her sudden announcement of the 'death' of the young villain Nauremir. She is becoming more of a pest, perhaps even a threat, by the day. His Majesty must be apprised of these developments as quickly as possible! The little lords of the sky must be set to flight with their messages."

Belzagar's thoughts quickly roamed towards Lord Alassar, his superior in Carn Dum. He knew how fond the man was of his ravens. "He will see one of his favorites - Honalnût - soon enough." In the meantime, he would prepare a missive to give to his assistant, Authon, who would see that one of their agents would take it to Broggha. He thought in his mind of what he would write in code but his thoughts were interrupted when Broggha spoke again after a short silence.

"As I have said before, Your Majesty and the lords of this court, I am a patient man. I realize the rashness of Prince Daurendil, and I accept upon his behalf the apology of his sire, Tarnendur. I will not, however, accept a token offering of a few acres to add to my present holdings! To settle this weregild, King Tarnendur, I demand more land, and, in addition to that, I demand a monetary payment... in gold! And if the treasuries of Rhudaur cannot provide the sum that I ask, there are always jewels that can be added for compensation." He looked to Princess Gimilbeth and the smile upon his face was more like a smirk.

At these words, Belzagar's mood brightened. Perhaps he had misjudged the man. He should have known that since His Majesty had chosen the man, it was for a good reason.

***

Weary and disgusted, the King listened to the words of the greedy Hillman. "And if the treasuries of Rhudaur cannot provide the sum that I ask, there are always jewels that can be added for compensation." With that, the scoundrel looked to Gimilbeth with such an ugly smirk upon his face! The Princess with her modestly downcast eyes and tears on her long dark lashes looked at the moment delicate and vulnerable - strikingly alike to his much regretted wife Inzilbeth. Tarnendur suddenly remembered that this very morning the poor child awoke screaming because she saw in a dream the ghastly death of her loving mother... And the brigand dared to threaten her!

The King suddenly saw red. Striving to stop his hands from gripping his sword and cutting off Broggha's red head in one swing, Tarnendur growled, anger and menace clear in his voice.

"What exactly do you mean, Broggha? What weregild do you really deserve? Were you dead, I would have gladly paid half of my treasures to your grieving relatives - if you happen to have any. As it is, you are very much alive, as far as I can see, and not much worse for loosing a little blood at the late Nauremir's hands!"

Tarnendur rose to his feet, his discarded chair crashing into the stone wall. "The Council is closed!" he barked, and made his way towards the door.

[scribe]

Chapter 19. Narrowly escaping embalming

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Cameth Brin, early afternoon of October 23, 1347
Written by Serenoli, Gordis and Elfhild
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"What's that, Tarniel?"

Tarniel, who had been walking silently beside Odare, said, "What are you talking about? Where?"

Odaragariel nodded towards a procession of people, approaching the Palace, carrying something... something that looked like -

"Is that a coffin?" she asked in a horrified whisper. Tarniel made no answer. Behind them, they heard pounding footsteps... she turned to see Daurendil behind them.

"Is the Council over?" she asked, bewildered. But Daurendil ignored them completely, his eyes fixed on the distant procession, and broke into a run, his face set and desperate. She looked at Tarniel, who was equally bewildered. Without a word, they ran to catch up with him.

They reached the group just in time to hear Daurendil's frenzied query, "Who is that, there, in the coffin?"

They did not need to answer his question. He had already seen the pale, unmoving countenance of Naurmeir in the coffin. Wth a howl of misery, he sank to his knees, murmuring, "I did not believe her when she said it! I did not believe her, and it's true!"


***

Sarador the Royal Surgeon was happy. Embalming was one of the medical procedures he really enjoyed doing. Sure, it was not as exciting as an amputation, but it had its advantages. For one thing, the patient tended to lie still and didn’t distract the surgeon by his thrashing and cries. Also, Sarador enjoyed another possibility to study human anatomy, an endlessly fascinating subject for a scientist.

The old surgeon spotted the coffin from his window, and hurried downstairs two steps at a time, attracted by the corpse as surely as a real vulture would be. He gave an order to bring the body into the palace basement, where he had his anatomy room. He had several hours before the funeral and was not going to waste the precious time. The earlier the inner organs were removed, the better.

Humming softly the tune of a bawdy song popular in the Eastern army of Gondor about a hundred years ago, Sarador took out the instruments from his medical chest and arranged them neatly on the table. There were gleaming knives and scalpels of various sizes, some straight, some curved, forceps and spoons used to clean the body cavities, and Sarador’s favorite small saw for scull trepanation. Nearby stood the assortment of jars of various sizes, waiting for the intestines, the heart, the liver and the brain of the deceased.

The hapless Nauremir lay naked on a bigger table, cold and blue, oblivious to everything. Sarador chose a medium size scalpel and made ready to open Nauremir’s belly with a single practiced stroke.

***

Gimilbeth returned to the Palace feeling quite pleased with herself. Her ruse was a total success, and the brigand Hillman was so astonished that he forgot to press his demands further. Now he would have to wait long for the next Council to be convened... very long. Gimilbeth laughed aloud in the security of her rooms.

Her mood darkened however, when she saw her father waiting for her in her sitting room. The King sat slumped in an armchair, his elbows resting heavily on the polished table. He had a goblet of wine in his hand. He downed it in one long swallow and looked at his daughter with old, reddened, sad eyes. When he spoke, his voice sounded harsh and unfathomably weary.

"You have murdered him, Gimilbeth, have you not?"

How old and frail her father suddenly looked! The hands that were holding the goblet were wrinkled and mottled with dark spots. Old age was on the King... early... so early... She felt a pang of pity and put a reassuring hand on his sleeve.

"No I have not," she replied levelly. "Nauremir is not dead, he is simply sleeping. I gave him the potion that will help him to pass for dead for some days."

"Not dead?" echoed the King. "How can it be?" His lips moved for some time silently. Then he sprang to his feet so suddenly that Gimilbeth recoiled.

"But Sarador is taking his guts out this very moment!" he shouted.

"Sarador?" repeated Gimilbeth. She had forgotten about the Old Vulture.

"I told him to embalm the body, as is our custom," whispered the King, completely ashen now.

Without another word, Gimilbeth turned and sprinted downstairs into the Palace basement where Sarador kept his study. She heard the King's shuffling footsteps behind, but she outran him easily. Panting, she flung open the door to the surgeon's study and cried out at the sight that awaited her there.

Sarador was stooping over the body, a gleaming knife in his hand, his beak of a nose casting an ominous shadow on the naked chest of his victim. Gimilbeth's strident cry startled him, making him drop the scalpel right on Nauremir's abdomen.

Sarador arched his brows and pursed his lips in disapproval. It was highly inappropriate for the princess to come here and meddle in his work. Quite unladylike! If she were shocked, she fully deserved it! What else had she hoped to see here but a naked man's body? It was fortunate for her, in fact, that the corpse was still whole! The sturgeon hurried to the side table, took a piece of linen and covered the body up to the neck.

Gimilbeth, however, was not at all disturbed by Nauremir's nudity. She had a good look at the body and sighed in relief. The wretch was still whole, Morgoth be praised!

"Master Sarador, the King has reconsidered, " she said, trying to sound cool. "There will be no embalming."

***

Odare found herself supporting Daurendil, slowly leading him back to the palace. His eyes were unfocused, his limbs unresponsive... he was obviously in deep shock. She brushed back her own tears, found herself tongue-tied, and concentrated on taking him inside somewhere.

They had reached the palace when suddenly Daurendil stopped walking. Tarniel had not followed them, and they were alone in the entrance hall. As if dredging his words from a great depth, Daurendil said, "I saw him today- just an hour before the Council. He was alive, he was cheerful, he was about to recover, I know it!" His words were feverish, tumbling over each other.

"I know, I know it's hard to believe," she replied soothingly, not knowing how to help him accept the truth. "But - he is dead, and-"

"He was not supposed to die!" He almost sceamed these last few words. She gazed silently at him, anguished, and he leaned against the wall behind, eyes closed in a weary gesture. She had not seen him like this before, and had no idea how to handle him.

At that moment, conversing, Hurgon Fernik the painter and the healer who had tended Odare came into the hall. They hesitated when they saw the two standing there, then the healer said quietly, "Princess Odaragariel, you should get back in bed, and rest awhile. It's only your first day up, and you are not strong enough to-"

In a loud voice, Daurendil, his eyes still closed, said, "Don't listen to him, Odare."

"Excuse me, your highness?" said the healer in a confused, aggravated voice.

Daurendil finally opened his eyes. In a bitter voice, he spat out, "Don't trust any of these lying healers! You said, you said he would recover, and look what happened to him! My advice to you, Odare, stay clear of them unless you want to follow Nauremir to the grave!"

The healer looked as if he had been slapped. Hurgon burst out, "But you've got it all wrong! It's not him you should blame, it's the witch Gimilbeth!" and then, as if suddenly realizing he was talking to Gimilbeth's brother, he grew all red, and murmured, "I mean, the bitch, no, the snitch.. I mean, sandwich-"

"What?" said Daurendil, distracted. Odare almost laughed, and stopped herself just in time.

"Slip of tongue... too much wine-drinking... I never meant to call her a witch.. or any of the others... you won't tell her?" he looked up anxiously.

Daurendil looked daggers at the mumbling Hurgon, and turned to the healer with an expression which clearly said, "Tell or else!"

"All I know is that he was fine this morning. And then the Lady Gimilbeth visited him... alone. We do not know what happened in their interview, but he died while she was present. That is to say, she called us to him - he was in a pretty bad state, and she said he had had some kind of fit. And then he - died."

Daurendil did not stay to hear him out. He rushed off once again, and Odare, after giving the still-mortified Hurgon a quick pat, pulled her skirts up and followed him. If he was about to do something rash... and the chances were very high that he was... someone ought to be there to stop him.

***

Hurgon watched the two fleeing royals, and the only wild thought that crossed his mind was that they must be going off to tell Gimilbeth exactly what he had said about her. His one mortal fear on earth was Gimilbeth. There was no choice: he had to run, too.

He shouted, "Hey! Wait a little! You misunderstood me!" But no one listened to him.

They passed the kitchens, the heavy smell of lunch wafting out at them. A burly man walked out, arms full of newly baked rolls of bread. He saw the running trio, and assumed at once that Hurgon was chasing the Prince and Princess. With a war-cry, he launched himself at Hurgon, dropping all the bread; he grabbed Hurgon's collar, and they fell, kicking and struggling onto the ground.

Hurgon picked a roll up and bashed it into the man's mouth, and the man, with a cry of rage, swallowed half the bread in one gulp. That still left the other half, and Hurgon took advantage of the delay to start tickling the man. A small crowd had gathered already, urging on one or the other one. Odaragariel and Daurendil were nowhere to be seen - they had hardly noticed Hurgon on their way to the Tower.

Then, just when Hurgon thought he was winning, he saw the two whizzing past again, now directed towards the Palace. Momentarily distracted, he stopped tickling, and found his hand enclosed in a deathly grip. He let out a yelp of pain. Daurendil, who had pushed roughly through the crowd, took no notice of them, but Odare, still following him, found herself torn between preventing a potential rash act commited by Daurendil in the future, and a rash act being commited by the burly man right under her nose.

Dithering for a while, she decided she liked Hurgon better than Gimilbeth anyway, and sprang on the burly man, her curved dagger in her hand like magic.

"Let him go! What's he done to you?"

"It's all right, my Lady, I've got him, he can't hurt me now." replied the man, pleased that she had witnessed his brave deed. Hurgon whimpered in pain.

"I meant you, you little idiot! Let Hurgon go right now!" Completely wrong-footed, the man let Hurgon go. Odare grabbed his hand and pulled Hurgon to his feet, and once again chased after Daurendil. Hurgon gave a parting kick to the burly man, and then, before any retaliation could occur, he made after Odare.

This time they reached the Palace with no interruptions, and Hurgon, now rather bewildered, but determined to follow them all the same, saw them pounding down the basement stairs. He was just in time to hear Daurendil shout, "You! There you are! Come to gloat over the dead body, have you?"

He was puzzled. Why would Daurendil speak to Odaragariel like that? Then he realized there were two more principals in their little scene - Sarador, the Vulture, looking even more disapproving at the three new entries and Gimilbeth, ashen-faced and panting as if she, too, had been running. Hurgon took one look at her, and yelping, hid behind the nearest column.
***
"Master Sarador, the King has reconsidered," Gimilbeth said, trying to sound cool. "There will be no embalming.”

Sarador straightened his spine in indignation and adjusted the old squirrel fur lined cloak he wore on his shoulders. Gimilbeth watched with amusement how the old Vulture ruffled his feathers preparing to defend his prey.

"Nonsense!" he cried. "With all due respect, what does the King know about proper preservation of corpses? In a week, this here fellow" - he pointed at Nauremir with his gnarled finger - "will stink so much that people away in Fornost will wriggle their noses!"

"It may be so," replied Gimilbeth, taking a cautious step away from the angry surgeon. "But you better explain it to His Majesty directly. He is heading this way."

And indeed, the door suddenly swung open and a living whirlwind rushed into the normally peaceful abode of the sage. Gimilbeth had no time to react before someone’s iron fingers gripped her shoulders in a painful grip and shook her mercilessly as a dog shakes a rat.

When the intruder momentarily stopped his assault, Gimilbeth found herself looking into Daurendil’s face, red and distorted with rage. His eyes looked positively mad like those of a Hillman warrior who had consumed too much of their sacred mushrooms.

"You! There you are! Come to gloat over the dead body, have you?" Daurendil yelled right into Gimilbeth’s face.

Gimilbeth had recovered somewhat and her eyes were shooting daggers back.

"Let me go, you crazy oaf!" she hissed in reply, her voice dripping pure venom. "Unhandle me now, stupid pup, or you will sorely regret it!"

Her hands flew to Daurendil’s wrists, but she lacked the force to dislodge his hands or to wriggle herself free.

Daurendil was shouting something at her again, his grip on her shoulders strong and painful. There were other people in the room, out of Gimilbeth’s field of vision. Odare’s voice was speaking to Daurendil, but he paid it no heed. Someone, possibly Sarador, tried to drag Daurendil away from his sister, but a powerful kick from the Prince sent him flying away. Gimilbeth heard a heavy thud and a string of obscene curses as the old surgeon hit the wall.

Gimilbeth never in her life studied wrestling and deeply despised women who went around swinging swords, striving to imitate men. Women were born weaker, but they had their own viles and tricks - feminine weapons that, if wielded properly, were deadlier than a dagger.

Gimilbeth was simply biding her time now, listening intently through the pandemonium in the room for the weaker sounds outside. Soon her ears caught the only sound she had been waiting for – the sound of heavy shuffling footsteps on the stairs outside. The King was coming.

Gimilbeth gasped aloud as if in pain and shock, fluttered her long eyelashes and willed herself to start crying. Long practice honed this skill to perfection – soon a rain of crystal tears washed down her face. The steps were at the door now. The door was opening when Gimilbeth started moaning for help.

***
Puffing and panting, Tarniel desperately tried to keep up with Odaragariel, Daurendil and Hurgon as they made their mad rush across the palace grounds. Being a young lady who mostly spent her days engaged in very dignified activities such as sewing and embroidery, she soon found herself left in their dust as they raced on. Her mind reeled with panic and confusion; Nauremir was dead, and madness had taken everyone else. And now the usually mild-mannered painter, Hurgon, was brawling with another man, using not swords or daggers as weapons, but rolls of bread!

And then they were off again – Hurgon, rescued by Odaragariel as she and Daurendil ran back towards the palace, now stumbling along behind them. Gasping for breath, Tarniel entered the palace, too addled from her flight to consider how undignified her entry appeared.

"Hail, Lady Tarniel," the confused guards greeted, as equally bewildered bystanders looked on, all wishing to know what was going on.

"Where... where did... they go?" she gasped out.

"You mean Lady Gimilbeth, Prince Daurendil, Lady Odaragariel and the painter?"

Tarniel nodded in affirmation.

"They raced down to the lowest level of the palace, as though they were being chased by a horde of orcs!" the doorman exclaimed. "What is going on? Is there something wrong?"

"It is a very complicated matter..." she replied in a gasp of breath, "but unfortunately I have no time to explain... My gratitude to you! Now I must be finding the others..."

She started to head for the door which led to the stairs, but the king himself came by at that moment, rushing as fast as his old legs would take him. Now Tarniel was really frightened. Running down the steps after her father, she screamed in horror as she saw Daurendil attempting to throttle Gimilbeth. Then her gaze swept to old Sarador, who was staggering to his feet, bracing himself against the wall, and the still body of Nauremir lying on the embalmer's table.

The barrage of horrifying images was too much for her tortured mind to take, and she fell into a swoon at the bottom of the steps.

***
From behind his column, all Hurgon saw was the door. When he saw Tarniel swoon, he was the only one NOT staring horrified at the fighting brother-and-sister duo, and hence the only one who sprang out to her rescue, catching her awkwardly before she hit the ground. He ineffectually fanned her, and muttered, "Uh... My Lady... uh, umm," and then recollecting that you ought to give unconscious people a good shock, he looked in desperation for a jar of cool water, failing which he....

Tarnendur looked at the choas before him, and he just bellowed. It is not certain whether it was anything as loud as the one he had produced earlier that day, but Odare, who had been present both times, was inclined to believe the second was stronger than the first. The scene seemed to freeze in time; Daurendil still holding Gimilbeth, whose face was streaked with tears (exactly two in number, big, fat and very hard to squeeze out of her eyes, but she managed it), Sarador still holding his long knife like a weapon before him. Odare leapt up to Daurendil, and prised his limp hands off, and Tarnendur pulled Gimilbeth away. Daurendil looked like he was about to throw Odare off and attack once more, when suddenly there was a sharp sound.

Hurgon had just slapped a princess.

He himself looked shocked at what he had done, but it had worked, for Tarniel's eyes were fluttering. Odare ran over to see if she was all right, leaving Daurendil unfettered. This point seemed to have crossed Tarnendur's mind as well, for he said, before anyone could start anything, "First of all, Nauremir's dead. I mean, he isn't. I mean," he closed his eyes for a second, as if recollecting himself. "He's alive. Gimilbeth managed it somehow."

This seemed likely to give rise to a host of questions, Daurendil looking a bit stupid suddenly, and Sarador had drawn himself up so much that he was taller than anyone in the room, so Tarnendur continued hurriedly, "Secondly, Daurendil, what do you mean by trying to kill your sister? And, thirdly," he turned to Hurgon, "why did you slap Tarniel?"

The explanations that followed were tedious, often shouted, repetitive and very much interrupted. There was much emotion displayed. Nauremir got his cold cheeks kissed at strange moments, and much tears were spilt over his face. Gimilbeth almost had herself strangled once again when Daurendil learnt how she had 'saved' his friend, and given him such a scare. But in the end, it all came right, and Tarniel specifically begged Tarnendur to stop glaring at harmless Hurgon Fernik, because he was an old dear after all. And it DID come all right, in the end, more or less.