Intrigues & Sorcery. Shadow Over Rhudaur II

[Witch-king of Angmar]

Eryndil



Two Letters

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

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

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

“Yes?” called Eryndil.

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

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

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

“Yes, Sir Eryndil.”

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Valandil




October 22, 1347 - mid-afternoon

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

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

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

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

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

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

The guards let them pass, and the two entered the lower city with heads cast down. When they had walked a block or two past the gates, the one in brown spoke once more to the other.

"We are here, Master. How shall we pass our first night in town?"

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

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

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


Gimilbeth



Cameth Brin Palace, morning of October 23, 1347.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Heggr



Early Morning, October 23
The Hare and Thistle Inn, Cameth Brin

Although he had considered it a great hardship, Heggr bathed that morning. What Heggr called a "bath" consisted of merely washing his face, hands and feet, and putting on a clean tunic and breeches. He had considered even that a great imposition.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Witch-king of Angmar]

Amantir



October 23rd

Today the healer had pronunced that Odare, at least, might leave her bed. Amantir, who had not seen her since the day of that disasterous feast, decided now might be a good time to visit her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Daurendil



Cameth Brin, morning of October 23.

In the morning, Prince Daurendil went to visit his friend Nauremir, one of the victims of the memorable night of the feast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Amantir



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

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

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

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

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

"Support?" he quizzed, eyebrows raised.

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

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

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

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

"No, your brother Amantir!"

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

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

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

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

And with a lopsided grin, he walked off.


Odaragariel of Mitheithel



There was a knock on the door. Amantir, who had been pacing around his room, deciding the exact words he would say at the Counsil meeting, shouted, "Come in!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Broggha



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Aye, my lord," she replied.

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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


Tarnendur



The King looked around the Counsil table. Everyone was there: Daurendil, flushed and visibly nervous on his right, Gimilbeth immobile like a wax figure on his left. And in the next chair there sat Broggha, large, sumptuously dressed and confident.

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

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

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

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

Broggha



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Daurendil



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

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

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

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

Then, Amantir, shakily began, "Um, Good morning, I thought I'd just, um..."

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

[Witch-king of Angmar]

Tarnendur



The sight of the droll trio at the door lessened somehow the tension in the room. Old Nimruzir of Fennas Drunin slapped his tight and laughed aloud approvingly, while the younger counselors, Elured and Belzagar smirked quietly. Gimilbeth arched her brows in disapproval, striving to remain non-committal. Broggha kept morose silence, biding his time.

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

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

Tarniel remained silent, close to tears, her cheeks pink from embarrassment. She felt Broggha's daring gaze on her face and bosom and that unsettled her even more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We second that!!!" cried Amantir and Odare. Tarniel brought her cold hands to her burning cheeks and remained silent, wishing she were leagues away from this room.

Tarnendur's pent-up frustration suddenly resurfaced. He brought his fist down on the table with a crash.

"Get out of here! Now! Don't you dare to meddle uninvited into the affairs of State! Get out and close the doors."

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


Odaragariel of Mitheithel



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

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

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

Amantir went off to his room alone, with a brooding look on his face, and that left the two princesses alone. For a while, neither spoke, then Tarniel said, "Umm, do you want to come with me to see how Hurgon's painting is going?"

She was aware that Tarniel was resisting the urge to say 'I told you so' and trying to divert her thoughts from what had happened. So, with a half-smile, she said, "Yes, lets do that."

Tarniel



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

As she listened to the words which flew back and forth between the King, Amantir, Daurendil and Odaragariel, she prayed that no violence would come from the meeting. She shuddered to think of another explosive confrontation like the one which had happened at the feast.

Hearing her father's roar, Tarniel was taken aback, for the king was usually gentle and mild-mannered. He must certainly be incredibly wroth! Tarniel grabbed Odaragariel's hand and began desperately trying to pull her away. Her whispered urgings eventually persuaded Odaragariel and Amantir that it might be a good idea to leave, but Amantir got in the last word.

None spoke on the retreat from the council chamber. Mumbling some lame explanation, Tarniel dismissed the bewildered guards.

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

To break the silence, Tarniel asked the other princess if she wanted to see the progress of Hurgon's painting. It would be a pleasant distraction, much needed after the excitement of earlier. They might as well enjoy themselves before the king had words with them.

Odaragariel agreed, and soon the two were walking down the stairs of the tower, heading for the painter's studio in the palace.

Broggha



Relishing the situation, Broggha watched as King Tarendur reprimanded the three young people - Amantir, Odaragariel and Tarniel - and ordered them from the council chambers. While the king had handled the awkward situation in an appropriate manner, still Broggha knew that the old man must be embarrassed at the spectacle they had presented before the council. "How truly weak he must have grown," Broggha thought, "if he cannot even control the members of his own house!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Daurendil



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

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

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

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

Gimilbeth



October 23
The Tower of Cameth Brin

Tarnendur felt heartened when he heard his Heir's uncharacteristically calm and assured statement about Imlad Mitheithel.

"The boy is right." thought the King. Perhaps he has grown at last to the stature needed to be my Heir ... but no, it seems he didn't!"

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

Pointedly ignoring Daurendil, the King turned to Broggha.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daurendil looked stunned by the awful news of his best friend's demise.

"But... but... I saw him this very morning," Daurendil stuttered. "He was doing well. How...how can he be dead now?"

What a poor dimwitted fool! thought Gimilbeth with disgust. Broggha watched them like a hawk, suspicion written plainly on his face. She wished to strangle Daurendil with her bare hands, slowly, slowly... Instead she smiled most sweetly and said

"I understand your grief, my brother. Please accept my sympathy for your loss. Nauremir died of blood infection about an hour after you left him. I was there to bring the healers some herbs and saw him die. He asked to be buried in their family's crypt at Brochenridge."

"Is he truly dead?" asked Broggha harshly.

Gimilbeth arched her brows in the most disdainful manner, practiced to perfection over the years. She replied in a voice cold and dry as snows on the peak of Gundabad.

"If you doubt my word, Lord Broggha, you can go visit Nauremir's body yourself. He will be laid in state in the vaults of the Palace for all to see and to say their final farewells, before the coffin is sent South - to Brochenridge."

Broggha



October 23
The Tower of Cameth Brin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gimilbeth



"I demand to see the corpse now!" Broggha's voice was both angry and incredulous.

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

This morning Gimilbeth had not been idle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now she stood before Broggha - false grief on her face and wicked joy in her heart - and repeated

"Whenever you wish, Lord Broggha"


Broggha



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

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

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

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

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

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

[Witch-king of Angmar]

Tarnendur



Weary and disgusted, the King listened to the words of the greedy Hillman.

"And if the treasuries of Rhudaur cannot provide the sum that I ask, there are always jewels that can be added for compensation."

With that the scoundrel looked to Gimilbeth with such an ugly smirk upon his face! The Princess with her modestly downcast eyes and tears on her long dark lashes looked at the moment delicate and vulnerable - strikingly alike to his much regretted wife Inzilbeth. Tarnendur suddenly remembered that this very morning the poor child awoke screaming because she saw in a dream the ghastly death of her loving mother... And the brigand dared to threaten her!

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

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

Tarnendur rose to his feet, his discarded chair crashing into the stone wall.

"The Counsil is closed!" he barked and made his way towards the door.

Belzagar



"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 foxed 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 Tarendur 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 hidden 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."

Finishing their goblets, the two men rose to their feet. Belzagar waited while Authon paid the tavernkeeper, and then the two men walked through the door and were away.


Odaragariel of Mitheithel



"Whats that, Tarniel?"

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

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

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

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

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

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


Sarador



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

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

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

The hapless Nauremir lay naked on a bigger table, cold and blue, oblivious to everything. Sarador chose a medium size scalpel and made ready to open Nauremir’s belly with a single practiced stroke, when an incoherent cry from the door made him stop.

Aewen



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.

The door to the keep opened, and Griss and some of the men entered inside. Broggha commanded them to sit down, and after ordering the women to bring drinks, the men began to talk of the afternoon's events.

"What news of Nauremir?" Broggha asked gruffly.

"According to the information I received from one of the maids in the scullery, his corpse is being prepared at the moment that we talk," replied Griss.

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...


Broggha



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."

"Are you certain about that?" 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, Griss?" 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 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, soon retiring back to her place at the fire.

Broggha was silent while he downed another tankard of mead. When he spoke again, his voice was softly deadly. "We did not obtain our expectations at the meeting, but consider that only a minor set back. King Tarendur 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.


Gimilbeth



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Odaragariel of Mitheithel



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Slip of tongues... too much wine-drinking... I enver meant to call her a witch.. or any of the others... you won't tell her?" he looked up anxiously.

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

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

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


Hurgon Fernik



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

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

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

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

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

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

"Let him go! Whats he done to you?"

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

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

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

He was puzzled. Why would Daurendil speak to Odaragariel like that? then he realized, there were two more principals in their little scene - Sarador, the Vulture, looking even more disapproving at the three new entries and Gimilbeth, ashen-faced and panting as if she, too, had been running. Hurgon took one look at her, and yelping, hid behind the nearest column.

[Witch-king of Angmar]

Gimilbeth



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Tarniel



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

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

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

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

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

Tarniel nodded in affirmation.

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

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

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

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


Odaragariel of Mitheithel



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

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

Hurgon had just slapped a princess.

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

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

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


Pizbur Ashuk



Trollshaws, end of October, 1347

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 Ashûrk 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."


Belzagar



October 23, late afternoon

Lord Belzagar had been in no great hurry to leave the Hare and Thistle. The inn, one of the better ones in Cameth Bryn, 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 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 say 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."

[Witch-king of Angmar]

Odaragariel of Mitheithel



Cameth Brin, October 23, late afternoon

"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, its not like," she lowered her voice to a whisper, "its not like Nauremir is really dead!"

They heard soft footsteps near the door, and Tarniel took it away again. "You know its a secret! Don't ever mention it, thats 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.


Witch-king of Angmar



October 23, evening.
An inner chamber in the Fortress of Carn Dum

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 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.


Gimilbeth



Cameth Brin Palace Hall. Evening of October 23, 1347.

Dressed in 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 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."

[Witch-king of Angmar]

Tarniel



"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.

Broggha



Cameth Brin Palace Hall. Evening of October 23, 1347.

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 was 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."

Continiously 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...

Daurendil



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 grounding 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 its 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.


Broggha



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.


Gimilbeth



Gimilbeth's rooms at the Palace of Cameth Brin, night on October 24, 1347.

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 an 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 a 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 hard time to get 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.


Belzagar



Belzagar's modest townhouse
Cameth Brin, Morning of October 24, 1347.

"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 ruffled 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 Tarendur 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!"


Tarniel



Palace of Cameth Brin, October 24, 1347.

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 a few days before, she had actually had a good thought about her evil half-sister.

Odaragariel of Mitheithel



"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 evil half-witch Gimilbeth in all respects.

[Witch-king of Angmar]

Wilwarin



Palace of Cameth Brin, princesses's wing
morning of October 24

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 full-filled.

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 body guard 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



Cameth Brin Palace, Morning of October 24, 1347

Gimilbeth's sitting room was empty and silent, dimly lit by weak morning light filtering through 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 with 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 down! 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, 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 trice 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. Most unusual thing has happened overnight! The dead body of Master Nauremir got covered with boils! "

Gimilbeth fell back onto the pillows and laughed.


Odaragariel of Mitheithel



They all regarded her in silence, the assisstant 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... its 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 of area 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've been hissing and spitting like a snake; as it is, perhaps the timely entrance of Arinya, sent this way by Sarador's frightened assisstant, was... fortunate. For Odare, at least.


Arinya



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 under 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.


Odaragariel of Mitheithel



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



"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 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 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!"


Belzagar



The Road to Pennmorva
Late afternoon of October 24, 1347

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.

[Witch-king of Angmar]

Gimilbeth



North-East of Cameth Brin, morning- late afternoon of October 24, 1347

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 were 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 doing this morning?"

Sarador looked at her suspiciously. "I heard Amantir has fallen ill. He has fever and all his body is covered with angry rush. 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 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 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 Zimras' 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, 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.

After this little incident, the 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", said Belzagar, 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 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



Outside the city of Cameth Brin
Late afternoon of October 24, 1347

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."

***

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!"


Gimilbeth



Cameth Brin Palace basement. Early hours of October 25, 1347

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 Quenia? - Hardly a good idea. Whoever had written the cryptic signs was not a cultured person, for 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 a 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 on a small bed in the corner and was asleep in minutes.

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 of 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 a pure-blood Numenorean royalty, able to read the hearts of men. She felt Berlzagar's uneasiness and fear. And much more revealing was his servant's face and 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 or their servants were promised a rich award for reporting any unusual activity in Belzagar's townhouse.

[Witch-king of Angmar]

Witch-king of Angmar



Angmarian countryside,
October 25, 1347

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 breif 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," 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 lay 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 of 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 contension 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 or 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 embeded 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, 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 on 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 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 hair 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."

"Never underestimate an ambitious woman, and the Princess Gimilbeth is that, for the Lady wants power, and will achieve it however she might. I perceive her to be on her way to being an accomplished sorceress. Far better would it be if her talents could be turned to other uses."

"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."

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..."


Hurgon Fernik



Cameth Brin, October 26, 1347

Early morning sunshine slanted onto the piece of canvas currently holding a half-finished portrait of Tarniel. Hurgon had sketched her features, and had done a preliminary colouring of her clothes, but he had left her face untouched.

Sitting in bed, moodily sipping wine from a goblet, he had an excellent view of the portrait. He didn't like it. Once he had finished painting it, he knew it would be realistic. It had the right amount of noses and ears and eyes, and of the right shape, and the right distance from each other... but something was missing. He felt it in his bones. Something was missing, which made his potrait a picture of Tarniel's face, but not Tarniel herself.

He pulled his palette - a wooden board with little cup-shaped dents, made specially for him by the town's carpenter - towards him, and started mixing the colours up. He had mostly brown and red earth shades to go with, for they were the easiest and cheapest to obtain, but packed in little precious containers in a desk he kept locked were the rarer hues - an ultramarine blue obtained by crushing the precious lapis lazuli, green from the malachite, and a bright crimson cinnabar red, and a white lead that had chalk undertones. He had spent considerable time and money to obtain these, and used them only sparingly. But today he would use them all, for he was determined to get Tarniel's expression just right.

A dab right there, and maybe a bold stroke there... he worked, carefully, concentrated on achieving what he wanted, his arms flying, and occasionally throwing himself on the ground to rest and take long sips of his wine (which was fast dwindling) and then getting up again, fighting the weariness that crept up into his arms, intent on finishing the vision in his mind. He placed colours where, in reality, you would never see them. He put lines where Tarniel's face held curves, he put, hands trembling, red and blue in her hair, mingling them well, and in the end, despite being throroughly frightened of actually side-stepping reality and going for 'expression' (as he put it to himself) he was done.

It was sunset now. He flopped onto the bed, and gazed dreamily at the potrait of Tarniel, which had become quite unrecognizable, but which gave him a curious warm feeling in the pits of his stomach. A moment later, he realized the feeling was simply one of hunger... he had survived on a bottle of wine all day. But a wide elated smile broke out over his face as he surveyed what he was certain was his masterpiece. And, to think, he could paint countless other pictures with this new technique he had discovered... and never again feel that his paintings lacked that 'something' that troubled him so much. Hurgon had discovered abstract art....


Gimilbeth




Hurgon's room in Cameth Brin Palace, evening of October 26, 1347.

"By Eru! What is it?"

The rich cadence of Gimilbeth's voice filled the small room waking its ruffled owner. Hurgon Fernik dropped the empty bottle he clutched to his bosom and sat upright peering owlishly around. He found himself sitting on his bed, fully dressed - even his paint-smeared boots were on. Two immaculate Gimilbeth's pages watched him, shamelessly grinning. The lady herself, however, paid him no heed, her gaze riveted to the freshly finished portrait.

"What have you done, Hurgon?" continued Gimilbeth, as if in a trance. "Where have you seen blue hair? Purple hair? Green patches on a human skin? It is completely crazy, a work of a lunatic... and yet... it is so incredibly, so wondrously good! I have never seen a painting like that..."

Hurgon who was shocked by the Witch's visit and by her apparent disapproval suddenly blushed to the roots of his hair hearing the last words.

"The Crown will buy this portrait, I will see to it", continued Gimilbeth. "It will look quite appropriate in the Gallery downstairs, in a place of honor. I hope you will make a matching portrait of myself, once we return from Amon Sul. I will pay you handsomely."

With that she turned and looked at Hurgon for the first time. The painter was trembling. Did he hear it right?

"W-We return? he stammered. "Why "we"?

"Because you are coming with me, of course." replied Gimilbeth levelly. "This portrait is too good to give it away to Malvegil or to his grandson, whatever his name may be. And anyway, this masterpiece does not render Tarniel's likeness as it should. We need a classic formal portrait - and, as I can't wait for you to finish another one, there is no other option but to take you, your paints and your canvas with me to Amon Sul. The journey will take at least a fortnight. You will come in a wagon and paint on the way."

"But..."

"Hurgon, Amon Sul is a beautiful place. Every Dunadan should see it at least once in his life. You will draw sunsets and sunrises there".

Hurgon's mouth hung open. Gimilbeth nodded to him and left.

Descending the stairs, Gimilbeth decided not to postpone her errand to Amon Sul anymore. She was worried, lest Nauremir awakens, while still in Cameth Brin. Also, she was still in danger. Last night, Belzagar made no move, but who knows, if he decides to eliminate Gimilbeth later?

On her part, Gimilbeth decided not to tell King Tarnendur about her revelations. She was unable to decipher Belzagar's message. At a trial, it will 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 fails, she will 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.

Gimilbeth grinned. "Let the sleeping dogs lie - for now".

Unknown to Gimilbeth, the Palace was astir with gossip. Last night, the very upset Gondorean maid, Nimraen, let her tongue wag freely in the Maid's Common room upstairs. She was not well-loved by 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?"