Chapter 23. A Maid for the Magick Experiment

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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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Uncertain whether he believed the prisoner’s tale or not, still Lieutenant Hyarion had listened to his bizarre story. Now the wretch was staring at him right in the face. “You mean sacrifice an innocent virgin to unlock the power of the blade?”

“Precisely.” A slow smile uncurled itself on Agannalo’s face.

“You are asking me to sanction murder!” Although he had absolutely no compunctions against murder, the repercussions of kidnapping a maid and killing her could be great. If her kinsmen had any suspicion that he was involved, Lieutenant Hyarion was quite certain they would hunt him down and kill him some hideous way.

“You wish to know the secret of the blade, do you not?” Agannalo taunted.

“Yes, yes,” Hyarion said through gritted teeth. “But at the expense of some girl’s life?”

“It is the only way the spell will work, but if you are not interested,” Agannalo shrugged his shoulders.

“It is too risky,” Hyarion grumbled.

“Then I suggest you call the guards so I may return to my cell.” Agannalo started to turn.

“No, wait! I need more time to think before giving you my final decision.”

“When do you think you might be able to make up your mind?” Agannalo asked sarcastically. It had been far too long since he had drunk human blood, and he was weak from thirst, almost overcome with cravings. He glanced at Hyarion’s neck, but put the thought out of his mind.

“Before we reach Angoul, which should be in one day’s time.” Nervous at the inspection that Agannalo was giving him, he looked at him questioningly. “Why are you staring at me like that?” he asked nervously.

“No reason,” Agannalo smiled. “I just think that we might be able to come to an understanding.”

“Perhaps,” Hyarion evaded. “But now you are going back to your cell. Guards!” he shouted. “Remove this man!”

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By the Angsuul river, morning of November 7, 1347
Written by Gordis
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Musing upon his choices Lieutenant Hyarion had little sleep over the night. The next day, prompted by the angry commander, the party set off early – before the first light. They had traveled a long way when at last the pale dawn came, revealing a dull white plain beneath the low pall of dark clouds heavy with unshed snow.

The road ran along the bank of the frozen Angsuul – all the way to the town of Angoul which they planned to reach in the evening. From there, the road would leave the river and start its winding climb into the foothills of the mountains of Angmar, where Carn Dum stood.

Agannalo tossed his head to readjust the hood of his cloak – a difficult task to do with hands chained behind him. With the hood more out of the way, he looked around. He squinted his eyes in puzzlement when he detected a movement on the glimmering surface of the river – some sort of vehicles were coming downriver, but he couldnÂ’t make out what they were…

“Njamo’s muzzle! It must be the Lossoth!” one of the soldiers exclaimed. “Look like their sleighs glide on the ice! They go much faster on them bones than we do on horse hooves.”

Agannalo watched open mouthed as the Lossoth Party drew level with them. He saw the laden sleighs drawn by strong grey dogs – or were they wolves? A group of short squat brown-skinned people clad in embroidered skins followed. All of them had long flat bones of a whale attached to their feet and glided over the glistening ice with incredible speed and easiness. In all his long years Agannalo had never seen the Lossoth, only heard tales about them told in the South – and he discarded those tales as pure invention. In a matter of minutes, the Lossoth party left the mounted Angmarian guards behind.

“But what are they doing here?” another soldier inquired. “I thought they lived along the shores of the Ice Bay far to the west.”

AgannaloÂ’s one-eyed guard, who happened to be native from Angmar, explained importantly to the others “The Lossoth never sit long in one place. In summer they go north, in winter they go south, and sometimes they come upriver – to the towns along the Angsuul to sell their wares – fish, skins, bones and fat of sea monsters, and often fancy leather garments and shoes their women make –all decorated with seashells they are. They buy things they need – wood mostly, but especially they value iron. ‘Tis very profitable to trade with the Lossoth for they are simple people. You can get quite a lot out of them for a steel knife – a heap of skins, or a couple of those dogs, maybe, or even a woman.”

Agannalo, who watched Hyarion closely during this short conversation, noticed that at the mention of a woman Hyarion suddenly grew very still. Then the Southron shook himself and barked the order to move faster – in the same direction as the Lossoth party had gone.

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By the Angsuul river, morning of November 7, 1347
Written by Angmar
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Their horses pressed to keep up with the swift-moving Lossoth on the river, Lieutenant Hyarion’s party whipped their mounts to a faster pace until finally they drew abreast with them. A shout of “Hail!” brought the Lossoth to a halt, curious as to why a military patrol would have any business with them. Perhaps trade, they concluded. Their bodies covered with foamy sweat, their nostrils snorting steam with each breath, the horses were almost enveloped in a misty vapor of condensation, giving the scene a feeling of unreality.

Lieutenant Hyarion motioned for a corporal to ride up beside him. Aware that the man knew several of the native dialects, Hyarion enlisted his services as an interpreter.

“Sir, what do you wish for me to say?”

“Ask for their headman,” he replied tersely.

A rapid exchange of words transpired between the corporal and the Lossoth until finally a man taller than the rest stepped forward. This man was wearing a more ostentatiously embroidered tunic of skins than the others, and around his neck was an elaborate necklace of seashells held together with leather.

“What did the savages say?” Hyarion asked, his nose wrinkling in contempt as he looked down at the Lossoth leader.

“Sir, as you directed, I asked to speak with the leader. His name is Arnaldr; he is the taller one in that fancy embroidered tunic and the fur cape. He understands Common, though, and said he would rather deal with someone besides an underling like me. A rather arrogant chap, I would say,” the corporal muttered in Haradric.

“All right, at least he can speak Common. That is more than I can say for some of these barbarians.” Hyarion frowned. He had always considered himself far above these backward people who drove whalebone sleds pulled by dogs and earned their livelihood by fishing and hunting. “Introduce him to me, corporal, and tell him that I have brought him a gift.. That always impresses them.”

After the corporal had completed the formalities of introduction, the lieutenant directed an aide to go to the packhorse. There, the man fetched several beaded necklaces wrapped in brightly woven wool and presented them to the chief, who seemed delighted to receive them.

“Lieutenant, by the generosity of your gift, you have established that you wish to be friends with my people,” the elder’s wizened face beamed in a broad smile. “Have you brought things you wish to trade with us? We have pelts, furs, dried fish and meat, and the fat from the great creatures that swim in the sea. What do you need?”

“A woman.” Hyarion looked the chief in the eye without the flickering of a lash. “I have brought valuable goods to trade.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” the chief bobbed his head up and down. “I understand. The nights are long, cold and lonely and you need someone to share your furs. That can be arranged.”

Hyarion nodded.

“Is it important that the girl be very beautiful, or are you not particular?” Chief Arnaldr looked at him appraisingly.

“What is important,” Hyarion’s voice was cold, “is that she must be a virgin.”

“That, too, can be arranged. My youngest daughter is a pure, innocent girl. I have had a number of offers for her, but no man of my people has enough to pay me. She is very beautiful, you know.” Hyarion noticed that the old man’s expression was sly, and he did not quite trust him. With so little time remaining ere they reached Carn Dum, he would be forced to accept whatever the old man was asking.

“Chief, I offer you a fine steel knife and another bundle of glass beads.” Hyarion was not a man to be overly generous with money. He would try to get the girl for as low a price as he could, but he was sure that the old chief would rob him if he could, charging him an exorbitant fee.

Arnaldr shook his head. “Not enough.”

“Two knives.” Hyarion’s voice was firm.

“No.” The old man took off one of his fur-lined mittens and held it in his teeth. Taking out his knife, he cleaned his fingernails and ignored Hyarion and his party as though they were not there.

“Is there not some other maiden that I can get for a lower price?”

“You should have said that in the first place, Lieutenant.” Chief Arnaldr wiped the blade off on his leather pants. “Yes, there is a girl, an orphan, who lives with my family. Her father was killed last winter when he fell through the ice. She is not so beautiful as my daughter. Pretty,” he shrugged his shoulders, “just not beautiful.”

“How much will you take for her?” Hyarion was annoyed. Whenever he looked at Agannalo, he thought the man was sneering at him. “The sarcastic devil,” Hyarion thought. “He is enjoying my difficulties in obtaining a woman for him. If this blood ceremony does not give me the power to use the pale blue blade, I just might see that Silmadan has an unfortunate accident and never reaches Carn Dum. A little poison in his wine will soon end his problems.”

The chief by this time had ordered the girl brought away from the sleds to stand beside him. Hyarion’s breath caught in his throat. She was beautiful! Her face was not so brown as the men of her people, but rather a dark tan, almost the same shade as his own. She was short, aye, but petite, graceful and well-made. Hyarion resisted the urge to gape at her, but his eyes did travel the whole of her body.

“Three steel daggers and five bundles of beads – nothing less. If you are not interested, this discussion is at a conclusion.” The chief put his glove back on and folded his arms across his chest.

“That is outrageous!” Hyarion wondered what the other girl who was reported to be beautiful would have cost.

The chief turned to go.

“No, wait, I will pay it!” Hyarion shouted angrily at him. Agannalo smiled knowingly.

The price was paid, the girl was placed upon a spare horse, and the entourage was soon trotting away towards Angoul. The maiden, who had never ridden a horse before in her life, clutched at the pommel and tried to stay on the animal’s back. Looking over her shoulder, she watched as the chief cracked his whip over his dogs’ backs, sending them bounding forward across the ice. Up ahead of her she could see the back of the grim man who had purchased her from her guardian. He was frightening enough, but she did not fear him so much as she feared the pale man who kept staring at her. That man had an evil air about him. Shuddering, she wondered what fate held in store for her.

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By the Angsuul river, late morning of November 7, 1347
Written by Gordis
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Agannalo witnessed HyarionÂ’s deal with the Lossoth chief with growing contempt. The nazgul never understood how anyone could be content with second best. He himself certainly couldnÂ’t – ever. And now the Southron bought him a plain fish-smelling flea-infested diminutive morsel of a girl instead of the chiefÂ’s beautiful daughter!

Agannalo snorted and shook his head. He was lucky indeed that Halflings didnÂ’t live in this land, or Hyarion, because of his avarice, would have bought him a virgin of that species – with hardly two pints of blood inside!

The thought of blood made Agannalo nostrils quiver. He caught a whiff of the girlÂ’s smell – mostly fish oil and unwashed flesh, but mixed with those unsavory odors were the sweet feminine smell and the heady, intoxicating aroma of warm blood. AgannaloÂ’s mouth watered and he unconsciously urged his horse forward, trying not to loose the elusive smell.

Surrounded by guards, the girl was riding in the middle of the party, a short way in front of the nazgul. Feeling the increasing pressure of AgannaloÂ’s knees, his buckskin gelding drew level with the grey mare the Lossoth girl rode. Unfortunately, both the girl and the mare felt the nazgulÂ’s presence at once. The girl turned her head and gaped at him, her pretty features contorted in fright. As for the gray mare, it suddenly stumbled, glanced sidelong at Agannalo, and then neighed and reared. The girlÂ’s grip on the pommel slipped and she was thrown head over heels into the deep snow by the roadside.

Hearing the commotion behind, Hyarion barked “Halt!” and harried to the fallen girl. He dismounted and lifted the small figure out of the snow. Agannalo watched how he wiped the maid’s face muttering reassuring words in Haradic. “Are you hurt?” he asked over and over, first in the Southern tongue, then in Westron. The girl must have understood the latter, for she shook her head.

“No, no hurt” she replied and shyly, tentatively tried to smile. The smile, however, froze on her lips when she noticed Agannalo looking down at her with that strange, that horrible expression… as if he wanted to eat her, or worse…

Hyarion turned to the smirking Agannalo. “Do not come near her, you rascal!” he lieutenant shouted. “Guards, make sure the strawhead rides at the back of the troop. And the girl will ride by my side”.

Hyarion lifted the girl back into the saddle. “You will be safe, my beauty,” he reassured her. Agannalo rolled his eyes.

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Tavern on the road leading to Carn Dum, early evening of November 7, 1347
Written by Angmar and Elfhild
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After leaving the Lossoth that morning, the military escort had ridden east along the bank of the frozen Angsuul. The lieutenant had commanded them to travel at a far slower pace than what was normal for them, for the girl could not ride well. Agannalo, riding at the rear of the column, had bristled at this nonsense, as he considered it. He was thirsty, the need having grown now to an uncomfortable ache. What would it matter if the girl fell off the horse a few times if she still arrived alive at the next town?

As dusk settled over the land, Lieutenant Hyarion ordered a halt at a small, modest inn still several miles short of the town of Angoul they were striving to reach. Without even bothering to look at Agannalo, he had ordered his guards to imprison him in the inn’s root cellar, where he had remained ever since in a cool, damp, musty chamber filled with bins of parsnips and turnips, and crocks of pickled vegetables. “How long will he keep me here?” Agannalo fumed to himself. He heard his one-eyed guard and others engaged in a lively conversation outside the root cellar. Agannalo knew what that meant. The guard and some of the other men were enjoying flagons of ale while they threw the bones.

“If he tries to break the agreement…” Agannalo’s face contorted in a scowl.

Since taking occupancy of his lodgings in the inn that evening, Hyarion had lounged in a comfortable chair, watching an almost constant procession of the inn’s servants pass through his sitting room. First it had been two stout lads who had carried a leather tub and buckets of hot, steaming water. “My lord,” they had asked, bowing in awe at him, “where do you wish the tub to be placed?”

“Back in my bed chambers,” he waved them dismissively into the room with the stem of his narghile. Next to ask admittance to his rooms was the innkeeper’s wife, a large, buxom middle-aged matron with every hair in place and a cap atop her head. Following her were three attractive young chambermaids who carried trays laden with jars of soap, herbal fragrances, towels and cloths. As he lazily looked over their willowy forms, they dropped their eyes, blushed and giggled nervously as they saw the way his eyes gleamed.

“My lord,” the matron curtsied and the three girls followed suit, “where is the young lady whom we are to bathe?”

“In there, mistress,” he motioned with the narghile stem, and as they all passed, his dark eyes followed the movement of the women’s hips, which seemed to sway even more appealingly under the influence of the floral scented smoke.

“I am finished with my smoking for the time. Take the pipe away, boy,” he ordered his pipe-bearer. Hyarion knew that if he continued inhaling the narghile’s smoke, he would become far too relaxed and could drift off to sleep. He had considered doing that, for ever since the girl had come into his possession, he had been beset with feelings of guilt, an emotion almost alien to him. If he allowed his mind to slip into a state of peace and complacency, he would be almost immune to her screams when Silmadan performed his dark ritual. He did not dare risk the chance that the prisoner would kill her… or perhaps even him if his mind was too hazy. Though the pipe had made him feel calm and relaxed, still his mind was clear. He did not trust Silmadan. Perhaps the scoundrel was telling the truth that if he provided a virgin, he would indeed show him the secret of the blade. Maybe he was lying and did not know the secret either. Perhaps he was nothing more than a madman with a bizarre tale.