"Shadow II - Intrigues and Sorcery" - Final

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Chapter 20. Other Means for Evil Ends

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Cameth Brin, early afternoon of October 23, 1347
Written by Angmar
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"Nothing gained! Nothing!" Belzagar was stunned at the King's announcement that the council session was at an end. "Broggha has pressed the old fool too far this time! He should have been content with the offer of additional lands around his estate." His cold, dark eyes flickered over Broggha, who had not left his place at the table, but seemed frozen in the same position, almost as though he were a figure captured in wax.

The other members of the council chamber were as surprised at the King's quick departure as he was and murmured among themselves. Elured turned to the lord beside him and whispered something into his ear. Slowly they all rose to their feet and some gathered together in small groups to discuss what had happened.

Broggha turned his head, his eyes following the king and his close associates as they walked out of the council chamber. Broggha's expression was simple to read - the tall, red-headed giant's face was almost the color of his hair, the knuckles on his clenched fist were almost white, while a muscle jerked spasmodically on his left cheek. At last, Broggha pushed back his chair and turned to leave as his guards and hangers-on went to his side. With a swirl of his magnificent lynx fur cape, he strode from the council chambers.

Belzagar lingered for a while as he wrote down a few notes about the meeting in a small bound book. Most of the other men had left the chambers by the time that Belzagar rose to his feet and went to the stairway landing. Authon, his assistant, was there waiting for him, and together the two men walked silently down the stairs and out into the mulling sunlight of the chilly day. Across the courtyard from them, he saw that Broggha and his men had already collected their horses from the stables and were mounted up. The horses' ironshod hooves clattered on the cobblestone as they trotted by the two men.

Other than a few remarks about the weather, Belzagar and Authon did not speak until after the grooms had brought them their horses and they were mounted up.

"My lord Belzagar, you seem deep in concentration. What transpired at the meeting?" Authon turned to him as their horses trotted past the market, which was in full session with vendors calling out their days' offerings.

"At the meeting, Prince Daurendil made a fool of himself, as is his practice to do."

"We could expect that from him," Authon chuckled, waiting, knowing that Belzagar had not really gotten into the meat of what had transpired at the meeting. Perhaps he was reluctant to discuss it here in the open, so he did not press him until they turned onto the King's Road.

"It appears that Nauremir has outfoxed us and died a most untimely death," Belzagar replied with a tone of amusement in his voice.

"What!" exclaimed a disbelieving Authon. "There must be some trick!"

"Obviously, and I would say that the witch, Gimilbeth, is behind it all. For a woman, she proves tricky, wily - far, far brighter than any of her languishing line."

"Yes, my lord, it would seem so." Authon waited politely for more information to be forthcoming.

"I know you are wondering, Authon, my good fellow, what we gained today. We gained nothing in terms of material advantage, other than a promise of some additional land for Broggha. You know he will not be satisfied with that, but the man needs time to reflect as to what will be his next step. King Tarnendur is presenting a bit of a problem in the achieving of our plans, it seems."

The horses slowed to a walk as they went down the steep, winding grade of the King's Road. At least the descent was not icy, as it sometimes was in the winter when the road became a regular beast of an ice chute for iron-shod horses' hooves.

The air had become more chill by the time the two men had ridden into the courtyard of the Hare and Thistle Inn. Then, over mulled wine, the spymaster and his assistant talked in lowered tones.

Belzagar drew out his bound book, quill pen and inkwell from the box beside him on the floor and began writing, while Authon looked around at the pretty barmaid, who was winking at him as she served the patrons at the adjoining table. Tearing out a sheet from the book, he slid it across the table to Authon. To anyone else seeing the paper, the writing appeared to be a series of meaningless sketches, something one would do in an idle moment with little heed paid to the art.

Authon looked down at the writing and nodded his head. The barmaid had finished serving the other patrons and strolled over to them.

Authon winked at her as he gave her the paper.

"Oh, my lord," she tittered, "you are most outrageously naughty! What a picture! Truly it makes me blush!"

"See that it goes to the right place," Authon grinned lasciviously at her.

She giggled as she folded the paper and pushed it between the cleavage of her square-cut neckline.

"Fetching creature, that," Belzagar remarked as he watched the woman walk away.

One of the men at another table exclaimed in a slurred voice, "I'd like to fetch her!"

"My lord," Authon's voice was low, "it truly amazes me the way you can run a whole spy operation right under the noses of the King's spies and they never suspect a thing!"

"A simple matter when we are dealing with such dull-witted men," Belzagar chuckled.

Both men went back to drinking, each one assured that the message to Broggha would be delivered in a round-about but very efficient way.

"Now," Belzagar thought as he drank his mulled wine, "when we get back to my hall, I must take great thought in the message I compose for His Majesty."


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Broggha’s estate near Cameth Brin, afternoon of October 23, 1347
Written by Elfhild and Angmar
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After the council meeting, Broggha thundered into his keep. At his approach, the doormen hastily opened the two large doors which led inside. Aewen and Malaneth, who had been warming themselves by the fire in the hearth, looked up in alarm at Broggha, who had just stormed into the large hall. Rising to their feet, they greeted him timidly.

"Hail, my lord," Malaneth began, but Broggha's thundering voice silenced her.

"Silence, wench!" he roared. "I am in no mood for idle chatter!"

"My lord," Aewen ventured timidly, "how went the council meeting?"

"I said that I did not want to talk!" he roared angrily and, bringing his hand back, slapped her across the face.

Taken by surprise, Aewen stumbled to the side and clutched her face in her hands, sobbing.

Malaneth glanced fearfully towards Aewen, and then, trying to mollify the Hillman, she offered hesitantly, "Would you like some mead to soothe you on a cold day?"

He glowered up at her from beneath his ruddy brows, but then his expression softened somewhat. "Aye," he grunted, nodding.

Soon Broggha was sitting by the hearth, sulking over a tankard of mead. In tremulous silence, the two women stood nearby, awaiting his next command. Time seemed to drag by as Broggha slowly drunk from the vessel.

Griss strode into Broggha's great hall, and instantly he was aware of the tension in the room. Aewen's eyes were red from weeping, and there was a nasty looking bruise on the side of her face. Her thoughts impossible to read behind a placid mask, Malaneth sat silently by the fire. Griss had known that Broggha would be in a towering rage after the council meeting, and he saw that he had not been mistaken.

"Well, Griss, what do you have to report?" Broggha's angry voice boomed out and sent echoes through the great hall.

"He is dead," Griss shrugged, "as dead as a butchered beef."
The women glanced to each other, silent questions in their eyes. They wondered what had happened that day, but, judging by Broggha's earlier outburst, they deemed it both futile and dangerous to ask the Jarl anything about the matter. Perhaps when his temper cooled...

"Are you certain about that, Griss?" Broggha asked skeptically.

"Well, I did not examine the body up close if that is what you mean. There was an honor guard, and old Sarador was fluttering around like a black butterfly. I did not think any of them would like it too well if I tried to peel the corpse's eyelids back or try to listen for a heartbeat. From what I could see, though, the stiffness of death had long set in. The man was pasty pale, like a ghost."

"And you are absolutely certain about this?" A dark light burned in the Jarl's eyes.

"YES!" Griss fairly shouted.

"Then I will accept your observations, Captain Griss, but I hope you are not correct. Anything else to report?"

"Well, nothing important. The man is dead. No more can be said about him. He must have died peacefully, though. There was a happy expression on his face. Maybe he had been thinking about women when he expired," Griss chuckled. "We can forget about him now. He is no more a threat."

A gloating smile on his face, Broggha turned to Malaneth. "Fetch Captain Griss meat, bread and warm mead."

"Yes, my lord," she replied and soon had brought Griss the ordered victuals, then retired back to her place at the fire.

Broggha was silent while he downed another tankard of mead. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and deadly. "We did not obtain our expectations at the meeting, but consider that only a minor set-back. King Tarnendur underestimates our people, but before the winter snows begin to fall, he will learn much to his sorrow how very important that we actually are."

His men turned from their tankards and looked expectantly across the table at him. "My lord?" a puzzled Griss asked.

"The lords of Rhudaur are secure in their warm halls. They have grown self-confident and believe they are safe and nothing could harm them. It is time for them to have some visitors, who change their minds and keep them occupied."

Griss set his tankard down on the table and gazed expectantly at Broggha. "My lord, I think I understand. You want some of my men to disguise themselves and go raiding. Superb idea, my lord! They have been getting too lazy sitting around the fires!"

Griss' inability to comprehend sometimes was truly unbelievable, Broggha thought to himself. "Nay, Griss, that is far too risky. There is always the possibility that some men could be captured, and under interrogation, tell all they knew. There are other means to achieve our ends that are far better." For a moment Griss' expression was incomprehensive, and then he smiled knowingly.

"You mean the orcs, my lord? But still, I do not quite understand."

"You will, Captain, you will," Broggha gloated smugly.


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Tanoth Brin – Cameth Brin, late afternoon of October 23, 1347
Written by Angmar
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Lord Belzagar had been in no great hurry to leave the Hare and Thistle. The inn, one of the better ones in Cameth Brin, had been lively and bustling that afternoon. The days when the king sat in council were always busy ones in the city, bringing lords and their families from far distant areas into the capital to conduct business.

As Lord Belzagar and his assistant Authon drank their mulled wine at their table, they listened to the hum of conversation about them. A man at the next table was relating the account of the small troupe of traveling entertainers who had left the city that morning. Members of the troupe had been giving performances in the halls of various lords and wealthy citizens of the city. One of them, the bear handler, had never been seen again after the tragedy at the recent feast of the king.

"The town is well rid of them!" the man exclaimed. "Those rogues stole everything they could get their hands upon! Their women are even bolder than the men! A perfumer in the city market caught one of the wenches - who appeared to be great with child - slipping merchandise into a small slit in her gown. The shopkeeper's wife and daughter held the slattern down while they searched her. You would never believe what they discovered! The thief's huge 'belly' was nothing but a leather sack that she wore strapped on under her dress!"

The narrator had the whole tavern leaning forward eagerly, not wanting to miss each detail of the story as it was revealed. "The perfumer's wife pulled out one container after another of fine perfumes, and that was not the end of what she found in the hoard! Next came ladies' kerchiefs, tableware, vegetables... some say there was even a live hen concealed under the thief's voluminous gown!"

One of the wits near the back gibed, "Next you will be telling us that she had hidden a whole sheep under there!"

The tavern burst into gales of laughter at that remark, and at that point, Belzagar decided it was time for them to go. The afternoon turned colder as Lord Belzagar and Authon's horses climbed the ascent to the lord's modest townhouse on the hill of Cameth Brin. After turning their horses over to grooms, the two men walked down the hall and made their way into Belzagar's private meeting room. Servants had soon placed goblets of the finest wines into their hands. The two men drank quietly and studied the flames in the huge hearth until they were interrupted by the appearance of a quiet servant. Opening the door, the man walked into the room and gave Authon a note, then bowed and left.

Belzagar waited until his assistant had scanned the contents before asking, "Authon, what do your spies in Broggha's hall have to say?"

"My lord, in an enraged fit of fury, he struck Lady Aewen shortly after he had returned to the hall. He is mulling over what he considers 'the outrageous treatment' that the Hillmen received at the hands of the king. His loyal thrall, Griss, is convinced that Nauremir is actually dead. Broggha is also intimating that there will be an orc raid sometime in the future. The last word that I received from my sources says that he and his men will probably spend the rest of the evening as they do all others - drinking, reveling, and feasting."

"Thank you, Authon. Your sources are always so reliable." Lord Belzagar set down his goblet of wine on the table and steepled his hands together while he watch the play of flames on a burning log. Authon smiled in satisfaction at the compliment about his efficient spy service and waited for his master to speak.

"As you know, Authon, I am given much leeway in regard to what I do here... Even though Broggha's drinking and temper are almost legendary among his people, his abilities are held in high regard in the North. But..." Belzagar turned his cold gray eyes to bore into Authon's. "You will get word tonight to Broggha that he must stop mouthing about his plans so openly. If you have spies there, we can only guess who else has them. Impress upon him the need for stealth and secrecy, and above all, curtail his boasting. You must also emphasize to him that he was raised up from nothing and he can be brought back to that same estate just as quickly."

"My lord, I understand. The message will be relayed."

"One other thing, Authon. The Lady Aewen is a kinswoman of mine. Not many people know this. You are also to tell him that he must treat her better, or his finest steed might just have an unfortunate accident. Now, Authon... you were asking today about that artifact that I recently obtained... the cut glass crystal that is said to come from Numenor itself. Personally, I believe that it is a fraud, but... there is always a chance that it might be authentic. You know how I delight in collecting."



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Trollshaws, end of October, 1347
Written by Angmar
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A cold, feisty wind whipped up the campfire into a fury, twisting the flames and sending the smoke racing away towards the east. The few remaining leaves of autumn which clung to the trees were cast aside like abandoned children and left to fend for themselves.

The Trollshaws were not the most pleasant of places even in summer, but it was a remote location, seldom frequented by any Rhudaurian patrols. In its favor was the abundance of game, and so the Sergeant would not have to be worried about maintaining a supply line. Two things the lads had packed in abundance before leaving Angmar were hardtack and orc draught. His company could live quite well here indefinitely. The appearance of an early winter storm did not bother the sergeant, for there were plenty of caves in which they could hole up until the worst of it was over.

The company commander, Pizbûr Ashûk, stood near the campfire as he ate a piece of venison from the point of his knife blade. The sheltered dell stood in the lee of a hill which provided some relief from the wind, but not enough. The Sergeant looked around at his men, who were standing about at the other campfires, eating or arguing about some petty matter. They were good lads, though, loyal to him and to the clan. He never had much trouble with them, at least not any trouble that he couldn't handle.
Durbûrz was second in command of the company, or more specifically, Third Company, First Regiment of the Third Brigade, of the Army of Angmar. The journey to Rhudaur had been a long one, conducted with maximum regard for stealth and secrecy. To avoid the range of Amon Sûl's palantír, the company had traveled down the western slopes of the Misty Mountains. The Rhudaurian soldiers had never suspected a thing and were blissfully unaware that there had been an orc infiltration, the first one for many months.

Pizgal Durbûrz shambled up to them, and, after saluting, stuck the point of blade into the pot and dug out a piece of venison dripping with greasy water. "Sergeant, think it'll snow?" Durbûrz mumbled as he chewed the stringy meat, occasionally wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand.
Sergeant Ashûk surveyed the skies dubiously. "It just might, Corporal, it just might."

"I don't like to do work in snow," Durbûrz complained as his thumb and forefinger worried a piece of tough meat caught between his teeth.
"Think you'll melt?" Sergeant Ashûk guffawed, and the smaller orc beside him, Private Ulkûrz, joined him in laughter, adding, "Just like yellow snow!"

Not appreciating the joke, Durbûrz feinted at Ulkûrz' face with his huge, hairy fist, but the other orc dodged aside with a laugh.

"Harmless fun," laughed Sergeant Ashûrk to himself. "The lads need something to keep them from thinking too much about the mates that they left behind and concentrate on our purpose for being here." The company had learned to respect his leadership, his savagery in battle, and his zest for torturing prisoners. There were several things uniting them - their respect and fear for Sergeant Ashûrk, and the fact that they shared ties of blood, all being members of the same clan and sharing a common patriarch.

"If you louts are through clowning around, I want to mention that we are not here on a leisurely tour." From the tone in his voice, the men knew that Sergeant Ashûk was ready to get down to serious business, and so they fell into an attentive silence.

"Men, all is going according to plans, based on the orders I received before leaving Carn Dum. His Majesty's thrall in Rhudaur--" the low chuckles of some of his men interrupted his words but were quickly hushed when the Sergeant snarled at them, showing his formidable tushes "--knows when we are here. I expect that one of his couriers will meet us sometime tonight or in the morning. If there have been any changes in orders, Broggha will know."

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Chapter 21. The Funeral of the Undead


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Cameth Brin Palace, evening of October 23, 1347
Written by Serenoli
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"Odare!" came a shocked voice behind her ear, "Why are you wearing these jewels? You look like you're going to someone's wedding, not a funeral!"

Odare pouted, and reluctantly allowed Tarniel to pull off the small chain of amethysts adorning her neck. She protested half-heartedly, "I hate wearing no jewellery, I feel so... bare!" She lovingly pulled the amethyst chain back again, and turned to Tarniel, half-pleading, "Look at it, don't I look... well, almost pretty when I wear them? Besides, it's not like," she lowered her voice to a whisper, "it's not like Nauremir is really dead!"

They heard soft footsteps near the door, and Tarniel took it away again. "You know it's a secret! Don't ever mention it, that's what father said to us. Not a murmur of this must reach the Hillman, so you'd better just forget the fact that he's not dead!" she whispered vehemently.

Behind them the door opened. It was the Elven-tutor, Arinya, come to fetch them. Tarniel hid the amethysts in a fold of her dress while replying composedly that they would be ready soon.

When Arinya left them, she said, "Come on, Odare, just put on that onyx brooch over there, you'll look fine. Even Mother does not know of the secret, Father said the only way to keep it safe was to have the least number of people in the know, and already too many people know. We have to put up a good show of grief, emulate Gimilbeth, and you can not do it with purple gems on your neck. Are you listening to me, Odare?"

For Odaragariel was looking down at the onyx brooch in Tarniel's hand, unmoving, almost hypnotised. She started, gave herself a small shake, and said mechanically, "Of course."

She took the small brooch, and began to pin it up, but her thoughts had strayed years back. She could remember that brooch so well... the last time she had worn it had been, perhaps, the worst day of her young life. She could remember so clearly her father, stern as he always had been, but almost cheerful that day, taking her two brothers for a great boar-hunt. She had been only seven, and her father had deemed her much too young to be going, and besides, "You're going to be a little lady, my girl, and you could not possibly go hunting in your pearls and satin."

She had not even said goodbye to them. Sulking and locked in her room, she had watched with jealous eyes from her window, as a large company headed by her father, tall and proud on his horse, set off. They were to be gone only a day or two... when a week later, they hadn't returned, a search party was sent out. They brought back the dead body of her elder brother, and her mangled but still alive younger brother. She remembered the grisly sight well... and she had been almost relieved when he finally died, because he had been in so much pain... Her nurse had pinned this brooch to her when she went to witness their burials...

As for her father, his body had never been found - only bits and pieces, scraps of his clothing, jewelery that was on his person. No one stated the obvious, but Odare knew all too well that what had attacked them had been the trolls that frequented the Ettenmoors. And if her father's body had not been found, that meant he had not just been killed, but eaten. She remembered how as a child, her nurse had frightened her with tales of how trolls would spent hours arguing over how best to eat their prey - boil them, or roast them, or turn them into jelly - and she even used to sing some nonsense rhyme about trolls and their eating habits. She did not need anyone to tell her what had happened to her father - her imagination had painted the picture too harshly for her.

Suddenly sobered by the memory, she did not find it hard to 'put up a good show of grief' as she went downstairs with Tarniel. Tears were already welling up somewhere inside, and she felt a lump in her throat. She thought idly that perhaps... she might even out-perform Gimilbeth for once.


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An inner chamber in the Fortress of Carn Dum, evening of October 23, 1347
Written by Angmar
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The King held the long, dark hair between thumb and forefinger as he chanted a low incantation. Then, clasping the strand in the kindred fingers of his other hand, he slid his digits down the line. Winding the strand about his right forefinger where lay the Ring, he smiled.

"Weak mortal, how foolish you were to oppose my will! How you have flattered yourself to think you could circumvent my designs! Did you not know what mischief could be wrought by the possession of only a single strand of your hair? I perceive that you feel now the effects of the bewitchment I put upon you, but you have no discernment yet what is the cause of your distress."

It was at these times that all the infirmities, all the suffering, the indignities that he had endured, did not seem to matter quite so much. Was it not a gift that he possessed - a gift so powerful that he could slay the unfortunate wretches with his mere proximity and sometimes only a thought? How she must suffer, he pondered, as she slid into the total abandonment of all hopes, all dreams, all aspirations, to die so lonely... so cold and lonely.

However, the king did not wish her death, for nothing would be served by it. He could be generous when the occasion demanded, and sometimes if the Ring upon his finger did not protest, he could be kind. He chose now to be kind and so he withdrew the spell of the icy cold chill of gloom.

"Princess Gimilbeth, how naive you remain! Could you ever grasp how merciful I am being to you? Even if you did, would you be appreciative?" He smiled again. "We shall see."

"My dear lady, though you neither know it or wish it, you could be quite useful to me, but to exert this much of my will upon you requires strong spellcraft and concentration. Now I shall strive to pull you closer to me, but not yet to bind you."

The icy blue flames licked over the single dark hair and quickly reduced its component elements to ashes. When sufficiently cool, they were mixed with a single drop of blood whose arcane powers were more valuable than would be any amount of gold. Placed in a silver phial, the ashes were then housed in a secret chamber. The door of the chamber had been artfully designed to appear as nothing more than part of the wall, but its delicate mechanism could be quickly opened by only a thought from the king's mind.

The king held the minute substance between a thumb and a forefinger. "Now, Princess Gimilbeth, you will find that your exploration into the occult was not wise, for you have gained what you never would have sought - my attention. Many a more powerful spirit than you has rued the day that this bane has befallen him."

"Perhaps we shall meet soon, Princess..." If any could have seen his face, they could have seen that the king was smiling sardonically.

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Cameth Brin Palace, evening of October 23, 1347
Written by Gordis, Elfhild, Angmar and Serenoli
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Dressed in an elegant black gown adorned with tiny droplets of diamonds, Gimilbeth stood alongside her family near the open coffin. Nauremir lay pale and lifeless, his hands resting on the jeweled hilt of the sword that was placed upon his body. The Hall was crammed with nobles and servants, come to say their farewells to the popular young man. More people from Cameth and Tanoth Brin, attracted by the sumptuous event, were allowed in to pass by the coffin, to gawk at the Royal family in mourning and to exit by the rear door.

Seneschal Curugil was half-reading, half-chanting the customary funeral service, endlessly long and made in the language so ancient, Adunaic not Westron, that most of the audience could only understand a few words here and there. Gimilbeth was fluent in Adunaic, but still she felt her attention waver. She had heard this service so many times… far too often indeed.

Gimilbeth took out a lace kerchief and wiped away a pearly tear from the corner of her eye. She turned her head to look at the royal family. There were the King and the Queen, the latter crying softly and so very naturally… Hmm, likely the King had not told her the truth yet.

The faces of the two princes and Tarniel were carefully blank, the latter seemed slightly uneasy, though. But Odare played her role to perfection. There was such a real unfeigned sorrow on her face that Gimilbeth felt a grudging admiration. Odaragariel of Mitheithel was a promising young lady!

Making a mental note not to underestimate her in the future, Gimilbeth turned back to look at the coffin and shivered. It was so cold in the Hall… cold and dark… Why were the candles dimmed?

Gimilbeth felt icy darkness well up and pool upon the floor. The darkness was not a mere absence of light, but a living thing, cruel and suffocating, cutting away all sounds. She could not see or hear the others, she was alone in a cold stone tomb… being buried here alive… buried forever… to die so lonely... so cold and lonely.

After what seemed as an eternity had passed, a sound finally cut through the veil of icy darkness. Someone was weeping … Was it herself?

Gimilbeth felt hands on her shoulders. There were people milling around and asking questions. Then her father’s face came into focus. There was concern in Tarnendur’s eyes.

"You are unwell, my daughter. This grief proved too much for you. Sarador here will take you to your rooms. Go and rest."

***

"The fit of despair was a good touch," Tarniel thought to herself, impressed by Gimilbeth's show. "I had no idea she cared so much about Nauremir, but what she is doing is truly noble!" Perhaps her half-sister still had a good heart, underneath all the wrappings of black magic and wickedness.

Gimilbeth was doing a great job of acting, so much so that it almost seemed real. Or was it real? The King certainly seemed to think so. Or was that all part of the act? Tarniel was confused. However, everyone who knew the truth about Nauremir had to do a good job of feigning grief, for if anyone ever suspected that Nauremir was not really dead, then the young man was doomed. She glanced over to Odaragariel, who was weeping profusely. Tarniel looked down and bit the inside of her cheek. Those who knew that Nauremir was not really dead were making such a big show, and those who did not were overcome with true grief. Concentrating on thinking about something sad, Tarniel forced tears to rise up, and then, blinking, she sent a few sliding slowly down her face. Bringing her handkerchief up to her face, she cried softly, joining in the drama of mourning for the bewitched Nauremir.

***

A watchman on the tower was the first to see Lord Broggha's procession winding its way up the hill. Soon the King and all the palace were aware that Broggha was on his way. After housing their mounts in the palace stables, the Hillman and his followers went to pay their last respects to the deceased Nauremir. Alert that Lord Broggha's arrival might cause trouble, the guards were wary as he entered the room of sorrow.

The other mourners nervously greeted the Jarl, and more than a few raised their eyebrows at the sight of the long-haired, grimy old man who walked beside Broggha. It was Hrani, the shaman of the hillmen. Silently the old man shuffled up to the bier and peered down to the "dead" Nauremir. Softly cackling to himself, Hrani lay his ear on the man's chest. Then the old shaman did what the Tarks considered an extraordinary thing. He suddenly let out a howl, leaped into the air, and began chanting and muttering to himself, shaking his hands and stamping his feet each time he landed back to the floor.

With a supercillious smirk upon his face, Broggha announced, "The shaman is calling upon the Spirit of the Bear to help guide the departed to the happiness of the other world."

Continuously chanting, the shaman pulled a polished bear bone and a gourd shaker from his soiled and ragged robe. Then he twirled the bear claw around three times, hissing and shrieking. As he shook the gourd in one hand, he placed the tip of the bone on Nauremir's closed eyelids. Never having seen anything like this before, the shocked mourners were speechless at this strange display and muttered louder.

Hrani turned to Broggha and tapped on the large man's shoulder. Broggha bent his ear to listen to what Hrani said, and as the man talked to him, Broggha's face lit up with a cunning smile. Raising his hands for silence, Broggha announced in a loud voice, "The shaman of my people informs me that a terrible mistake has been made. Some essence of the deceased's spirit is trapped within his body, and longs to be free! It would be a horrible mistake to inter him while life still remains! Hrani will now perform a ceremony which will release the remainder of young Nauremir. Lest any of you be afraid that the body will be damaged by this ritual, be relieved to know that only small holes are required."

To the incredulous gasps of the mourners, Hrani drew a needle from the small case that he clutched in his hand. Smiling to Broggha, the old man grasped the needle between his fingers and prepared to plunge it into Nauremir's heart...

Five urgent voices shouted out "Stop!" in unison, and Daurendil, always the man of action, jumped straight at Hrani to knock the needle out of his hand. Broggha, suddenly angry, and at the same time triumphant at having caught them out, said, spitting his words out with difficulty, "Now what kind of man would protest at a chance of restoring his best friend's soul? Unless there is more here than meets the eye, and your Nauremir is not really dead, and you're just -"

Daurendil had thrown the needle under his foot and was grinding it, unable to properly articulate any reply. Broggha was interrupted, not by the over-wrought prince, but by a much colder voice, every syllable uttered frigidly, "What are you and your Shaman suggesting? That I have embalmed a still-alive person?" It was Sarador, looking more vulture-like than ever, more affronted than ever before.

"Why don't we make sure?" said Broggha, with a truly evil smile, and pulled out a knife. "After all, a dead man will feel no pain."

"Stop!" Odare shouted, "I won't let you desecrate his body!"

Hrani said, pushing past the prince, slowly rising to his feet, "But it's not really desecration, we're only freeing his spirit!"

"And what proof have we of that? You may believe in this tinkering fool, and his Spirit of the Bear, but I do not! I will not have Nauremir be sacrificed to your heathenish ways!" Daurendil had finally found his voice, and he had struck the right chord with the stunned mourners.

A murmuring had started, which became louder every minute. They were suddenly reminded that this Hillman was instrumental in Nauremir's death; and now he had the affontery to show up and disturb the sacred rituals of burial - and for a Dunedain, burial rituals were highly traditional, and highly sacred - and all of a sudden, Broggha and Hrani found themselves being pushed slowly but inexorably backwards by an eeriely quiet crowd of people. Inch by inch they felt themselves being pushed backwards, and somewhere along the way, Broggha lost his knife. They were over the doorstop now, and with a resounding bang, the door closed shut in their faces. But not before someone had thrown a spare egg at the Hillman.

It was said in later songs, that the egg, once broken, had immediately fried on Broggha's red, hot angry face; in fact that Hrani ate it, too, with every appearance of enjoyment. This fact has not yet been strictly verified, and should be taken with a pinch of salt; as should the omelette.

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Broggha’s estate near Cameth Brin, evening of October 23, 1347
Written by Angmar ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Literally expelled from the funereal chamber by a deadly silent group of mourners, Broggha and Hrani found themselves out in the hall, where Broggha's bodyguard was waiting. One look at Broggha's livid, ruddy face told his men that something had gone wrong and the Jarl was enraged. All hoped that they had done nothing to be the recipient of the Jarl's ire.

"My lord," Griss asked with concern, "what has happened?"

Turning on his captain, Broggha roared, "You fool! Your assumption that Nauremir was dead was unfounded! The man is as alive as you are!"

Hrani had a smug expression on his face. "The old magic is the best magic!" he cackled.

Griss was becoming increasingly nervous. "My lord, from all indications, Nauremir appeared to be dead!"

"That shows what you know!" Hrani howled in delight at the other man's distress, while Griss' face paled. He was terrified of the old shaman, as were most of the other hillmen. It was said that whoever was foolish enough to incur the shaman's wrath was doomed to suffer nothing but ill fortune. Only last month, one of the men had accidentally bumped into old Hrani as he was passing by. The next day, the poor fellow was covered from head to toe by horrible puss-exuding boils.

The soldier had suffered horribly, unable to sleep for the intense pain, until his brother had brought Hrani the dressed meat of a large buck which he had killed. In addition to the venison, it took three kegs of mead and a bit of silver before the old shaman was fully pacified. The next day after the delivery of the gifts, the soldier's skin was almost free of the evil-looking pustules.

"There is nothing gained by staying here," Broggha growled. "We will return to my keep."

Around the great table in Broggha's hall, his men were subdued. The presence of Hrani made them all nervous. At the head of the table, the Jarl was silent as he drank his tankard of mead. The eyes of all the men were on Hrani. The old shaman watched the fire in the great hearth. The old man's eyes were closed as he softly chanted, clutching the bear claw amulet that he stroked and rattling the gourd shaker. Then from the leather pouch at his belt, the old man pulled out a handful of something that looked like sand. Holding the amulet aloft, he howled and threw it into the fire.

Evil-looking green flames belched from the fireplace, filling the room with flames and a reeking stench. Shrieking in terror, all the men except Broggha jumped back, knocking over their chairs as they rushed towards the doorway. The Jarl sat nonplused, drinking his ale, as he listened to the shaman's chanting wails fade to nothing.

"What evil witchery is this?" Griss exclaimed in fear and bewilderment as he saw flames twisting around the form of the wildly jumping and dancing Hrani.

"A spell, you fools!" Hrani's ancient voice crackled in delight. "Resume your seats and no harm will come to you! Only Nauremir and his friends will suffer!"

Looking at each other fearfully, the men made their way back to the table, which they found was unharmed, untouched by even the slightest trace of soot. The only evidence that anything at all had transpired was a lingering greenish haze and a hint of sulfur.

[scribe]

Chapter 22. Shaman’s Curse

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Cameth Brin Palace, night of October 23 - morning of October 24, 1347
Written by Gordis, Elfhild, Serenoli, Earniel and Rian
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Gimilbeth slept little this night. At first the cold dread she kept feeling after her vision at the funeral feast banished sleep away. She lay on her sweat-soaked pillows, musing on her predicament. It was evident that she had managed to attract the unwanted attention of some powerful magician. Gimilbeth started shaking when she fathomed what dreadful power was needed to send her the nightly dreams and even the horrible waking vision she experienced recently. And the knife spell that went wrong and rebounded on her... She had no doubt that she faced a Black Numenorean, who appealed to the same Powers of Darkness she just started to use. A Black Numenorean on Broggha's side? There was none in Broggha's train when the Hillman passed through Tanoth Brin or at the feast, of that she was certain. Was the Sorcerer away, acting from a distance? Could he be in Angmar? It was unlikely, this land was too far away... She remembered again the Black horseman on a forest path. Perhaps he still camped near, a day's ride from Cameth Brin, to give magical help to the Hillman puppet. If so, he should be driven away. Gimilbeth decided to send Rangers to search the woods to the north of Cameth Brin on some pretext. Recently when reading Star Charts she was warned about a possible orc attack. It was a good excuse to send troops out. Nobody was bound to question her word - wasn't she named "the Star-Sayer?"

At last, after drinking a big cup of mead laced with poppy, Gimilbeth slept. But her dreams were wild. She was again shut in a coffin in her family crypt. She heard the faint echoes of the funeral service, but couldn't move or make a sound. The coffin was tight and suffocating. the little air there was strangely smelled of sulfur. She felt grave worms crawling over her body... No wonder, she herself had foolishly prevented Sarador to embalm her properly... Now the disgusting white larvae were feeding on her cold flesh...

She awoke with a cry, sending her cats flying from her bed with offended hisses. But the worms were still there... She felt them crawling over her arms and bosom, along her legs...All her body itched.
Frantically, Gimilbeth ran to the chimney, stirred the fire and added some fresh wood to have more light. She tore away her lace nightdress and flung it into a corner. The flickering glow revealed the rush of angry red pustules on her arms and legs as well as on her breasts and stomach. Thoroughly frightened now, Gimilbeth scratched the boils with her long nails, but only made matters worse, drawing fresh blood. Striving not to wail in dismay, but to think clearly, Gimilbeth dipped her finger in the blood and hastily drew on her left thigh the Five Runes of Protection, common on many a Dunedain shield. This simple ancient spell against Evil she knew all her life as most of the other Dunedain did, so it came to her mind first.

She doubted that so simple a spell could counter so powerful magick, but surprisingly it did. Even as she watched, the angry red boils paled and vanished altogether, without a trace, not only from her thigh, but from other places as well. Only the scratches of her long nails remained on her arm.

Gimilbeth sank to the floor thinking. Perhaps she over-estimated the powers of her adversary. Maybe it was a simple shaman's magick used by Hillmen, not Dark Sorcery she had been facing. If so, she knew what to do. She fetched an old golden charm from her trunk - a gift from Serinde - and clasped the thin chain around her neck, berating herself for not wearing it always, as she had been told.

The rest of the night passed in frantic activity. Gimilbeth donned an old gown and fetched paintbrushes and silver and golden paint from her still room in the Palace basement. By dawn her room was re-decorated, elaborate runes of protection adorning the walls, the floor and even the ceiling. This time she used not the Five runes of the Faithful, but the Nine Runes of Downfallen Numenor, able to counter the most powerful Black Magick as well as most Elven spells. Finally satisfied, Gimilbeth smiled. Now her adversary would have a hard time getting to her. She doubted she would ever have to bother about the hapless sorcerer again.

Feeling new confidence, Gimilbeth called Nimraen and ordered a bath. She had to repeat her orders twice, as the bewildered maid stood gaping at the golden and silver runes that appeared magically on the walls in one night. Her mistress had no illusions about the gossip this happening would entail, but she knew from bitter experience that no threats could prevent maids from talking.

Gimilbeth took her time bathing and making herself beautiful again. Finally, dressed in elaborate morning gown, she went to visit the King, to tell him about her astrological revelations and to ask him to send Rangers to search the woods to the North.

***

A loud, resounding shriek broke the quiet peace of the morning, causing everyone in that wing of the palace to start and look around in alarm. The dreadful scream had come from Tarniel's room! Brandishing their weapons, the guards rushed into the chamber, expecting to see a host of hillmen attempting to kidnap the princess. Instead, they saw that Tarniel was alone and unharmed, and not an enemy was in sight. The girl was on her knees before a mirror, her hands clasping her face. Wailing sobs shook her shoulders.

"My lady, what is the matter?" asked one of the guards, concern in his voice.

"Go away!" she sobbed, not taking her hands from her face. "Please just go away!"

At that moment, Odaragariel came rushing in the room, just as the bewildered guards were shuffling out.

"Tarniel, what is wrong?" she asked as she knelt beside the other girl.

"Oh, it is just horrible!" Tarniel wailed. "When I looked in the mirror, I almost fainted! Never before has anything like this happened to me!"

"What happened?" asked Odaragariel. "Are you hurt?"

"No," Tarniel shook her head. "At least not... physically." Slowly, she lowered her hands from her face, which was a shade of angry red from crying, and also from the swarm of livid pimples which dotted her once-smooth skin like a hideous rash. "I... I do not know what is wrong! Never have I been so afflicted with these malignant blemishes in all my life!"

"I know who is behind all this," Odaragariel stated grimly. "All of the servants are talking about it. Gimilbeth the witch has turned her chamber into a sorceress' lair, with arcane runes covering the walls, ceiling and floor! She probably cursed you with this malady!"

"Oh, no!" Tarniel wailed, feeling utterly despondent. And just the day before, she had actually had a good thought about her evil half-sister!

"Come on!" said Odaragariel, shaking her head imperiuosly, "we'll get that witch and force-" and she stopped suddenly.

For as she shook her head, a whole clump of hair had fallen out - just like that! - and lay in a yellow mass at her feet. She lifted her hand, felt around on her scalp, her face dangerously still, and when she removed it, clinging to her hand were pathetic tendrils of her own hair.

She felt the anger rise until it was a foul taste in her mouth - so it wasn't the best hair in the world, so she had envied Gimilbeth's lovely mass of shiny black hair - but it was her hair! And no one messed with her hair, she messed it enough on her own!

She tried to frame some words, and failed. Tarniel was saying, "uh-oh" under her breath. They exchanged looks, and as one, they rushed to Gimilbeth's room.

They crashed her door open, and began screaming at once, their voices mingling into each other, both taking the worst words their little princess vocabularies had (Tarniel in particular, highly skilled at taking innocent words and making them sound foul) and hurling them at Gimilbeth, and both ending with twin threats of "Fix it, or else!" Although, Odare was thinking, "Fix it AND else!!"

The effect of all this eloquence fell rather flat when they realized they had been shouting at an empty room, completely devoid of the evil half-witch Gimilbeth in all respects.

***

Before Wilwarin had decided what she was supposed to do, both princesses had rushed out, determined to face the perceived perpetrator of their curious maladies. The guards, also unsure and baffled into silence, let the girls pass unhindered as well.

The guards looked at Wilwarin. Wilwarin looked back, equally bewildered.

“Shouldn’t we, er, follow them?” one of the guards asked Wilwarin after a moment of silence.

“No,” Wilwarin said slowly, “I don’t think we should … unless you want to get between them and Lady Gimilbeth at the moment.”

The guards looked indecisive.

“It would not be a good idea,” Wilwarin stressed knowingly.

By now, angry screams could be heard from the opposite end of the floor. The guards looked at one another. Job security finally won and an unanimous decision was reached.

“We’ll.. em.. return to our post then.”

With a nod to Wilwarin the guards left the princesses’ wing and went back to their stations.

Wilwarin let her breath escape with a hiss. She scratched her head and surveyed the now empty room. Well, that had been an unexpected ‘attack’. She realized she still had her blade drawn and put it back in the sheath. She decided this seemed like the best time to consider her guarding duty for the night as fullfilled.

She walked over to the door and removed the remainder of the silk thread with bells that had been torn by the hasty entrance of the guards. At least this had proven the guards would arrive quickly in case of a real emergency.

Tarniel’s and Odaragariel’s maids came in to clean up their mistresses’ rooms as Wilwarin habitually withdrew to her own small room. While she unbuckled her belt and prepared to go to sleep, she couldn’t help but shake her head. The way things were looking right now, an assault by Hill Men seemed to be the least of the royal troubles. With a sigh, she briefly wondered whether she – or anyone else for that matter - had the required capacity for this bodyguard duty. The king had definitely failed to mention bears, boils, spontaneous hair loss and witch-sisters as daily dangers in a princess’s life…

Wilwarin lay down on the small bed, but she doubted she’d get much sleep that day.


***

Gimilbeth's sitting room was empty and silent, dimly lit by the weak morning light filtering through the high arched windows with diamond panes and a softer glow from the chimney in the corner. The air smelt of alien, exotic flowers and fruit. Shadows dwelt in dark corners and everywhere - on the walls, floor and ceiling - there were large ominous runes in silver and gold. The girls, now subdued and silent, stood looking around in awe and wonder.

Tarniel jumped and cried out when she felt something brush her hand. It was a big black furry cat now sitting atop an armchair and looking at her with sly green eyes. The girls noticed that a number of other cats filed silently into the room. Holding each other's hands, Tarniel and Odare turned to face the door, knowing already what to expect. And indeed Gimilbeth was standing in the doorframe, a warm smile on her face and ice in her eyes.

"What a pleasant surprise to see you here, dearest sister! And you, Odaragariel," said Gimilbeth in her rich musical voice, with just a trace of mockery in it. "I heard you shouting... What is amiss?"

Tarniel was too frightened to reply, while Odare was seething with rage which rendered her equally mute. So she made an eloquent gesture with her hand indicating Tarniel's face. In shame, Tarniel covered her cheeks with her hands again.

"Let me see..." Gimilbeth took Tarniel's arm in a iron grip and half-led, half-dragged her sister to one of the windows.

"Why, pimples!" she exclaimed. "Pimples! My dear child, there is nothing unusual about it. You have grown up, dear child, you are becoming a woman, so it is natural that your skin suffers. You have to watch what you eat, avoid sweets and Khandian coffee and try to eat more oats and raw yeast. You can also apply some yeast to your face, it might help. Anyway, in a decade or so it will pass..."

"But it is awful!" cried Tarniel, finding her voice. "No one of my friends had this illness! Why me?"

"It is an affliction quite common for young maidens," replied Gimilbeth with false kindness. "Those of pure Numenorean blood do not suffer from it, but, unfortunately, your mother's blood is not as pure as that of our father. Everybody knows that your great-grandfather, Lord of Nothwa Rhaglaw, had married a half-Hillmen maid. Now you have to face the consequences."

It was more than Odare could stand. "You... you... you evil witch!" she screamed. "It is all your doing! Look at my hair! It is falling out! And it has happened to us on the very same night when you painted your accursed runes on all the walls!"

Gimilbeth dropped her hand from Tarniel's arm and glided to a low Khandian divan. Adjusting the skirts of her magnificent yellow gown, she reclined gracefully amidst embroidered feather cushions.

"Don't make hasty judgements, Odaragariel," she replied at last, the mockery in her voice now unmistakable. "And don't get so upset, darling. Your hair is so poor anyway that you will do better with a wig."

"A wig!" squeaked Odare, stomping her foot, her eyes ablaze.

Gimilbeth was thoroughly enjoying herself and the situation. Her smile became even sweeter. "You must have caught some contagious disease, child. Cats sometimes suffer from it. I can give you a fine remedy made of bear's grease mixed with boiled urine. You will have to rub it onto the skin of your skull thrice a day and in about a month..."

Odare went wild. Breathing heavily, she snatched a delicate porcelain pot from the table and smashed it against the wall to emphasize her point. But nobody had the opportunity to learn what her point was to be, as at this moment someone banged on the door and rushed into the room without waiting for Gimilbeth's permission. It was one of Sarador's apprentices, a somberly dressed scholarly young man, visibly distressed. He addressed Gimilbeth even before he had time to bow to the assembled highborn ladies.

"My Lady, Master Sarador bids you to come down into the vault at your earliest convenience. A most unusual thing has happened overnight! The dead body of Master Nauremir got covered with boils!"

Gimilbeth fell back onto the pillows and laughed.

They all regarded her in silence, the assistant much too bewildered at her reaction to what he considered a not-very-funny situation, while the two girls were pondering the depths of evil to which Gimilbeth had sunk to. Actually defacing a helpless invalid (whom she made invalid with her little poisons in the first place) and then laughing... that settled it, Odare told herself, if Gimilbeth was laughing, that proved she had played this mean trick on all of them, and as was quite evident, was enjoying it immensely.

She turned to the stunned assisstant and ordered, "Leave now, right now!" As soon as he was gone, she turned to Gimilbeth, who was still chuckling to herself, and said, "Shut up! Shut up right this moment, or I shall-"

"Do what? Shout at me? Break more of my possessions?" She had gone from laughing to dangerous in less than a second, although her lips gave a small twitch every now and then, as if the laughter was fighting to escape. She got up like a lazy cat, and came closer, to say to her in almost a whisper, "If I had chosen to use my magic on you, darling, you wouldn't just be losing your hair."

"You're right. It wasn't you. You wouldn't dare! Because if it was once proven against you, if your witchcraft could just once be proved against you, you'd have to answer for it. The king has tolerated you for this long, but if he decided not to anymore, where would you go then, Gimilbeth? All your little herbs," she picked up another pot from the table and sniffed it delicately, and went on recklessly, even as Tarniel's face grew white underneath the reddish pimples, "and all your magic have never yet suceeded in catching you a husband in all this time ... it's been what, a hundred years? I may not have your beautiful hair, but I have my own land to go to and -"

Her voice was drowned out by a shrill cacophony of meaows and hisses. All the cats in the room were slowly backing away, creating a nice empty circle around Gimilbeth and Odaragariel, as if they could sense their mistress' anger and wanted to be far, far away from it, and indeed, it took no genius to read Gimilbeth's face right then. If she were a cat, her hair would have been on end, and her claws would have been out, and she would have been hissing and spitting like a snake. As it was, perhaps the timely entrance of Arinya, sent this way by Sarador's frightened assisstant, was... fortunate. For Odare, at least.


***

Arinya walked quickly down the corridor towards Gimilbeth's room, where she had been directed by the agitated assistant. Her sensitive ears picked up a bewildering variety of noises: loud, racous laughing, voices high and strained with anger, the sharp crash of something breaking, and oddest of all - hissing cats?

Coming up to the door, which had been left slightly ajar by the departure of the flustered servant, she paused and tried to listened briefly to assess the situation, but all she could hear were the cats, until ...

"Why don't you come in, Arinya? I imagine you could hear better from in here!" Gimilbeth's voice was colored with its usual cold, superior politeness, and her words held their usual veiled sting.

Ignoring the insult, she walked through the door. Her eyes opened wide as she beheld the disarray, and she blinked her eyes to make sure she was seeing straight as her gaze fell upon her charges and their afflicted faces. The girls, seeing her expression, self-consciously looked down for a moment, then looked back up defiantly.

Arinya looked over to Gimilbeth, who was gazing at her with a curious expression, not unlike the hissing cats that surrounded her. She said quietly, "I was looking for the young ladies, as it is time for their lessons. Sarador's assistant directed me this way. Hearing unusual noises as I came, I naturally paused to assess the situation in case of danger - you know that we have all been enjoined to be cautious these days..."

"Oh, naturally you would do that - I imagine you do it all the time," responded Gimilbeth. "For safety's sake, of course, I mean," she added, enjoying exploring the tutor's reactions. She had not bothered with her much before.

"Well, since all is well," continued Arinya with a raised eyebrow, "I will ask the young ladies to join me." She held out a hand to each of the girls. They hesitated, conflicting emotions fleeting across their faces, and then took her hand. Arinya could feel Odare trembling, and Tarniel was biting her lip nervously.

Holding their hands firmly, Arinya nodded graciously to Gimilbeth, who was now reclining on a sofa stroking one of her cats, and left the room with the two girls.


***

Odare, always the more vocal person, glared up at the tall Arinya, and demanded, "And how exactly were you planning on curing us without forcing that WITCH to undo her spells?" At this point, her anger became a bit too much for her, and she burst into tears.

Tarniel, still hiding her face, gaped in astonishment, as Odare, angry at herself now for the tears, sobbed even harder, and in little gasps, said things like, "My hair... and Tanriel's face... oooooooh, she's so so eviiiil....." She was breathing in heavy gasps, and stopped talking, deciding that that was the best way to stop the tears.

Arinya, bewildered and non-plussed, turned to Tarniel, who began to explain, interrupted every now and then by angry sobs from Odare about just how she would enjoy roasting Gimilbeth alive, or rending her to pieces, or even cutting off that fantastically thick hair of hers.

"But, if I remember correctly, the runes you saw drawn around her room... some of them looked like the Five Runes of Protection to me... are you girls sure Gimilbeth is the one who did this to you?"

"Who else could be so MEAN?" screamed Odare.

"Odare, control yourself! You are no longer a child, and there is no need to wail like one!" snapped Arinya, her patience sorely tried.

Odare subsided into sullen mutterings, and apart from an agonized, "I'm NOT crying, I was... coughing!" she remained silent.

"Maybe Gimilbeth was simply protecting herself from the same spell that has afflicted you two. At any rate, it can not hurt to try them on you."

Tarniel looked up, blinking. "Who would cast a spell upon the witch of Cameth Brin?"

"I do not know," Arinya shook her head, "but obviously whoever it was also cast spells upon others, including you."

"Well, give it a try then," demanded a very upset Odaragariel. "I do not want to be bald!"

"And I do not want to be pock-marked for the rest of my life!" wailed Tarniel.

Intoning a low chant in Elvish, Arinya drew the runes with her fingertip upon the top of Odaragariel's head and upon Tarniel's face. Rushing to the closest mirror, the three waited breathlessly to see what would happen next. After a few moments, the red blotches on Tarniel's face began to fade and the loosening hairs on Odaragariel's head rooted themselves into her scalp once again.

"Oh, thank you, thank you!" the girls cried joyfully, weeping tears of relief as they embraced the elf woman.

Smiling, Arinya laughed and said, "See, you worried for naught and, in your panic, blamed the wrong person for your maladies." A troubled look then crossed her face. "But now I must wonder who DID cast this spell."

"Perhaps Gimilbeth has found an enemy," Tarniel spoke up, her eyes widening in alarm. "Only evil comes to those who dabble in sorcery!"

[scribe]

Chapter 23. The Mail Pigeon

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Belzagar’s modest townhouse in Cameth Brin, morning of October 24, 1347
Written by Angmar
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"Have a seat, Authon." Belzagar rose to greet his assistant. "The servants will soon bring something to take the chill from your bones."

"Thank you, my lord," Authon bowed his head and took a seat in Belzagar's sitting room.

"What news do you have for me this morning?" Belzagar asked as he rifled through a sheaf of manuscripts while he took an occasional sip from a tankard of warm mead.

"My lord, you already know about the spectacle at the palace last night when Broggha made an ass of himself at Nauremir's funeral."

"Ah, yes, a most unfortunate event," Belzagar looked up from a document which he had been skimming and turned to Authon. "While I realize the man is little more than a barbarian, one would think he could exercise enough control over himself that he would not let his temper get the best of him. However, he has the devotion of his people, which makes him - if not the best for the position - the only available candidate for the work. What did your spies in his hall tell you this morning?"

"His shaman, Hrani, has been displaying his limited powers of magic, impressing Broggha's men and causing quite a stir. The word is that the old man has tossed out a few simple spells which will do little more than bring distress and embarassment to Nauremir and his friends."

A dark shadow crossed Belzagar's aristocratic face. "Broggha's idea of personal revenge. The man oversteps his bounds continuously, and the North will not be pleased at his latest follies. Broggha must be impressed to exercise more discretion, more caution, more self-control. All these things do little more than alert King Malvegil that unusual things happen in Rhudaur - as if he did not know that already! When old Tarnendur receives word of what happened last night - and you can be sure he will - he will be at Weathertop in conference with King Rómendacil. There is no point in announcing our presence here!"

"Yes, my lord," Authon replied gravely.

Belzagar smiled and put his hand on the other man's shoulder. "Do not look so glum, my friend. Things go remarkably well in spite of the blunders of Broggha. Now tell me - how did Pizbûr Ashûk over at the Trollshaws take to the arrival of the crates of the new messengers? The brute did not want to eat them, did he?" he chuckled.

"No, my lord," Authon smiled slightly and then looked back to Belzagar. "I have no doubts that he would have found the lot of them tempting morsels, but when he was impressed with the severity of such an action and its attendent penalties, he was quite tractable."

"Deceiving, are they not, those gentle, innocent birds? Who would believe that His Majesty would think of using such an innocuous device as a pigeon to relay dispatches between us and the orcs! No one will ever suspect!"


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North-East of Cameth Brin, morning – late afternoon of October 24, 1347
Written by Gordis
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Once the princesses and their tutor were out of the way, Gimilbeth hurried downstairs to have a look at Nauremir. There in the vault a fit of giggles overcame her again, much to Sarador's indignation. To appease the old surgeon, whose mood was even worse than usual because his old joints were exceptionally painful this morning, Gimilbeth quickly chanted an incantation and drew the five runes of power on the lid of the coffin. The boils that covered Nauremir's face magically disappeared.

"What in Ungoliant??!!! How is that possible?" exclaimed Sarador. His province was potions and drugs, and everything supernatural left him flabbergasted. Moreover, his own joints stopped aching as well, though he forbore to mention it to Gimilbeth.

"Everyone has his own methods," Gimilbeth replied matter-of-factly. "Have you heard how Masters Daurendil and Amantir are faring this morning?"

Sarador looked at her suspiciously. "I heard Amantir has fallen ill. He has a fever and all his body is covered with an angry rash. I was going to check on him when I was called here. As for Daurendil, he seemed fine. He was here at dawn to visit Nauremir. He was the first to notice Nauremir's condition and called me to help."

"Ah, so..." drawled Gimilbeth. She was thinking furiously. It seemed that it was a collective curse affecting Nauremir and all who helped him. Or just all the Royal family? Anyway it was strange that Daurendil and the King did not suffer from it...

Gimilbeth took a piece of parchment and drew the five runes that proved so helpful against the night's spell. Proffering the piece to Sarador she said, "Put it on Amantir's chest and he will be fine."

Amantir was the one of her siblings whom she disliked the least. He was a quiet, bookish boy, very much in awe of his oldest sister.

She was climbing the stairs when the thought hit her. Both the King's and Daurendil's rooms were full of weapons - walls decorated with old swords, axes and shields. No wonder that at least one of the items had the protective runes engraved on it!

Once the riddle had been solved, Gimilbeth's mood brightened considerably. Humming a tune, she went to change into her new stylish riding outfit. The day was splendid and she decided to go falconing.

This type of noble entertainment was another of the Southern customs recently introduced to Rhudaur. Tarnendur looked at it benevolently, as he himself became addicted to this sport during his time in Gondor. The princes, however, as well as most Rhudaurian Dunedain, preferred traditional bear, boar and moose hunts with dogs.

Soon a merry company of knights and pages led by Gimilbeth left the castle. Leaving the protection of the walls, the cavalcade turned North-East to a large plateau almost level with the fortress. This stretch of sparsely wooded highland was delimited on all sides by dangerous precipices and accessible only by the King's road leading to Cameth Brin and from the city itself. King Tarnendur declared it the King's private hunting ground, forbidden to commoners.

Autumn is a good season for hunting. Migrating geese and ducks were flying overhead, heading South for the winter. There were also fat partridges, hiding in the bushes. Zimra, Gimilbeth's favorite female peregrine, was doing wonders. Gimilbeth was already considering heading back home when she spotted a speck in the sky. She watched it idly for some time, half distracted by the beauty of the sun setting over the foam of the High Waterfall.

The speck came closer. It was a mail-pigeon, exhausted by a long flight from the South. It was coming down purposefully, obviously heading straight for the City.

Gimilbeth never could tell what made her do such a thing... Everybody knew that some people used mail pigeons; nothing unusual about it. But she had an odd feeling - she knew that this bird was important. She removed the cap from Zimra's head, allowed the bird to notice the lonely prey and urged her up.

Lazily, just to oblige her mistress, as the peregrine had already eaten her fill, Zimra started to ascend in wide circles. If the pigeon were not so tired, or not burdened by its message, it could have evaded the falcon easily. But the mail pigeon was so concentrated on its goal that was already in sight that it noticed the bird of prey too late. The pigeon descended almost to the ground and changed direction trying to reach the thick bushes at the rim of the precipice. Zimra was too well-trained for this clumsy maneuvering to deter her. She dropped down like a stone from the great height and hit the pigeon with her clawed talons. A little heap of bloody feathers fell to the ground and Zimra let out a triumphant squeak.

Gimilbeth rode to the spot, dismounted and took the remnants of the bird to examine it. There was a silver cylinder tied under one wing. Leaving the pigeon for Zimra to eat, Gimilbeth opened the tiny tube and glanced at the papers. Her heart started to beat faster, when she saw that they were in some code, impossible to read. It was a spy message from the North, now she was certain.

"But my lady, wasn't it a mail pigeon?" asked Gwindor uncertainly. The knight was staying nearby looking at the papers in Gimilbeth's hands.

"I am afraid you are right, Gwindor," Gimilbeth replied with a sigh. "I am so sorry I mistook it for a duck. But I shall deliver the message to its owner with my apologies and I shall pay for the pigeon."

She sent Gwindor away, to tell the others that the hunt ended, then took one of the three thin sheets and put it back into the tube. Two other sheets she pushed deep into the bodice of her gown. The cavalcade turned back home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The road to Penmorva, west of Cameth-Brin, afternoon of October 24, 1347
Written by Angmar
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a splendid day for a ride. The sun was out and the weather was cold and invigorating. The spirited horse pranced merrily, its breath turning to steam in the frosty air. With the explanation to his chamberlain that he would be trying out his recently purchased new stallion that afternoon, Lord Belzagar had ridden away from his home in the lower city. Riding across the bridge over the moat, Belzagar had reined his horse right and turned northeastward on the road to Pennmorva.

A few miles upstream, he halted his horse on the bridge that spanned over the tributary that fed into the Hoarwell. He had always liked this spot where he and his mount were suspended on the bridge. To the Southeastward, he could see the Long Waterfall where it plunged over the chasm and fell to find a gentler course to enter the Hoarwell to the northwest. It was impossible to carry on a conversation on the bridge, for the water was so loud in its descent that it drowned out all else. Strangely enough, Lord Belzagar was able to find a certain peace when he watched the turbulent water.

He feasted his eyes on the scene of the water as it was buffeted and churned into a white, foaming fury, falling into spray and mist as it dropped into the basin at the foot of the falls. There, it boiled and tumbled, trapped in a whirlpool, before breaking free to find its way to the river. An object tossed into the upper reaches of the falls would plunge downward to the pool where it would be caught, dragged below the surface by the force of the water.

Legend had it - though it could never be verified by anything written in the official archives - that the falls were haunted by the spectre of a beautiful young woman. As the story went, a highborn lady had been spurned by her lover. Having no wish to live longer without him, she had cast herself from the wall to her death in the gorge. Her body had never been found.

"A tale to entertain the idle in the taverns on cold winter nights," Lord Belzagar mused. Whether there was any truth to the story of the beautiful spectre or not, Belzagar knew that there were far more likely candidates for ghosts to haunt the waterfalls. A few times, not enough to worry about, some of King Tarnendur's spies had learned too much about Belzagar's own spy network.

Belzagar had never witnessed one of these executions himself, for being pure blooded Dunedain, he thought somehow that it was below his dignity to participate in a common murder. Authon, of course, had no such compunctions, and beneath his outward exterior of pleasantness and goodwill, there beat the heart of a cold-blooded killer. Authon had always made it a point to be with his henchmen when they flung some poor wretch into the boiling cauldron of the Long Waterfall. Investigations of these unfortunate deaths had always been inconclusive, and the final judgment had always been that the victims had either died from suicide or unfortunate accidents.

Belzagar could spend no more time musing on the magnificence of the waterfall and the river. He touched his heels to his horse's flanks and took it into a trot. His fast-stepping mount soon bore him away from the rush of the waterfall. Coming to a grove of evergreens, he reined off the side of the road and let his horse rest. The horseman who was waiting there for him rode out to meet him.

"My lord Belzagar," the man inclined his head in respect, "good afternoon. How do you find your new mount?"

"A splendid animal, Authon, worth every penny I paid for him. Come, let us ride a bit and you can see his paces. I am sure you will be impressed."

As the two men rode together, Lord Belzagar would alternate his horse's gait from a walk to a trot to a canter and finally a long, mile-eating lope. Reining the horse down to a walk, Belzagar then set the animal into a gentle, rocking rhythm that was easy upon the rider.

"Well, what do you think of him, Authon?" Belzagar stroked the side of his horse's neck as the spirited animal rolled the bit in its mouth and pawed the ground.

"A truly outstanding animal, my lord." Authon was impressed. "And you say he was bred in Arthedain?"

"Aye, his dam was from the stud of the king of Arthedain. She was sired by his prized stallion, and out of a mare of the finest pedigree!"

"My lord, he should serve you well."

"Aye, Authon, I am convinced that he will. Now, what news have you brought for me?"

"My lord, an odd bit of information came to me from a lady's maid in the palace. The wench swears that it is true. It seems that the royal princess Tarniel's flawless white skin has been stricken by a rash of blemishes and the girl was despondent. Lady Odaragariel seems to be suffering from some sort of mange."

Lord Belzagar looked bored, and he turned his horse back in the direction of the waterfall. "Authon, you bring me palace gossip about trivialities? I am disappointed in you."

"But, my lord, there is more. I have it on good account that the Princess Gimilbeth has redecorated her room."

"What, Authon!" Lord Belzagar laughed without mirth. "I see little significance in the fact that the lady's tastes have changed." Lord Belzagar disdainfully arched an aristocratic eyebrow.

"If the word from the palace is true, my lord, she has warded her personal chamber with runes of great protection! Why should the royal princess do that?"

Belzagar yawned, his breath coming in vapor in the cold air. "Old news, Authon. Can you do no better?"

"Aye, my lord, I believe I can." Authon's cold eyes flickered briefly in resentment before turning from the other man's to watch a hawk circling high above them. When his gaze moved back to his master, all traces of offense had vanished. "I have also been informed by my sources that Sarador's apprentice paid a visit to the Princess Gimilbeth and her visitors this morning. The lady's maid who was passing by in the hall just happened to overhear what he said."

"Authon, I should hope that you can do better than to tell me the news of ladies' tea parties. But out with it, man! I do not have all day!" Belzagar was always irritated at the way Authon enjoyed dolling out information a piece at a time. "The man has a spiteful streak in him and derives far too much enjoyment in getting away with as much as he can without openly angering me."

"It seems the corpse of Master Nauremir was found to be covered in boils. Rather strange for a dead man, would you not say, my lord?" Authon replied smugly.

"Quite." Lord Belzagar's left hand came up to his chin, and he stroked reflectively at his well-trimmed beard. "You have done well, Authon. We will ride back now. I need to prepare this evening's dispatches for our winged messengers to take north. A draught of warm mead would do us both a wealth of good. "

As the two men trotted their horses back along the Pennmorva Road, Lord Belzagar spoke amiably of many matters with his assistant. All the while, he composed in his mind the dispatches that he would be writing later.

His Majesty must be kept apprised of the thrall, Broggha. Belzagar did not quite share His Majesty's confidence in the man. "Far too hot-headed," he thought. The business with Nauremir, of course, had at its roots Broggha's animosity with the young man. While Broggha's shaman, Hrani, was competent in simple spells, the old man was far too flamboyant and attracted too much attention. Belzagar would continue watching that situation, but there was little to fear there unless Broggha got word of the condition of the corpse and caused trouble. Perhaps a well-placed word of warning would suffice. All of these things would be noted in his letters to the North.

He would mention once more the arrogant attitude that Authon had assumed of late. The man was becoming insufferable in his pride. Lord Belzagar considered that possibly he would be the next "suicide victim" over the falls if he did not begin to assume more humility. His Majesty allowed him to use his own judgment on most occasions, but still it was better to let him know his reasons for taking action before it was absolutely imperative that he should do so.

Though he had downplayed the importance of the information that Authon had related, Belzagar had found the information about Princess Gimilbeth quite interesting. Obviously, the high-born wench had mastered the simpler forms of spellcraft and was learning the deeper ones. If she ever became a true adept of the arcane, Belzagar did not doubt she would use her abilities to aid her father. Possibly her sights were set even higher, and she had plans to employ her newfound powers in obtaining the throne herself. Her latest activities would be duly recorded in his letter, but the strong feeling came over Belzagar that His Majesty already knew.

Lord Belzagar halted his horse on the bridge over the tributary. As Authon looked into the other man's mist-gray eyes, he had the sensation that he was hurtling over the waterfall, plunging to his doom into the pool at the base of the falls. Belzagar smiled.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At the Gate of Cameth Brin, late afternoon of October 24, 1347
Written by Angmar and Gordis
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After the little incident with the mail pigeon, Gimilbeth’s company turned back home. The sun was nearing the horizon, when at the city gates they met two other riders coming up the King's Road from Tanoth Brin. Gimilbeth recognized the elegantly dressed Belzagar flanked by his servant.

"Greetings, Lady Gimilbeth", Belzagar said, bowing. "What a splendid autumn day! I see you have been hunting?"

"Good evening, Lord Belzagar." Gimilbeth smiled enticingly and urged her gray horse closer to Belzagar's beautiful new stallion to ride side by side. "We have been hunting indeed... Plenty of game on this plateau. We have had a nice day, but for one unfortunate accident."

"I am aggrieved to hear it," replied Belzagar with concern in his voice. "Is anyone hurt?"

Gimilbeth turned her head to look straight into Belzagar's eyes and asked, "Do you use mail pigeons, my Lord?"

Belzagar's voice was edged with a slight trace of perplexity as Lady Gimilbeth looked into his face. "Aye, as a matter of fact, I do, lady... strange that you should remark about that. Why do you ask?"

A totally artless smile on her face and concern in her voice, Lady Gimilbeth replied, "As I mentioned earlier, there was a most unfortunate accident while I was out falconing. Zimra, my peregrine, was a bit overeager this afternoon and brought down a mail-pigeon." Opening a small pouch at her belt, elegantly embroidered with the royal family crest, Gimilbeth extracted a silver cylinder. With apology written all over her face, she extended it to Lord Belzagar. "Does this belong to you?"

Taking it from her outstretched hand, Lord Belzagar looked down at the cylinder. "Why, yes, my lady, this does seem to be one of mine. My gratitude for returning it to me." The picture of courtly courtesy, he gave her a charming smile, nodding his head slightly as he handed the cylinder to Authon. "The witch is not telling me everything," he thought angrily to himself.

Suspicion etched in Authon's eyes, he glanced over to exchange a look with his master. Possibly reading some message revealed in Belzagar's expression, Authon's eyes darted away to pretend interest in a knife sharpener's shabby wain that was passing through the gate.

"Oh," the lady said in an enticingly sweet voice as she leaned towards him, "it was no trouble to return your property. Now I must insist upon recompensing you for the loss of your bird."

"No, my lady, I would not think of accepting anything for the bird," he replied graciously. "Accidents sometimes happen, and this one is certainly not your fault." Curse her anyway! Why did she not leave?

"Are you certain?" she asked, her voice sounding concerned.

"Of course, my lady. The bird was of little consequence, and I have many others in my mews to take its place."

Belzagar had begun to feel more than a little uncomfortable. "The blasted woman has her horse so close to mine that I am certain that she is studying my every nuance, the tone of my words, the expression on my face, trying to read something there." His face a pleasant mask, his full lips radiating a smile that did not reach his eyes, he was confident that her suspicions had not been aroused by anything which he had done.

"My lord Belzagar, how very fascinating!" she enthused. "I was unaware of your interest in mail-pigeons. Whatever do you use them for?" she asked innocently, far too innocently for him to believe that her artlessness was not contrived.

"My lady, I have many kinsmen scattered about the country. The messenger pigeons help keep me apprised of births, deaths, and such things among my many relatives in the far-flung regions of the kingdom. I have been expecting news concerning an uncle of mine, who is advanced in years. His health is not good. I am trusting that the dispatch contained in this cylinder holds news about him."

"My lord Belzagar, what an excellent way of keeping in contact, and how thoughtful of you to be so concerned about your ailing uncle!" The witch is being sarcastic, he thought.

A trace of contrived sadness now in his gray eyes, Belzagar bent his head before regaining eye contact with Lady Gimilbeth. "I was always fond of the old gentleman."

"My hopes are that his health improves. I will not keep you any longer, my lord." Lady Gimilbeth extended an elegantly gloved hand to place on his arm. "Again, I am truly sorry about the pigeon, and I hope that I haven't put you to too much inconvenience. I will keep your uncle in my thoughts. Now may you have a good evening, my lord," she exclaimed before touching her heels to her gray horse's sides.

"Authon, I think I need a stout drink of mead after that."

[scribe]

Chapter 24. The Secret Code

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Cameth Brin, evening of October 24, 1347
Written by Angmar
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Back once again in his manor house, Lord Belzagar hurriedly made his way to his private meeting chambers, where he and Authon found that the servants had a fire blazing in the hearth. Giving their cloaks over to Belzagar's servant, they waited until the man had left the room. Going over to the dark oak table, Belzagar opened the message tube. Quickly skimming over the writing on the thin sheet of paper, he looked up to Authon.

"Either Sergeant Ashûk was drunk when he wrote this, or he has lost his mind."

"Why, my lord, what is it?" Authon asked in concern, moving closer to view the paper.

"The account starts out well enough... the usual information about supplies and stores. Then Sergeant Ashûk reports that his company is eager to be put to work and awaits orders... all expected comments. Nothing out of the ordinary here. That sums up the first page, until down near the bottom. There, Sergeant Ashûk begins writing that one of his scouts states that upon several occasions, he has observed an elf spying on him in the woods. No conflicts are reported... Now, blast it, Authon, that is all there is!" Belzagar clasped the paper in his hand and glared at Authon. "The sentence ends right in the middle. There should be another page. Where is it?"

"My lord, perhaps the woman knows more than she is telling, but you should not worry overly much about it. Even if she has taken the rest of the message, the only ones who can read that code are those who have been trained in the North on how to read it."

"I would not be so sure of that. Princess Gimilbeth is rumored to be a witch. Who knows of what she is capable?" Belzagar muttered as he walked to the hearth, balled up the sheet of paper and tossed it into the flames, where it quickly ignited and turned to ash.

"Lord Belzagar, what can we do if the woman has the rest of the letter?" Authon's eyes had narrowed to slits. "Should I endeavor to find a way to remove her quickly? These things can be done, you know!" Authon had suddenly become very eager, his eyes taking on a cruel expression. "In a situation like this, possibly the lady could receive a lovely gift... a jewel box of sandalwood inlaid with mother-of-pearl. When the hinges are opened, a small pin is activated. The poison is deadly, and death occurs in a matter of a few minutes."

"Do not be a fool, man! That is far too dangerous, and there always might be a way to trace the box to us. I must send a message immediately to Lord Alassar. Ready the raven Honalnût. His Majesty must be informed!"


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cameth Brin Palace basement, night of October 24, 1347
Written by Gordis
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Gimilbeth threw her quill across the room and cursed in frustration. All her attempts to decipher Belzagar's message had failed. The table was littered with notes, lists of runes, cryptic signs and calculations. She had determined the frequency of every cryptic rune in the accursed message, but still couldn't find the corresponding Tengwar runes.

She tried Westron, then Sindarin. Should she try Quenya? - Hardly a good idea. Whoever had written the cryptic signs was not a cultured person, of that she was sure. The lines were scribbled by a hand more used to a sword than to a quill: the lines were uneven and identical signs were written in quite a different manner. There were also some scratches, made not by the quill, but likely by the writer's long nails. A woman? Most unlikely, considering that there were also some large greasy fingerprints on the thin paper.

The paper itself was a wonder. Nothing like the usual paper made of wood, or a parchment. This one was thin, almost transparent and practically weightless. Gimilbeth knew what it was - rice paper. Long ago, back in the Second Age, Numenorean mariners brought rice seeds from the other side of the world beyond the Gates of Morning. Now the crop was cultivated in Far Harad in an old Numenorean settlement where a great river flowed into the Sea. The crop needed warm climate and lots of water, so the attempts to grow it in other places had failed. Rice paper was a rare commodity and the price one had to pay for it would make even rich lords like Belzagar think twice.

So, who was this poorly educated person with greasy fingers and long nails who wrote on rice paper in a code impossible to decipher? There was only one other way to find the answer - sorcery - and Gimilbeth was determined to try it.

After consulting a couple of books, Gimilbeth prepared a potion that helped to reach a trance. Holding the rice paper sheets in her hands, she drank the potion and chanted a long spell in ancient Adunaic attempting to trace the one who wrote the message.

Slowly, her vision of the room blurred and she saw high, ragged cliffs, pine trees swept by the wind, a cave... There were some creatures milling around, creatures of small stature with long arms and ugly faces clad in leather jerkins and crude helmets... orcs!!! There were plenty of them!

One was larger and stronger than the others, and he had weapons of finer workmanship. He was skewering something - a rabbit or a hare, as much as Gimilbeth could tell. Choking in disgust, she watched as the creature clawed at the furry hide with its long nails and wiped its bloodied fingers on its pants.

Long nails and greasy fingers...So, noble Belzagar was in league with the orcs!

Gimilbeth had enough and broke the contact. She felt dizzy and bone-tired. She would have time to think about the implications tomorrow. She curled up on a small bed in the corner, but sleep eluded her.

It was already late at night. Gimilbeth was working in her secret study in the Palace basement, deep underground. There were no windows there and the door was locked, latched and enspelled.

As for Gimilbeth's usual rooms on the ground floor of the Palace, this night an ambush was set there as a surprise for possible night assassins. All candles were long extinguished and a dozen Dunedain guards with drawn swords were positioned in Gimilbeth's empty bedroom waiting for an intruder.

While speaking with Belzagar in the afternoon, Gimilbeth became acutely aware of the danger. The noble Lord's face had revealed nothing, but Gimilbeth was pure-blood Numenorean royalty, able to read the hearts of men. She felt Belzagar's uneasiness and fear. And much more revealing was his servant's face and the white knuckles of his hands on the horse's bridle. If Belzagar were indeed a traitor and a spy, he might well send someone to kill her this night, once he discovered that some sheets were missing from the message.

Another thing Gimilbeth had done was to send spies to watch Belzagar's mews. Now every bird coming to or going from the mews would be reported and its direction followed. Also the poorer neighbors around the area and their servants were promised a rich award for reporting any unusual activity in Belzagar's townhouse.

Gimilbeth decided not to tell King Tarnendur about her discoveries. She was unable to decipher Belzagar's message. At a trial, it would be her word against his. She had no incriminating proof - as yet. Belzagar was going to be closely watched and sooner or later, he would make a mistake. What Gimilbeth was going to do then, she has not yet decided. If her attempt to get Arthedain's or Gondor's help failed, she would need help from the North. And now she knew who could transmit her secret message to the enigmatic King of Angmar. Belzagar likely was his spy in Cameth Brin.

Unknown to Gimilbeth, the Palace was astir with gossip. The very upset Gondorean maid, Nimraen, let her tongue wag freely in the Maid's Common room upstairs. She was not well-loved by the other servants, being a foreigner, and a haughty foreigner at that, but this night almost all the servants in the Palace were there to listen.

"'They told me to leave my room and go sleep here, upstairs!" complained Nimraen. "And my Lady is closeted in her study below. Afraid of MURDERERS she is! And that in the very Palace! Never has such a thing happened before, I tell ye!" she cried, shaking her head in horror. "Royal ladies and their maids unable to sleep in their beds! and an AMBUSH set in my Lady's rooms! What are we coming to?"

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Belzagar's modest townhouse, Cameth Brin. Late afternoon of October 26, 1347.
Written by Angmar ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authon could see by the expression on Lord Belzagar's face that he was sorely displeased. The spymaster's chief assistant had just come into Belzagar's meeting chamber, and after being offered a chair, had sat down.

"I take it the news is not good, my lord?" Authon frowned as he took the goblet of wine offered by a servant.

"Not one pigeon has returned from the Trollshaws! It has been like this since yesterday when that witch, Princess Gimilbeth, was up to her tricks! I believe, Authon, that she and her agents are actively hunting our birds and intercepting the messages from our troops in the Trollshaws!" Lord Belzagar's face was flushed and angry as he stood warming his back by the growing fire in the great hearth.

"What can we do?" Authon asked nervously.

"Nothing!" Belzagar was close to shouting. "Not one thing!"

Authon cleared his throat uneasily. "What about messages from the North? Anything there?"

"No, and I do not expect anything. I took a chance yesterday and sent the raven Āmbal flying with a message to Lord Alassar in the North. I explained that the Princess Gimilbeth's falcon had destroyed one of our homing pigeon. And, of course, I detailed my suspicions that her agents are spying upon us. I further advised of the danger of using birds as messengers, at least for the time being."

"My lord!" Authon exclaimed. "Basically that leaves us cut off and isolated here in Cameth Brin! We can neither send nor receive dispatches by raven or pigeon!"

"Aye, Authon, and you know what is far worse than that!" Usually calm and unruffled, Lord Belzagar was far more upset about the developments than he would ever let Authon know. "The Princess' agents will be watching our every move!" His face grim, Belzagar shifted his weight uneasily by the hearth.

"Then what are we to do, my lord?" Authon asked after he had gulped down a hefty swallow of wine.

"We must rely upon our trusted dispatch riders, our couriers. Of course, considering the vast terrain, much of which is rough and without roads, the delivery of messages will be slow!"

"My lord, I still think that you should allow my men and me to dispose of the princess. We could take care of it in ways that would make it seem like an accident." Authon's cruel eyes showed the first signs of emotion that they had since he had arrived.

"No!" Lord Belzagar exclaimed angrily. "We have been over that! Any attempt to kill her now would be far too dangerous!"

His face pale, Authon finished his goblet of wine. "Then, my lord, what do we do? Sit here and wait while the Princess plots against us and tries to collect enough evidence to prove our treason?"

"She can prove nothing!" Belzagar snapped irritably. "You ask what we are to do, Authon? Why, nothing. Nothing at all! We will go about our lives as honest, upright citizens, while all the time your agents continue collecting information. In time, the Princess will grow bored with her games and find something more interesting."

Accepting another goblet of wine from a servant, Authon looked to Lord Belzagar, and then shrugging his shoulders, he said, "It might be a long winter."

A smile flickered across Lord Belzagar's face. "Interesting that you should mention the winter, Authon. We never know what tricks His Majesty might have up his sleeve."

[scribe]

Chapter 25. The Witch-King’s Hunt

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Angmarian countryside, October 25, 1347
Written by Angmar
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The day was a fair one for this far north. The weather seemed auspicious and promised an excellent opportunity for the lords of Angmar to have the excitement of a week of hunting before the cold northern winds of November blew their chilly breath and covered the land in a blanket of snow until March. Lady Gelireth, the current favorite of His Majesty, looked truly outstanding that morning in a dark green woolen riding dress; matching ermine-lined cloak; kid gloves of the finest quality lined with fur; and snug sheepskin-lined boots, designed to keep the delicate feet of which His Majesty was so fond snug and warm should the weather turn foul.

Men with tracking dogs had set out ahead of the party, and when the prey's trail was picked up, their function was to send back word to the main group. Servants, too, had been sent out to set up a hunting camp for the royal party, where the King and his guests could take brief refreshments before setting out on the ardors of the hunt.

Lady Gelireth rode beside the king, her two beloved black and brown moosehounds trotting dutifully beside her horse. Her men-at-arms came along behind at a respectful distance. At some length behind them rode the royal nobles and their entourages.

His Majesty's elkhound, a powerful, well-muscled brute, tolerated the lady's two dogs, but there was no doubt whatsoever in anyone's mind who was the leader of the three. Lady Gelireth had presented the dog to His Majesty when it was only a pup. When she had asked him what he planned to name the hound, in a mood of levity he had replied, "The beast shall be known as Gil-galad." It was certainly true that His Majesty was pleased with the hound, which had grown into a strong animal capable of long endurance and thoughly devoted to His Majesty.

"Gil-galad," His Majesty gave a quiet word to the dog, which wagged his scimitar-curved tail in recognition, "will the hunt be good today?" The animal replied with an excited bark.

"Your Majesty," said Lady Gelireth, her face flushed a charming rosy pink with the cool air, "I think that must mean the hunt will be a fantastic success!"

"Perhaps," the King replied, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

By midmorning, the party had reached the hunting camp that had been set up by the servants. After a light repast - at which some of the lords consumed far too much ale - the group was ready to set off.

Around mid-day as the sun reached her apex, an excited courier approached them on his lathered horse. After drawing up and saluting the king and his lady, the man gave his message. "The beast has been found in his lair at not too great a distance from where you are now, my lord king!"

"Well done, my good fellow!" the King thanked him.

Lady Gelireth, who loved to hunt, quivered and twitched from the top of her head to her dainty toes, warmly ensconced in the sheepskin-lined boots. Turning to the king, she laid a delicate hand upon his arm and looked into his eyes. "I am so excited, my lord!" Her breathless voice came out in frosty puffs of air. "Could I not talk you into allowing me to try my hand at taking down the brute? I can wield the lance well for a woman."

"Nay, my lady love, 'tis far too dangerous a thing for you to attend, and besides that, a woman's strength is not up to wielding a lance. You may watch at a safe distance, however," came his patronizing reply. She curled out her lower lip in what he considered a very becoming pout, and gave him reason to dwell more on the adventures of the bed-chamber than it did upon the rigors of the hunt.

With an upraised hand in the air, the king signaled that the hunt was to begin. Touching his spurs to the sides of his magnificent gray stallion, he bounded away behind the courier. With a loud blaring of horns and shouts of jubilation, the lords upon their horses set out behind him in a wild gallop across the country. Some of the nobles who had more than their share of drink teetered in their saddles, but since all were excellent horsemen, righted themselves and set off with the usual dash and aplomb of the hunt.

The huge brown bear had made his den under a great, spreading ledge, which led back inside the side of a hill. The huntsmen who had gone ahead had set up piles of fallen wood on both sides of the opening of the cave to smoke out the bruin. The beast must have been far back inside the twists of the cave, for he was reluctant to come out, and so the huntsmen set the dogs inside to drive him out. A horrendous barking and yapping ensued from the mouth of the cave with several wailing yelps, signaling that some of the hounds had been injured in the contention with the bear.

The slow brush wood was by this time fully engulfed in flames and belching out a dark gray smoke, showering cinders down upon the backs of the huntsmen. Soon, though, with a great pack of dogs driving at his tail, the bear rushed out between the smoking piles and out into the open, growling and snarling his anger at his tormentors.

An eager lord, lance in hand, hurled the spear at the bear, but the beast was moving too quickly and the lance fell short. Another whose mark was far truer sent a stout missile, which caught the bear high on the back but missing the spine. Wounded, the animal bellowed in rage, and made straight for the Lady Gelireth, who, in, in her thoughtless excitement, had ridden her mount closer than her lord would have approved.

Dripping blood from his wound, the beast charged into her mount. The terrified horse reared, and the bear's claws ripped into its stomach, eviscerating the beast. Screaming, the lady was thrown over the horse's head as her mount crashed down to its knees. The bear, its great mouth open wide, turned glittering eyes upon her.

The king touched spurs to his horse's flanks, and the mount bounded forward. With an angry squeal, the horse rose on its hind legs in an oft-practiced military maneuver, its hooves flailing the air. Crashing down savagely upon the bear's back, the horse pounded the beast with its hooves, distracting the bruin from its intended victim. With a howl of rage, the bear turned away from Lady Gelireth, who crawled away on her hands and knees. The King of Angmar was quickly off his horse's back, and with a snort, the gray stallion scampered out of harm's way.

Menacingly the bear stood to its full height of nine and a half feet of angry fifteen hundred pound fury, towering above even the king. Lady Gelireth, safe for now in the arms of one of her guards, screamed hysterically, "My lord! The beast will slay you!"

The King laughed as he hefted his lance in both hands. "This is not my day to die." Lady Gelireth could not bear to look as the snarling bear lumbered on its back legs towards the King, closing in on him rapidly. Drawing back the lance, the King hurled it into the creature's chest. The beast screamed in pain, clawing at the embedded lance. Though the King had wounded the animal in the chest cavity, he had not struck the heart, and the animal, though wounded, was far from dead.

Lady Gelireth buried her head in her hands and fainted dead away in the arms of the guard who held her. Eschewing magic, the King drew his double-edged sword from the sheath. With both hands holding the sword around the hilt, the king waited. The frenzied bear, mouth agape, teeth gleaming, bore down on the King. When the bear was close enough that the king could feel the heat of its fetid breath, he rammed the steel blade home into the creature's mouth, the point emerging through the back of its skull. The bear lay at his feet, writhing and thrashing, spewing blood from its mouth, the back of its head and from the lance wound in its chest.

"'Tis dead," the King pronounced quietly. Walking over to the Lady Gelireth, he picked her prone form up, and as his horse knelt for him, he was soon in the saddle with her in his arms.

"Skin the brute. 'Twill make a fine covering for my bed this winter." With a few more instructions to his men, the King urged his horse through the parted assembly of nobles and set off on the ride home to the tower and fortress of Carn Dum. Their three hounds, their heads low in embarrassment, fell in mournfully behind his horse. With a low, melodious chant and a deep, passionate kiss, he awoke the Lady Gelireth, who looked up at him in confusion.

"My lord, I was so frightened. That beast could have been your ending," she murmured as she sat up in the saddle.

"It would take more than that to kill me. Much more, I think," he said reassuringly.

They were scarcely more than halfway home when they heard a loud squawk above them. The King halted the horse as the raven glided in and perched upon his arm.

"Open the cylinder, my lady," he instructed her.

Taking the container from the bird's leg, she extracted a thin sheet of paper, which she handed to him. "What is it, my lord? May I be so presumptuous as to ask?"

"You have always been presumptuous, my pet." He blew a teasing puff of cool air over her neck. "Belzagar and Authon have both made a botch of it, jeopardizing our entire operations in Cameth Brin and elsewhere. Apparently, he was careless enough to allow a message from our orcish warriors to fall into the hands of the Princess Gimilbeth."

"But, my lord, everything is in code. What might it matter that someone should read it? They could never understand it."

"If she can decypher the message, the Princess will be made aware of the spying activities of Lord Belzagar, and not only that, but the presence of the orcs in the Trollshaws. With this knowledge, she will doubtlessly urge her father to execute Lord Belzagar and Authon and send a force of soldiers to drive out the orcs. No doubt now 'tis no longer safe even to send the messenger birds south. I have other ways of warning the orcs, but I fear that Lord Belzagar is lost. I will, however, send a courier who might reach him, but 'twill soon be time for the winter storms to sweep over the land."

"Is there naught that can be done for Lord Belzagar and Authon? Though both are knaves and scoundrels, Lord Belzagar has always been quite devoted to you, Your Majesty. 'Tis a shame to let them die."

"Both men are exceedingly cunning, my lady. I will do everything I can for them."

They rode for some time in silence. Then the King observed quietly, "Never underestimate an ambitious woman, and the Princess Gimilbeth is that, for the Lady wants power, and will achieve it however she might. Not only is she well-versed in intrigues, but I perceive her to be on her way to becoming an accomplished sorceress. Far better would it be if her talents could be turned to other uses."

The horse trotted along, its breath steamy vapor about its nostrils. Lady Gelireth, lulled by the gentle rhythm of the horse's hoofbeats, was almost asleep when she felt the lips of the King upon her cheek.

"Oh, my ardent King," she giggled, "we are not even home, and the weather has turned cold!"

"Ah, my lady," he murmured as he nuzzled her neck, "I can make it a lot warmer..."