Intrigues & Sorcery. Shadow Over Rhudaur II

[Beleg]

October 20, 1347 – 40 miles west of Amon Sul

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- - - - - -

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That… and something more,” answered Celebrindol.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

”Yes?” asked Beleg, curiously.

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

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

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

But – there WAS the Palantir, of course.

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

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

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

[Duilin]

Tharbad, October 20, 1347

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, Tharbad?”

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

“Which one? The fellow from Cardolan?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Thurisind]

Tharbad, October 21, 1347

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t you know whose wife she is?”

“What? No. Whose?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Duilin]

Tharbad, October 21, 1347

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I think so, yes."

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

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

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

"My uncle's."

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

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

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

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

[Duilin]

Prancing Pony Inn, Bree, November 2, 1347

"Ah, that was a merry day, was it not?" boomed Thurisind, laughing heartily. "Slaying orcs is fine work."

"Yes, quite enjoyable, certainly," Duilin replied.

He glanced around the bar. Many of the inn's patrons, including the fat old innkeeper, Rodolphus Butterbur, and, Duilin noted approvingly, several rather pretty serving girls, were gathered around the table. "I cannot believe, though, that we were so gullible as to believe that there was buried treasure in the ruins of the Dark Lord's tower, on the word of a pair of captured orcs. All that riding about in Mordor and fighting orcs for nothing."

"Yes, and how our comrades laughed when we got back to the base - our commander nearly had us hung for deserters - but, as you see, we're still here."

The crowd roared with laughter. For the past two days, ever since their arrival at the inn, Duilin and Thurisind had been regaling the crowd at the inn's common room with somewhat exaggerated tales of their past exploits. The idea had been Duilin's. "We know this town not at all, and asking if anyone is looking to hire a pair of foreign rogues is only going to lead to suspicion. Better to get them to come to us."

Now Duilin scanned the room. Most of those present seemed to be townspeople - the local, non-Dúnedain folk, of the same sort that had been common in Tharbad, and, indeed, back with Duilin's relations in Lossarnach. Here, the people had the strange distinction of largely being named after plants of various sort, but otherwise seemed undistinguished. Duilin doubted that any of them would be likely to have any use for his and Thurisind's services.

Interestingly, there were also various folk present of other races. Duilin regarded the Dwarves curiously - Dwarves did not normally go to Gondor. The Dwarves at the inn were travellers, and seemed clannish and unfriendly, largely keeping to themselves. Only one or two had tarried to hear Duilin and Thurisind's tale.

The other non-human folk were of a sort Duilin had never even heard of before their arrival in Cardolan, but he'd seen a fair number of them in the lands between Tharbad and Bree, during their lengthy journey up the North Road. Halflings, the men of the region called them, and it seemed an appropriate name - they were about half the size of the average man, and most considerably less than half the size of a giant like Thurisind. The Halflings at the Inn seemed mostly to be residents of the town itself, and they were as intrigued by the two garrulous travellers as their larger neighbors. Duilin, though he had not had much direct contact with them, already felt a certain fondness for the Halflings - at five and a half feet, constantly paired with a gigantic Northman, and in a country full of a race of irritatingly tall men, it was not often that he was able to feel particularly tall. But he suspected that the halflings of Bree were in even less need of his services than their larger neighbors.

That left the Dúnedain. There were a few, here and there at the inn's common room. Most seemed of no more interest than the Bree-folk. Duilin's eye kept turning towards one in the corner, who had been watching them closely for the several hours, but had hung back from joining the table. The man looked rather much like any other Dúnadan - tall, with dark hair, enragingly good looking. But he was better dressed than most of the others in the inn, though he tried to conceal it behind an old cloak and hat. As Thurisind began another tale, Duilin looked back to the corner where he had seen the man a moment before. He was no longer there.

Duilin was turning his attention back to Thurisind when he heard a voice speaking low into his ear. "Beg your pardon, sir, might I have a word?" Turning, Duilin saw that it was the man he had been trying to keep track of. Thinking back to the tankards of ale he had been drinking, Duilin silently cursed. The weeks of travelling seemed to have lowered his tolerance for the stuff. He would have to correct that quickly.

"Certainly, sir." he replied. He looked back to his friend, but he was already in the midst of another story, and had gripped one of the prettier barmaids and sat her in his lap as he spoke. "If you would excuse me," he said to the group at the table as he stood.

Duilin followed the other man to a table at the other end of the common room. "You and your friend certainly seem to have had a number of remarkable exploits."

Duilin regarded the man closely before responding. "You might say that, I guess. Certainly the folk here in Bree seem interested in our stories."

"That they do. That they do. And these stories you tell, are they true?"

"What's it to you?"

"Curiosity. And perhaps more."

"Ah, I see you wish to keep your secrets, then. I'll just say, then, that the stories we've told are largely true."

"Most interesting. And how would you and your friend like to add another tale to your repertoire?"

"You are offering to provide us with one?"

"Perhaps I am."

"Then perhaps we are interested. What sort of tale is it?"

The man shrugged. "That, you will have to ask my master, when you speak with him. He has not entrusted me with the right to tell his business to dubious travellers from far away."

"When we speak with him? You have gotten rather ahead of yourself, haven't you? I have not agreed to meet with anyone."

The man looked slightly flustered. "I apologize, sir. I have not had much experience in this line. If you meet with him."

"And who is this master of yours?"

"That is also not for me to say. But he is a powerful man, and he is willing to offer a fair bit of money to employ such men as you and your friend on a sensitive task, provided he can trust you."

"That is hardly very much to go on. What makes you think we are here to be hired for mysterious tasks for mysterious men with no names? Perhaps Thurisind and I will settle down here in Bree, marry some fair wenches, farm the land like good honest folk. It seems like a pleasant enough land here."

The man looked at him, uncertain how to respond. After a moment, he replied. "Well, before you take up the plough, perhaps you would like to speak with my master yourself. We shall be at the Fireside Inn, a day's ride east of here on the Road. Come tomorrow evening, and you can hear what he has to say. And take this for your trouble." Standing up, he tossed Duilin a pouch full of coins. "Now I must ride back to tell him of our discussion."

With that, he quickly strode from the table and out the front door. After he had gone, Duilin realized that he had never asked the man's name. He turned back to Thurisind and the crowd surrounding him. Taking the pouch of coins to the bar, he handed it to the barkeep. "Drinks for all until the money runs out!" he cried. The inn's patrons cheered heartily. The Halflings seemed to cheer particularly loudly, especially given their small size. Even the Dwarves looked at him appreciatively. Most importantly, his primary purpose had been served, as Thurisind had been abandoned by his listeners, who were clamoring to the barkeep for more drinks. The Innkeeper stood last and walked back towards the bar, somewhat sternly motioning for the serving girl in Thurisind's lap to follow him.

Duilin sat down next to his friend. "Your plan has worked, I take it?" Thurisind asked.

"So it would seem. We are to meet with a potential employer at an inn a day's ride east of here, if we want to. His man wouldn't tell me much more than that. Shall we?"

"Well, since you've just so generously given away the money the man already paid us to do nothing, I don't see why not. Let's enjoy ourselves tonight, and ride out first thing tomorrow. I promised Daisy there that I'd tell her about the time we chased a party of Easterlings north all the way to the Sea of Rhûn."

"Yes, fine, enjoy yourself. Perhaps I'll find myself a pretty halfling girl, see how you always feel with your women."

Thurisind laughed. "If you can abide the hairy feet, I'm sure it would be a fascinating experience."

Duilin could not help from laughing as well. He lifted his glass. "To our mysterious potential employer, then, who has made this inn a happy place tonight."

They clinked glasses.

[Thurisind]

The Road east of Bree, November 3, 1347

Thurisind looked cautiously from side to side. to his right was Duilin, leading the faithful mule, fondly dubbed “Castamir,” who had carried their gear on the long walk from Tharbad. To his left were the woods which spread out to the east of Bree. Thurisind was vaguely uneasy. It would soon be dark, and there was as yet no sign of their destination. They had gotten off to a late start that morning – Duilin had, as usual, woken late, and apparently with a terrible hangover. When Thurisind, who had, as usual, been awake for hours, had asked him if he had, indeed, found a pretty halfling girl to bed, Duilin simply scowled at him.

Thurisind was jolted from his thoughts by a tug on his shoulder by Duilin. He looked up to see five men standing on the road ahead of them, apparently barring the way. “Highwaymen?” he asked, trying to get a better look at the men.

“Perhaps,” Duilin replied. “Though I’d not heard that highwaymen were a danger on this road.”

“Nor I. Let us be cautious. Something about this feels off.”

They approached the men. One of them, who was revealed to be a tall Dúnadan, strode forth, but did not speak.

“Friends,” cried out Thurisind, who was several paces ahead of his companion. “Why do you bar our way? We are but travellers, passing down the road, seeking rest for the night at the inn that we have heard is further along the way.”

“Travellers, I’m sure,” replied the other man. He paused, then looked back towards his companions, also apparently Dúnedain. “We cannot allow you to pass.”

“You cannot allow us to pass?” asked Thurisind. “On what basis? Are you out to rob us, then?”

The man looked vaguely uncomfortable. “Indeed, we are,” he paused, “Robbers. I must insist that you give us anything you have which is of value.”

“You must insist? Would you mind if I took a moment to confer with my companion before answering your demand?”

The man again looked questioningly towards his companions, but they gave him no support. “No, of course not,” he finally replied. “Take all the time you need. But know that if you do not yield your valuables willingly, we shall be forced to take them from you by force,” here he paused again, “and to kill you if necessary.”

Thurisind smiled. “Of course, of course. Give me a moment to confer.”

He walked back to Duilin, who had stopped some ways back from the men. “These are not highwaymen.” said Thurisind.

“No, I think not. We’ll have to fight them, though, I suppose.”

“Yes – but be careful. Don’t kill any of them unless absolutely necessary.”

Duilin and Thurisind stepped forwards towards the men, hands to their scabbards. “My friends,” Thurisind said. “I am afraid we shall have to decline to give you our valuables.” Here he drew his sword. “You may attempt to take them from us, if you can. I’m most sorry for the inconvenience.”

The five men all drew their swords, and rushed towards them. “The three to the left for me, and the two to the right for you?” asked Thurisind, to which Duilin nodded. By this time Thurisind had already knocked one of his adversaries out with a blow to the head with the side of his blade.

[here there should probably be a better, more detailed fight scene, but I’m not terribly good at writing them.]

The fight was over in a matter of minutes. Thurisind looked around, surveying the scene. Three of the men had been knocked unconscious, while a fourth lay groaning by the side of the road. The leader, still, conscious, had Duilin’s blade at his throat.

“I’m dreadfully sorry for the inconvenience,” Thurisind said to him. “Perhaps I should have warned you ahead of time that you might wish to choose easier targets.”

“But then again, you weren’t actually out to rob us, were you?” Duilin asked.

The man looked as though he were about to speak, when he was interrupted by a new voice. “No, indeed they were not.”

Thurisind looked up to see before them the very man Duilin had spoken to in the Prancing Pony.

Thurisind eyed him cautiously, sword still in hand. “It would be best, sir, if you explained yourself.”

“My apologies, gentlemen, for the rough treatment.” the man replied. “But I had to be certain that you were the right men for the job before I took you to see my master. For all I knew, you were a pair of drunken braggarts with no skills to speak of.”

“So, then, you set your men to attack us so that we could prove our fighting skills?”

The man looked somewhat embarrassed. “Yes. Although you had already figured that out, hadn’t you?”

“More or less.” Duilin grinned. “Your men were not terribly convincing highwaymen. That’s why we made sure not to kill them.”

“I apologize again for the deception, and I thank you for your mercy to them. For this, I should now give you at least some notion of who I am. I am Aegnor, son of Boron, House Steward to the Prince of Baranduin. The man who awaits you at the inn is Galphant, the Prince’s Heir of Baranduin. He wishes, as I told you before, to hire you for some sensitive work, which I cannot discuss further. Are you still willing to meet with him?”

Thurisind looked for confirmation in his companion’s eyes, and found it. “We should certainly like to hear out a man who has taken such pains to make sure we are appropriate men for the job.”

“Then let us hasten to the inn. Halmir,” he spoke to the leader of the “highwaymen,” “Bring three horses here. You wait here until the rest of your men are able to travel, and then join us back at the inn.” Now he turned back to Duilin and Thurisind. “Would you be willing to trust my men to bring your mule to the inn with them? That way we can arrive faster.”

“Your men were such poor highwaymen,” Duilin replied, “that I do not doubt that they are honest lads who will do no harm to our Castamir. Thurisind, is it alright with you”

Thurisind nodded. Now Halmir brought out three horses. Mounting, Duilin, Thurisind, and Aegnor rode off to the east. Thurisind was now quite curious to learn what this Prince wanted of them.

[Duilin]

Fireside Inn, east of Bree, Nov ? 1347

Duilin and Thurisind followed Aegnor into the inn – it was somewhat smaller than the Prancing Pony in Bree, but still seemed quite spacious and well-maintained compared to some of the places they’d stayed during their long journey from Osgiliath (Duilin thought back with disgust on a horrid little hole they’d stayed in in some village in Enedwaith). Entering the common room, Duilin saw that its clientele was much like that at the Prancing Pony – common men, Dúnedain, several parties of dwarves, talking darkly among themselves, a few halflings drinking merrily in a corner. Aegnor led them through the common room to the staircase at one side, and led them up to the third story. Here they entered a corridor, which they walked about halfway down. Here Aegnor turned to the left, and knocked on the door that was in front of them. “Come in,” a voice from inside called.

Aegnor opened the door, and signaled Duilin and Thurisind to follow him. The room was quite spacious, and seemed to fill up a substantial portion of this story of this floor of the inn. Seated within were several men. Duilin’s attention was immediately directed to a man seated at the head of a large table that filled up most of the right side of the room. Clearly a Dúnadan, the man was tall and well proportioned, looking neither young nor old. His hair and beard were dark, and his grey eyes impressed Duilin with their apparent intelligence and wisdom. This, Duilin was sure, was the man they had come to see. Exactly the sort of look those high Dúnadan lords, the ones with the blood of old Elendil in them – always had – even the ones who were dumb as a brick, or nasty snakes like Castamir looked for all the world like wise philosopher kings until they opened their mouths. Seated to his right was a younger man, unbearded, but almost certainly the lord’s son – the resemblance between the two was great. Seated to his left was an older man, also clear of the Dúnedain but of lesser blood – the high ones, Duilin was fairly certain, never looked old no m atter how old they might be in reality. Furthermore, the old man had a somewhat sly and conniving look about him. No matter how sly and conniving a Dúnadan prince might be, he never looked like he was.

The man whom Duilin was certain was in charge addressed Aegnor. “These are the men?”

“Yes, sir. I hope they are satisfactory. They were the best I could do in the time you gave me.”

“I’m sure they will serve quite well. You have done well, Aegnor. If you are not too weary tonight, I have another task for you. Take a fresh horse and ride ahead and find the rest of our party and tell them that I am quite recovered, and will resume the trip tomorrow – I should be no more than a day and a half behind them.”

“As you wish my lord.” Aegnor bowed and left the room.

“Now, gentlemen, I suppose you would like to know more about what all this is about. I am Galphant, and my father is the Prince of Baranduin, the greatest nobleman in this kingdom. I am also the sister-son of our late king, Dirion, who died two years ago. This,” he gestured towards the younger man, “is my son and heir Herunarth, and this,” he gestured towards the older man, “is my father’s chief counselor, Hador.”

There was a pause. Thurisind cleared his throat and spoke. “I, sir, am Thurisind, son of Theodomir, chief of the Votanii tribe who live by the lower reaches of the River Running, far to the east of here.”

“And I, sir, am Duilin. I was born in Pelargir but I am afraid I have no distinguished family background to speak of. My parents were both born in Lossarnach, in the mountain vales behind Minas Anor.”

“Well, heritage has little enough to be said for it. I have a great heritage – I can trace my ancestors back through the millennia – Princes of Baranduin, Lords of Valunië[or some Quenya place-name that actually makes sense – I just made this up] in Númenor that was, all the way back to Bëor the Old himself. And what have we accomplished in these last years? Niggling, worthless achievements in wars against our own kinsmen? Fortification of borders that should never have been borders? What, indeed, has the line of Isildur himself accomplished in these lands nigh these last five hundred years? Nothing but destroying each other, weakening our lands through ceaseless wars to satisfy their own vanity and lust for power.” Galphant seemed to have lost himself in thoughts he had long felt, but rarely expressed. He caught himself and paused, looking at his guests.

This, Duilin thought, is not one of the ones who is as dumb as a brick. After a long pause, he said, “I am glad, my lord, that you do not hold my low birth against me.”

Galphant looked at him and laughed. “And I am glad to find that I have hired such a tactful rogue. But I became carried away, for which I apologize. So now let me explain why I have hired you, although, as yet, I can give you few details of any specific jobs I may wish you to do. I will be frank with you, probably more frank than Hador here would like, but there is something in me that holds that you are men capable of keeping a confidence, provided you feel that it is provided by one whose trust is worth having. Do I misjudge you?”

Thurisind and Duilin looked at each other. Looking at his companion, Duilin could tell that Thurisind was thinking the same thing he was – either this is a truly great man, or a complete fool, and, astonishingly, the former seemed more likely than the latter. Thurisind answered. “My Lord, you do us great honor to show such trust to a pair of ruffians you have only known for a few minutes. But I shall certainly endeavor to be worthy of your trust.”

“And I as well.”

“I am glad to hear it. But I will admit that most of what I am about to tell you is common knowledge in our land, and that the rest is basic information you will need to carry out the duties I will assign you. As I mentioned before, our king, Dirion, died several years ago. The laws of the kingdom demand that we determine who is the rightful heir of Caryontar, the first king of Cardolan, who died 400 years ago. This has proved a rather difficult task. Centuries of intestine conflict and war have made the descendants of Caryontar rare indeed – at least in the direct line. It has taken the loremasters of the kingdom these two years to determine that only two possible lines of Caryontar exist – two younger sons of our kings who left Cardolan to seek their fortune in Gondor. Our own records tell us nothing further of these royal scions, so we must consult with the loremasters of Gondor, to see if they can discover if any descendants of these men live yet in the south kingdom. Tell me, do you gentlemen know of the Seeing Stones of Númenor?”

“Only through repute,” replied Duilin. “I have seen the great tower where, it is said, the stone of Osgiliath rests, on the great bridge over the Anduin there. But I know nothing of the workings of them, save old wives’ tales that my aunt used to tell me.”

“Your knowledge, then, is probably not terribly inferior to my own, for I, too, have never seen one of the famed stones. It is said in our books of lore, however, that they allow one to see events over great distances, and also that they can communicate with one another. Thus, the Council of Cardolan has decided to send a delegation to Amon Sûl, where resides the great stone of the north, that we might consult with the wise men of Gondor over whether our rightful king may be found there.”

Here the younger Dúnadan, Herunarth, interrupted, “But everyone knows, of course, that he will not be. Dirion sent messengers to Osgiliath several times in the long yeras after his own sons died announcing that he would acknowledge as his heir any man who could prove himself a direct descendant of Caryontar from father to son. And nobody ever came. There are none. There is nobody.”

Galphant looked at his son with a somewhat chastening look before continuing. “The effort must be made. The laws of the kingdom must be satisfied. But my son is right – few have any hope that this mission will have any success.”

Here Thurisind broke in. “Pardon me, my lord. This is all very interesting, but I don’t understand how we fit into all of this.”

“Forgive me, you are of course correct. The story is long and complicated, but hopefully you will understand by the end of it. There are other reasons that one might wish to speak to those in Osgiliath, but they are ones which others would oppose, should they know of them. Should, as all anticipate, there be no heir found in Gondor, the laws of the kingdom are in great doubt. Caryontar made no provision in his succession laws for such an eventuality. One who greatly wishes to take the throne is Malvegil of Arthedain. Malvegil is an old man now, and for many long years he has desired the reunion of the three kingdoms of Arnor under his own rule. He has spent many years seeking to gain influence in our kingdom, sending out gifts to our lords, acting as friend to us. And he now has many friends on our council, many who would like to set him up as our king. And perhaps it would be wise to accept him.” Galphant paused, and looked at Hador. “My father would never say such a thing, I know. But I will consider the possibility. Could the three kingdoms be peacefully united, and our family’s honor preserved in spite of it, that might indeed be the best solution for all.”

“My lord,” Hador began, “all this idle speculation is hardly going to help our guests to understand the situation. We have discussed all this again and again, and you know that we have agreed on the best course of action.”

“Of course, old friend, you are right. Because we do not trust Malvegil. With two kingdoms in his hands, what would his next step be? I fear that it would be to launch a war against the third. I know little of Rhudaur, but I know both that the line of its kings is not yet broken and that Malvegil is quite displeased with this fact. I will do nothing to make bloodshed among our people more likely, and I have seen nothing in Malvegil that makes me think he would be the right king for Cardolan. Look at the men he was corrupted to his side – weak, officious fools, for the most part. I see little greatness left in the line of Isildur. There is, however, one more option, and it seems to us,” here he looked again towards Hador – was it with hesitation? – “that the laws of the kingdom, and, indeed, the laws of Númenor which are the base of our own laws, make this option as likely to be correct as that of the kingdom passing to Arthedain. For I myself am next of kin to Dirion through my mother, and by becoming king, I might preserve Cardolan’s independence.” Here he looked mildly embarrassed, “I fear that I must confess to you that I am immodest enough to think that I would do a good job of it, even.”

“Of course you would, father,” Herunarth said. “Everyone knows you are the best man in the kingdom.”

“Thank you, Herunarth, I am glad that I have, at least, your confidence. My own confidence is somewhat less, but I can see no better option for our kingdom. Unfortunately, though, I have not strength enough within the kingdom to claim the throne for myself, nor has Cardolan strength enough to resist Malvegil, should he decide to press his claim by force. As I said, I have no desire for bloodshed. My hope, then, is to use the Seeing Stone to seek support from Rómendacil in Gondor. With the support of Gondor, I could easily trump the supporters of Arthedain in Cardolan, and Malvegil would not dare to challenge the power of the southern kingdom. Aegnor tells me that you have knowledge of great men in Gondor.” he looked again at Duilin and Thurisind.

“Some indeed, Sir,” Thurisind replied. “I am distant kin to Eldacar, the king’s grandson, through his mother, who was of my people, and Duilin and myself were in his service until, er, recently. But we knew little of high politics. I don’t think we can offer you much advice on whether the king of Gondor will be willing to help you.”

“I suspected as much, and that is not why I have hired you, although any insights you might have would be welcome. I confess that I hired you for rather simpler reasons. As I said before, there are many who would oppose any efforts I might make to claim the throne for myself. Some are within our own delegation, for as I told you, Malvegil has many supporters among our influential men. More than that, Amon Sûl itself is in Malvegil’s lands, and the men he has placed in charge of the tower are unlikely to look kindly on efforts to challenge Malvegil’s rights in Cardolan. It was difficult enough to get him to agree to our mission to merely carry out our own clearly mandated laws to make sure there are no direct heirs. So what I need, then, is to find men who can help me in finding a way to consult with Gondor secretly.”

“And this is what you want us for?” Duilin asked.

Galphant again looked rather embarrassed. “It is, I admit, not the most noble way of going about things. I would that I could do this openly, but it seems as though it is not possible. Would you be willing to take on this task?”

“I think we might be able to help on that score.”

[Aegnor]

west of Amon Sûl, several hours later that same night

It was deep in the night when Aegnor finally drew up his horse beside the Weathervane inn, just south of the Road. He saw that a light was still on in the common room, and hoped that the other members of Cardolan’s delegation to Amon Sûl were staying here. If not, he didn’t think that he could go any further until morning, anyway – it had been a very long day.

Entering the inn, he was greeted by a familiar voice. “Aegnor, as I live and breathe! You look like hell. Come, have a drink with me.”

Looking towards the sound, Aegnor saw the bleary-eyed, flabby face of Belecthor, Count of Tharbad. “Lord Belecthor, I must admit I had not expected to see any of our party until morning. You’re up quite late.”

“Well, you know how it is. Always time for a good drink. And Adrahil and I have been up late talking things over. He’s off in his room looking for some document or other.”

Belecthor and Adrahil, Thane of (name of proper thanehold here), were the members of the Council of Cardolan most committed to the King of Arthedain. As Count of Tharbad, Belecthor came from one of the most distinguished families in the kingdom, and he loved to play the role of the great aristocratic host. He patronized poets and artists, collected Númenorean and Beleriandic artifacts, and held enormous parties and balls and so forth as often as he could manage it. His wife always wore the most expensive gowns, in whatever style was current in Osgiliath that season, and the most extravagant jewelry. He also kept at least three mistresses, and was a constant fixture in the great theaters and opera houses of Tharbad and, when he was at court, at Harnost. He also loved playing the role of the great magnate – he had been deeply involved in the politics of the Council of the Kingdom ever since he succeeded his father as Count thirty years ago, and had accumulated both offices and dependents.

Unfortunately, the actual means of the Counts of Tharbad were not sufficient to maintain such an extravagant lifestyle. The title of “Count of Tharbad” was, in fact, something of a misnomer. Although his lands were certainly in the vicinity of Tharbad (in fact, he had lands on both sides of the river, and was, in fact, one of the great landowners of Enedwaith as well, although he rarely went there), he had no control over the great city itself, which fell under the direct control of the Kings of Cardolan and Gondor. The rents of the extensive agricultural lands surrounding the city which he controlled were not sufficient to cover the vast expenses constantly being incurred by the Count. This was especially true given the massive debts Belecthor had contracted prior to his father’s death. The old count h ad gone to his deathbed firm in the knowledge that his son would drive his proud old house into penury and ruin.

But somehow this had not happened. In the first years following his father’s death, indeed, events had taken the course one would expect, as Belecthor’s debt inexorably increased and his lines of credit ran thinner and thinner. And then, one day, about ten years after the death of the old count, everything had miraculously righted itself. From around the same period, Belecthor became a devout friend and supporter of the rights and interests of King Malvegil of Arthedain.

Aegnor looked carefully at Belecthor, who was clearly rather inebriated. “I suppose a drink would do me good,” he said, sitting in his seat. “It has been a very long day.”

Although he knew he should be wary, Aegnor couldn’t help liking the fat little count. Belecthor was certainly an agent of his lord’s political enemies, but he was a most pleasant one, and he had always been careful to stay on good personal terms with the Prince and his party. Or, at least, with most of the Prince’s party. The old Prince himself referred to Belecthor semi-publicly as “that fat little fool,” a fact which the Count must have been aware of, but never showed any sign of. Whether this was out of a desire to win the Prince over to the King of Arthedain, or to hedge his bets in case the Prince should succeed, was unclear, and was occasionally debated among the Prince’s confidantes. Aegnor himself privately believed that Belecthor’s friendliness and good spirits had little political content at all, but merely reflected the man’s character. He was naturally gregarious, and hated for anyone to dislike him. The barman, Aegnor saw, had gone to sleep. Belecthor had slipped behind the bar himself and taken out a bottle of whiskey, which he poured into a cup he took out. Aegnor wondered how much he had paid the barman for the privilege – he imagined it must have been a great deal. “A long day, eh, friend? I hope you can tell me something of it.”

Here Aegnor knew to be careful. Belecthor might seem like a silly little man, but he was no fool. “I have been riding back and forth carrying messages on Lord Galphant’s behalf – yesterday I rode to Tyrn Gorthad to deliver a message to his father, and immediately upon my return he ordered me to ride to meet you here and tell you that he will take to the road again and join you soon.”

“Ah, good to know, good to know. His stomach is better then, I trust?”

“Yes, thankfully, he is fully recovered. What news here? Lord Orogost is sleeping, I imagine?”

“Aye, of course. The man rises and sets with the sun. And Amdir has turned in as well.” Orogost, High Steward of Cardolan, was the head of the council of Cardolan, and, as such, regent of the kingdom until a king was found. Of relatively low birth, he had been a childhood friend of King Dirion, but had won his position largely by dint of an astonishing work ethic. While Dirion moped about for decades feeling sorry for himself after the death of his sons, Orogost had run the kingdom. He was quite old now, but still maintained the same grueling schedule he had done as a young man – waking up at the first light of dawn to go through state papers for hours. Since the king’s death, so long as Orogost was still at the helm, there was little change in the day to day operation of the kingdom. In spite of his long years of experience in governance and administration, Orogost had never been a very political man, and he had kept this up in the time since the king’s death, refusing to give any support to either side in the dispute over the succession, instead going to work with his usual calm efficiency at the steps necessary to determine whether or not there was an heir to King Caryontar. Amdír was Orogost’s son and, in recent years, assistant. Orogost was clearly training the younger man to be his successor in the thankless job of administrator of the kingdom, but Amdír had given signs of greater political ambition than his father. He had held long discussions with the old Prince, Aegnor knew, over the political situation, and he suspected that he may have had similar discussions with Belecthor, as well. As yet, though, he was biding his time, and, like his father, had not clearly picked a side. “Has anything happened, then, since we last saw each other?” Aegnor asked.

“Little enough has happened here,” Belecthor said. “Just some very slow travelling. Orogost wanted to make greater haste, but I said, ‘What’s the rush? We shan’t be able to do anything until Galphant and Hador get here, anyway, and a good inn by the side of the road ought to be as convenient as whatever lodging we find at Amon Sûl.’ Do you know anything about the lodgings in Amon Sûl, by the way, Aegnor? That seems like your line. Are we to stay in the tower itself, or is that House of Isildur only?”

“I admit I know little of the situation there. I believe it was your task as Secretary to the Council to write ahead to the Warden of the Tower and announce our journey.”

“Blast it, that’s right! I must admit to you, Aegnor, that I completely neglected that responsibility. So many things to worry about, you know. Ah, here’s Adrahil back. Adrahil! Come over! As you can see, Aegnor has rejoined us, and he promises us that Galphant and Hador and the rest will be back with us soon.”

“That is good news indeed. Welcome, Aegnor.” The man who spoke looked as different from Belecthor as imaginable. Tall, thin, and rather severe looking, Adrahil was the other great support of Malvegil on the council of Cardolan. Unlike Belecthor, Adrahil had no clear monetary motivation for his support of Malvegil – he lived frugally, and his wide lands in Minhiriath were more than sufficient to maintain him. So far as anyone could tell he supported Malvegil out of principle. He had spent some time in Fornost as Dirion’s personal representative, and knew the royal family of Arthedain well. Aegnor did not know why, but there was something about the man that he did not like. Belecthor was an open book, but Adrahil was a mystery. He spoke only rarely, and then with few words, and almost never gave any sign of what he was really thinking. Here, in the night, while Belecthor was clearly quite tipsy, Adrahil appeared entirely sober, although he had certainly been drinking as well. And there was something in his eyes that always seemed to Aegnor on the verge of a threat. He liked to avoid the man as much as possible.

“Lord Adrahil, my thanks.” Aegnor looked at the two men. Clearly, they had business they wished to discuss, and Aegnor was in no mood to impede them – it was, at this point, only a few hours until morning, and he wanted to get at least a little sleep before the morning. “I must, however, excuse myself, gentlemen. It is late, and I have not slept in many hours. I shall, I’m sure, see you in the morning.”

“Well, that’s not far off now, is it?” Belecthor laughed. “And I doubt that we’ll get going before mid-afternoon or so, if at all – if Galphant’s on his way, perhaps we should simply wait for him to arrive. But sleep if you must. I don’t think the innkeeper is awake, though. I’ve rented out an extra room, though, for emergencies and such. Take the key, it’s to room 15. Sleep.”

Bidding the two men his adieus and thanking Belecthor for his hospitality, Aegnor stumbled upstairs to bed.