Chapter 22. The Magick Blade

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Fortress of Morkai, kingdom of Angmar. Morning of November 6, 1347.
Written by Gordis
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The small town of Morkai was bustling with activity this morning. A crowd of curious onlookers gathered in the courtyard of the fortress and in the neighboring streets to have a look at the mysterious prisoner that the Captain Hyarion of Shedun was bringing to Carn Dum.

Most uncanny rumors had spread over the town last evening after the procession of weary travelers had filed into Morkai and stopped for the night in the New Fortress. Some said that the pale straw-head prisoner was a spy sent to murder their good King at Carn-Dum. Some even went as far as to call him an Elvish spy, though everyone knew that Elves never really existed, but were just a tale for small children. The list of weapons found on the assassin had much grown in the telling and one drunken trooper had told a story of the magic harp that killed anyone foolish enough to touch its strings. Whether the Morkai citizens believed the story or not, they enjoyed the thrill it provided at the beginning of yet another long dull winter.

Their patience was soon rewarded. A tall man in heavy chains was led into the court and helped onto a horse. The hood of the spyÂ’s grey cloak hung low, hiding his face, to the disappointment of the people who hoped for a glimpse of the monster. The crowd edged nearer.

One small boy in dirty tattered clothes threw a rotten turnip – it hit Agannalo in the back causing him to wince and to look up in disbelief. The crowd whistled and jeered. ”Kill the spy!” someone roared. A shower of missiles followed: more rotten turnips and carrots, even some stones.

Agannalo gritted his teeth and felt his patience melt away as snow under the cruel sun of Harad. Not that he ever possessed much patience… Knowing full well that he would regret it later, Agannalo hissed words of command in the High Tongue.

“Gaakh Bûrzum Motsham norkulûk!”

The pale grey morning light vanished faster than it had come. The colorless pall of clouds that was covering the sky suddenly seemed to descend – dark and ominous. Cries of fright went up as the people stared about them in befuddlement, not comprehending what was happening. Then a searing lightning illuminated the scene, followed by a great blast of thunder right overhead.

A great confusion followed with horses bolting and rearing and people running madly for their lives. In a matter of minutes the court was empty, but for the guards that crouched low to the ground covering their heads. Agannalo laughed – a harsh, cruel sound.

“Captain…Where is the Captain?” someone wailed.

__________

Translation: “Gaakh Bûrzum Motsham norkulûk!” – “Let The Ancient Darkness take them all!”

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Fortress of Morkai, kingdom of Angmar. Morning of November 6, 1347.
Written by Angmar
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Lieutenant Hyarion had spent an uneventful night in the chambers which had been assigned to him in the Morkai Fortress. He had half expected some new uproar from the strange prisoner, Silmadan, but from the reports which he had received, the scoundrel had caused no trouble. “‘Jewel of Mankind,’ he calls himself,” Hyarion snorted. “He is nothing more than a thief and a would-be assassin! When he arrives in Carn Dum, he will find out the rich sport that His Majesty deals out to those who would kill him!” The thought of seeing the arrogant knave sufffering under the agonizing pain of the hot tongs made Hyarion chuckle gleefully.

After a leisurely breakfast with the fortress commander, the Umbarian officer returned to his room. He had not been able to take his mind off the peculiar glowing dagger which had been taken from the prisoner. Although the entourage would soon be leaving to resume the Northern march, there was still time for him to spare a brief look at the mysterious weapon. Walking over to his pack, he retrieved the knife and unsheathed it. He ran his fingers over the hilt and felt his hand grow cold. He remembered the vision which he had recently had when gazing at the blade. The patterns which had formed in his mind had been a dire warning of death. Though they were disturbing, he had concluded that they were merely warnings to the uninitiated. To one as knowledgeable in the craft as he was, the blade would be harmless.

He held the knife up and studied its luminous glow. “A sorcerer’s blade,” he smiled. “What strange powers does it possess? There must be some magic word, that once spoken, would unleash the powers.” He needed only to discover that word, and the blade would be his to command. He began with a few simple spells in Black Speech, but other than growing a little brighter, the blade remained quiescent. He probed his mind for spells in Sindarin and Quenya, and even Adunaic, but there was no effect upon the blade. He would go to the language of the South, his mother’s people, the wise ancient ones. Their sorcerers possessed great knowledge of the esoteric. He softly intoned the powerful spell. Still the blade was unresponsive.

“Blood!” he exclaimed. “These objects of great magic often require a small sacrifice to unleash their power!” He laid the blade down and drew his own dagger from his sheath. Quickly slicing across his left forefinger, he watched as crimson drops of blood fell towards the glowing dagger. As the drops hit the blade, they did not splatter upon the icy surface, but rather disappeared entirely. “It is as though the dagger is drinking it,” Lieutenant Hyarion thought. He began to chant, “A shum dara ningak!” over and over again.

The glowing dagger had been warded by its owner with magic which Hyarion could never begin to understand. The magic surrounding the blade retaliated. He heard a crash of thunder and found himself being hurled head over heel through the air and then slammed against the far wall. Behind his eyelids he saw spinning stars and colliding planets arrayed across the heavens in a celestial display. Then the world went black. When he awoke, he discovered with shock that the slight wound on his finger was bleeding profusely. The price to pay for the hidden knowledge was well worth it.

“By the eternal Darkness,” he moaned, “the spell was successful in freeing the potency of the blade! Now if only I can learn to control its magic!”

When he went to the courtyard below, he found his men cringing upon the cobblestone pavement. The sergeant of cavalry rushed up to him, gibbering some incoherent rubbish about “an evil storm… the prisoner…” Hyarion smiled enigmatically. Only he knew the source of the storm, and it was surely not the prisoner! He looked over to Silmadan, who was sitting quietly upon his horse and smirking.

“There will be order here!” Captain Hyarion barked out a sharp command. Shouting and cursing, his officers soon had the terrified men on their horses, and they were on their way to their next stop – the Bridge over Angsuul.

The small settlement around the bridge boasted a tavern, The King’s Arms. The inn’s cellar would provide a strong cell to contain the prisoner. Hyarion expected no trouble from him that night. After the usual nightly discussion and round of drinks with his officers, Hyarion looked forward to further experimentation with the blade. Perhaps tonight he would finally unlock all its hidden secrets.

— “A shum dara ningak” – Empower blood magic, Sumerian

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At the Bridge of Angsuul, Kingdom of Angmar, night of November 6, 1347
Written by Gordis
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It was late evening when HyarionÂ’s tired company finally reached the King`s Arms Inn at the Bridge of Angsuul. The troopers filed into the common room, happy to be out of cold and snow, and the Lieutenant was given the best rooms in the Inn. He retired for the night, giving express orders to lock the prisoner in the cellar and to guard him well. Agannalo was led down a flight of stairs to the freezing basement.

”Still not eating, strawhead?” inquired the scarred one-eyed soldier assigned to guard Agannalo. “And not drinking either?” The guard shook his head disapprovingly and grinned, showing crooked yellow teeth, “Watch out, or there will be nothing but a wraith left of you when we reach Carn-Dum.”

The last statement made Agannalo smirk despite his bad mood. The captivity was taking its toll on the nazgul and the absence of subsistence caused this queer hollow feeling inside – not exactly hunger or thirst, but some vague dissatisfaction, some persistent yearning. Unfortunately, Agannalo was well aware that nothing that the guard could offer him could slacken his thirst. The ringwraithÂ’s nostrils quivered catching the scent of the guardÂ’s blood – both alluring and revolting… but mixed with the maleÂ’s scent more revolting than alluring – yet…

Something in AganaloÂ’s intent gaze must have unsettled the guard, for the man broke the eye-contact and roughly pushed the prisoner towards the low door of the cellar assigned for him.

“I wish you a cheerful night, weird one” the soldier jeered. “I reckon it is a tad cold in the cellar, but I am sorry to say we have no wenches to warm your bed.”

The mention of food and wenches made Agannalo hiss in frustration and clench his hands into fists as the heavy door clanged shut behind him and the key turned in the lock. It has been a long time since he last had a wench and drank warm red blood. Two weeks or more have passed since he killed this plump fool of a servant near Penmorva. He had so looked forward to reaching Shedun, promising himself a girl there, but one mistake brought his plans to naught. Here he was now – cold and hungry and weaponless – locked in a icy stone cellar of a roadside inn.

When would he be able to feed again? In Carn-Dum – maybe- if the Captain would deign to grant one of his female subjects to an old comrade. Or, perhaps he would be able to buy himself a slave girl, like he did so many times back in the East? But did they practice slavery in Angmar? Agannalo was uncertain.

Ever since the cursed Ring he received from Annatar had perverted his senses, Agannalo killed for blood – again and again. He was wary at first, taking infinite precautions to cover his tracks, but then, with time, he grew careless. The disappearance of a number of maidens in Numenor couldnÂ’t have passed unnoticed. Soon the authorities became suspicious of the noble Lord Silmatan, and though the KingÂ’s cousin could not be accused publicly, Silmatan soon learned that the KingÂ’s patience had its limits. One fine day he got an order to leave Numenor for the colonies and never come back.

And so he complied, settling at first in Umbar and then moving further and further south, away from the accusing stares of his compatriots. There in idleness and debauchery he spent his long mortal life, until one dark and stormy night he simply disappeared without trace, leaving his palace filled with priceless objects of art and his many slaves behind. It was a fitting end to a sinful life – as everyone agreed, so KingÂ’s relative or not, nobody really looked for him in earnest. The invisible Silmatan made his way to Barad-Dur and the Dark Lord had got yet another of his nazgul.

Agannalo sighed, remembering the cozy South, where maidens were so easily acquired and men so easily fooled. Oblivious to the cold, he stretched on a bare stone bench and stared at the frosted ceiling preparing to spend yet another long night of his eternal life.

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Lieutenant Hyarion’s rooms, King’s Arms Inn Near the Bridge of Angsuul, Kingdom of Angmar, night of November 6, 1347
Written by Angmar and Gordis
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Lieutenant Hyarion had been well satisfied with his rooms at The King’s Arms, which were, after all, the best lodgings in the entire inn. Even though the journey had had a less than auspicious beginning, there had been no serious problems since. Eager to share a few drinks and some conversation, the lieutenant had called his officers to his apartments to join him for supper.

The meal, served in generous portions, had been adequate but lacking in appeal. There were several soups – both asparagus and yellow split pea soup – both lacking in any flavor. The inn featured a number of vegetables cooked in various ways – red and green cabbage, beets, cauliflower, spinach, turnips and onions – all of which were overcooked and bland. The bread – both rye and white – was excellent, and there were cheeses, pickles and jelly and various condiments to add flavor, but the lieutenant was not one to be satisfied with bread and cheese.

Then when the servants carried in the main course on a great platter, Lieutenant Hyarion frowned. As the serving boy lifted the covering, Hyarion’s eyebrows arched high. There before him was a boiled sheep’s stomach stuffed with the animal’s heart, liver and lungs, as well as onion, oatmeal, suet and spices. The smell was pungent. “The accursed cuisine of the North,” he muttered.

“This is food for the lowly peasant’s table, not the table of a lord and his officers! How dare you serve us tripe! Take this disgusting effrontery out of my sight!” He scowled at the lad who waited to serve him.

“Certainly, sir, immediately,” the boy stammered as he nodded to the other serving boys to remove the platter. “There are several excellent main courses on tonight’s menu. Please choose from any of them. The cook has prepared black pudding, which, as you know, is made from blood; there is some of that left. Then there is roast duck served with baked apples and prunes, liver cooked with onions; ham and sausage. For dessert, there is oat porridge, delicately flavored with nutmeg, cinnamon and honey, or you could choose this autumn’s apples and pears.”

“The duck, you will bring us the duck, boy, and for dessert, we will have the oat porridge,” Lieutenant Hyarion grumbled.

After the boy had scurried away, the lieutenant, his face flushed, his tawny flesh reddened with his anger, turned to his officers. “This is what we have to expect here, so far from the south! Unimaginative, poorly flavored cooking! These clods misuse even the most delicate of spices, indiscriminately adding them to dishes which are too foul to be consumed by man. These rustics have no concept of what constitutes good cooking! When we reach Carn Dum, you will see a world of difference!”

After the officers had gone, the lieutenant, still disgruntled, considered retiring early with a bottle of the house’s best Dorwinion wine to bring him some solace. He knew better than to request one of the inn’s serving girls to keep him company, for they were as bland as the food. With a mutter, he actually lay down in the bed, propped his head back against the headboard, slowly sipping his wine as he looked at the flames glowing in the fireplace on the other side of the room. He was restless, though, and sleep evaded him. He turned back the cover, and climbed out of bed.

Sheathed, the magic dagger lay on a stool near his bed. He remembered the last time he had experimented with the strange blade. When a drop of his blood had landed upon the blade, the blood had disappeared. He had been convinced that that this event had sparked a fierce blast of thunder which had rocked the Morkai fortress, and so he was hesitant about further testing. He decided, though, to perform another experiment. He went to his baggage and took out a small, round piece of glittering crystal and walked back to the blade. This stone was one he used in his magic rituals.

Unsheathing the strange gleaming weapon, he touched the crystal talisman to the blade. Since he had just taken it out of storage, the crystal had been cool to the touch, but instead of warming to his hand, it grew gradually colder. Icy condensate gathered where the blade touched the stone, like frost upon a window. A pale mist rose up around the crystal as the mystic blade caused its surface to sublimate. Gasping in fear, Hyarion dropped the prism, and it fell to the floor, shattering into tiny pieces like a slab of ice dropped upon a stone.

The lieutenant was both frightened and mystified. “Blood touched to the blade disappears – the magic talisman breaks as it sends up clouds of mist. Yet I can draw no conclusions. Perhaps I should conduct one last test to conclude the series of three, the magic number. Perhaps that third test would unlock the secrets of this blade!” He knew that he was becoming obsessed with this blade. He found he was thinking about it more and more all the time – when he was riding with his troops, when he talked with his officers, when he ate, and when he slept, he had even begun to dream about it.

Holding the blade up to the light, his dilated eyes gleaming, his heart hammering in his chest, Hyarion watched the pale light undulating in luminosity, darkening and lightening as the light reflected off its surface. He must have the answer to its secret! He would summon the prisoner and see what information he could glean from that scoundrel. The knave probably knew nothing about the powers of the blade, for Hyarion was convinced that the arrogant thief had stolen it from some sorcerer. Still, perhaps under threats, he could intimidate him into telling the name of the sorcerer from whom he had stolen it.

A command to the guard stationed at his door soon had the prisoner brought before him. “You are not needed. You will be called when you are,” Hyarion told the amazed one-eyed man who been guarding Agannalo. After the man left, the lieutenant turned to the prisoner. “Take a seat, Silmadan; I believe that was the name you called yourself. I have some further questions for you.”

A smirk on his face, Agannalo nonchalantly sat down on one of the chairs and looked at the lieutenant. “I thought I had answered all of your questions before, lieutenant.”

“You answered nothing, or nothing I would believe! You allege that you are the nephew of the king of Angmar, a story which I do not believe for one instant. When you get to Carn Dum, His Majesty will be able to separate the truth from the lies.” He walked over to the stool where he had placed the unusual blade. Unsheathing it, he walked back to Agannalo. “Where did you steal this, you lying dog? I want the name of the wizard who owns it! Start talking, and tell me the truth, or I will promise you I will cut off your nose if you do not!”

Much amused, Agannalo reflexively touched the tip of his nose and narrowed his eyes at the gleaming Morgul blade in the SouthronÂ’s hand. Now that was going to be interesting! HyarionÂ’s curiosity provided an unlooked-for and welcome distraction from the sad musings that had assailed the nazgul down in the cellar. A slow smile crept over AgannaloÂ’s face.

“So, you did not believe me when I said this blade was a present from my uncle?” he drawled, rearranging the folds of his cloak around his tall frame to make them fall down in an elegant cascade.

The Southron only snorted loudly in reply, his face gradually turning redder.

Agannalo sighed and shook his head disapprovingly –indeed the other never believed him when he happened to tell the truth! Well, now was the time to see whether Hyarion would believe lies more readily. Now was the time for the cat to play with the mouse…

“Well… tell me first, what do you already know about the blade? Have you been … ahem… experimenting with it?” Agannalo asked mildly.

“I know it is magical, you, knave!” the Southron shouted. “I know it gleams with its own light, I know it shatters magical stones, causes blasts of thunder and absorbs blood without a trace! The only thing I don’t know is how it is supposed to work!”

AgannaloÂ’s left brow arched at the mention of thunder. HmmÂ… that was new. He managed to wipe the smirk off his face and nodded sagely at HyarionÂ’s words.

“I can’t say I know all about the blade myself…” he drawled. ”But listen to me -I will tell you the blade’s story.”

Hyarion was all ears. AgannaloÂ’s voice acquired a sing-song quality, common for wandering minstrels.

“Far-far to the East in a dark stone castle on a hill there lived a wizard. The tribes around, both the Balkots, the nomadic barbarians, and the horse-lords of Rhovanion held the wizard in awe and in great esteem, for he helped them out sometimes, when it suited himself. The magician was hundreds of years old, it was said, and wizened by years, yet he had managed to retain the vigor of a young man, especially when it came to women. I heard his appetites were insatiable and his prowess in bed remarkable.

“Years in the Wide World passed, but not for the old man. Every full moon the nomadic barbarians brought a young comely maiden in tribute to him– never to be seen again. And every time a maiden disappeared, the old wizard seemingly got even stronger as if he fed on her life-force.

“About five years ago I happened to pass through these lands and I grew most interested in the old wizard’s secret. It so happened that at this time, the old man became enamored of a young maiden, the daughter of a Rhovanion noble, but the maid despised the wizard and had declined his advances. Now, unlike Balkotes, the men of Rhovanion do not sell their women, however high the offered price might be. The wizard tried everything: sweet promises, money, threats and blackmail, but still the woman he desired remained unreachable.

“Here was the opportunity I was waiting for. I went to see the wizard and we made a deal, profitable for both sides. I offered to abduct and bring the maid to him. In return he promised to teach me his spell.”

Hyarion leaned forward in his chair and drank in the nazgul’s words as the desert absorbs water. “And so, did you manage to kidnap the woman?” he prompted with gleaming eyes.

“Oh, that was not really necessary,” Agannalo replied nonchalantly. “I had only to smile and wink to her once and she became all too willing to elope with me. That’s how I have brought her to the wizard.” He laughed softly.

“Now the wizard was obliged to stick to his part of the bargain and to reveal his secret spell – but then again he had never planned to let me out alive to tell the tale…” Agannalo paused for dramatic effect. Hyarion was forgetting to breathe.

“He undressed the screaming maid and tied her to the bed. Then the wizard produced this very knife. Slowly and very carefully, as not to damage the blade, for it was quite fragile, he said, the wizard cut the maid’s neck and opened the blood flow. He poured the blood into a silver cup, stirred it with the knife and, chanting spells, drained it. Then, while the maid’s body was still warm and struggling, the magician occupied himself to defile her.

“Disgusted by such vileness, I managed to cut off the magicianÂ’s head while he was thus distracted, and took his knife as a memento.”

“And what about the spell?” Hyarion asked breathlessly.

“I have memorized it, of course,” Agannalo replied dryly. “But it is a powerfull spell – it won’t do to utter it in vain.”

The nazgul slowly rose and leaned over the Southron looking him directly in the face.

“So, Hyarion, will you find a maid to make a demonstration?”