Chapter 28. The Hands of the KingÂ…

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Fortress of Carn-Dum, evening of November 9, 1347.
Written by Angmar
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Lord Hyarion, lieutenant of Shedun Fortress, followed the guard down a long empty corridor. The sound of their footsteps echoing on the stone floor was disconcerting to Lord Hyarion, but the guards seemed oblivious to the noise. Behind them followed two more guards carrying the possessions of Silmadan, nephew of the king. Though the hall was deserted, save for the four of them, Hyarion sensed unseen eyes watching them. That was nothing unusual about that in itself, for every time Hyarion had been to the fortress of Carn Dum, he had sensed that he was being watched. This time, however, he detected there was a greater level of animosity than was common. Whether they were eyes of the living or eyes of another kind, he had never been able to determine, but such matters were not any business of the commander of a remote outpost.

“This way, sir,” the brisk young guard told him as he opened the door to a chamber. “Here Lord Alassar will receive you.”

Nervously, Hyarion walked through the door and bowed formally to His Majesty’s steward, Lord Alassar. The grim-faced man acknowledged him with a brief nod and pointed him to a seat across the table from where he sat.

“Lord Alassar,” Hyarion began, “all of Lord,” he hesitated, “at least I believe I am correct in referring to him as a lord – Silmadan’s possessions are intact and contained in those two packs that I brought up with me from Shedun.”

“Aye, Lieutenant, I am certain they are. It is not even necessary that I see the packs opened before me.” He turned to the three guards. “Men, deliver the packs to his room, and then return to your stations.”

The young guard looked at him questioningly. “Should we wait for verification that all is as it is said to be?”

“Nay,” Alassar’s expression was unreadable, “he is still resting after the journey, but I am sure if something is not in order, we will be hearing from Lord Silmadan soon enough.”

“Aye, sir,” the guards bowed and were quickly away out the door.

“Wine?” Alassar looked at Lieutenant Hyarion as he reached for the decanter and filled two goblets.

“Aye, a draught would be appreciated,” Hyarion nodded as he accepted the goblet.

“Aye, the aroma is exceptional,” Alassar moved the glass under his nostrils and then drank. “And how was your journey up here?”

“My lord, uneventful, I am glad to say.” Hyarion wished that the man would just get on with whatever it was that he wanted to say. He felt that the Steward was playing some kind of game with him, a game he did not understand, and he was feeling uncomfortable with it.

“Lieutenant, I understand you brought a girl with you, one of the Lossoth. This is the first time you have ever brought one of your women to the fortress. I am curious as to why.” Though his manner was friendly, Hyarion thought he sensed a trace of something unpleasant in his eyes.

“Aye, my lord, I must apologize for that, but I came into possession of her while on the trail. There was no opportunity to have her transported back to the fortress.” Hyarion hoped that his explanation would be sufficient.

Alassar’s expression never changed, and Hyarion wondered if the man had even been listening to him. “Reports which have come to me state that the woman is ill. Surely you must have taken into consideration that she might have been infected with the plague and could contaminate every last person in this fortress?” Lord Alassar regarded him with a sharply questioning look in his eyes.

“No, nothing like that, my lord.” Hyarion was becoming more agitated. I do not think the cause of her malady is physical, but rather of the spirit. You see, the poor girl had a fright – you know how weak females are – and she has not been the same since.”

“A fright, you say?” Alassar took another sip from his goblet and then leaned forward, studying Hyarion’s face. “What sort of fright?”

“Nothing really, the result of an accident,” Hyarion hedged. Although the room was quite cool, Hyarion found himself sweating and took another stout drink of wine to steady his nerves. How much did the steward know about the bizarre ceremony in which Hyarion had participated? He had been a fool to believe Silmadan, who had promised to reveal the secrets of the gleaming blade if Hyarion would but agree to allow him to use Elína in his bizarre ceremony.

“What sort of accident?” Alassar’s eyes on him had grown intense.

“The girl was accidentally wounded by Lord Silmadan’s dagger.” Hyarion looked away and studied the tapestry on the wall. The work was really quite magnificent. The threads had been worked to depict the image of a warrior mounted upon a huge black warhorse. He held a great mace in his hands and had just struck down one of his enemies.

“Wounded by Lord Silmadan’s dagger!” Alassar exclaimed, firmly grabbing the edge of the table in his hands and pushing back in his chair. “What kind of dagger?”

“A dagger, just like any other,” Hyarion shrugged his shoulders, hoping to minimize the situation so that Lord Alassar would not probe any further.

“Hyarion, you are a soldier and both you and I know that there is no dagger ‘just like any other.’ All are different, and each possesses its own power. Describe it, man, and do not try to trick me!”

As much as he wanted to devise some cunning lie that would put Alassar off, he knew that he could not deceive him. Perhaps there was some drug which had been added to the wine that made his tongue more eager to speak. By the time the audience was over, he had told him everything. At the conclusion of the meeting, Lord Alassar had no comments, but dispatched guards to take him back to the rooms he shared with Elína. Lieutenant Hyarion knew that they, too, would be added to the many that must now be watching him.

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Fortress of Carn-Dum, night of November 9, 1347.
Written by Angmar
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“Lord Alassar, be seated.” The King motioned to the seat across the table from him.

“Thank you, sire.” As he sat down at the table, Alassar attempted a polite smile but could manage only a spasmodic upturning of his lips. While he could conceal almost all traces of any emotion from other men, there was no way he could deceive the dark presence who sat before him.

His hand trembled as he brought the goblet of mulled wine to his lips and took a small sip. He wished he could control the tremor that insistently plagued his hand. Such mannerisms reflected weakness. If it had been another – a man like himself – who sat across from him at the small table, Lord Alassar would have given every appearance of a man perfectly in control of himself – calm, cool and detached. However, His Majesty was formidable enough during a normal audience, but under the present circumstances, it was as though Alassar faced some grim spectre who could see through to his very soul.

“Lord Alassar, what business is so urgent that it should take me away from my warm bed?” While the King’s voice sounded offended, Alassar thought that he could catch another quality, almost – his mind stumbled to find the precise word that would describe it. The best that he could do was “concern,” or was it “pity?” Whatever it was, it did not ease Alassar’s distress. On the contrary, it made him feel more alarmed. There was nothing to do but press on and simply tell His Majesty exactly what was bothering him.

“Sire, as you know, Lieutenant Hyarion and his new mistress arrived here this afternoon.” Alassar took another drink of the wine – which was quite good, he thought. “I fear that the girl is most unwell.” Alassar directed his gaze at the king in the attempt to gauge his reaction to his words, but he could read nothing.

“Lord Alassar, what seems to be the malady which plagues the girl?” The king lifted up his own wine and took a shallow sip.

Alassar rubbed his fingers over his palm and was disconcerted to discover that his hand was just as sweaty as he feared. “I do not have a name for this illness, for it exhibits symptoms that I have never quite seen before. It does not seem to be any plague or disease of which I am familiar, and you know that I am well-versed in medicine.”

“My lord steward, describe these symptoms to me.” The king’s voice now seemed sympathetic.

“Majesty, the girl – whose name is Elína – complains of chills and aches, and a feeling of cold which she says has penetrated deep into her very bone marrow. At night, she is vexed by terrible dreams of dark places and phantoms. Lieutenant Hyarion told me that she fears that she will fall asleep and never awaken. It seems that she thinks that death is waiting for her just beyond the portals of her room.” Lord Alassar looked down at the cuff of his sleeve, which was embroidered with vines twining about runes. “Normally, I would attribute her condition merely to a state of nervous agitation and hysteria at being in new circumstances and surroundings. This I would do if were not for the fact that she seems so unnaturally cold, and her pulse is erratic. But the name of this disease?” Alassar shook his head. “I could find it in none of the medical books.”

Here, Alassar was lying. He knew the name of the illness, but he was too terrified to tell his master how he knew it. Alassar thought back to that day several years ago when he had been summoned to His Majesty’s chambers high in the tower. Just when he had arrived, the king had been called away suddenly. After assuring him that he would be back soon, the king told him that while waiting his return that he should feel free to use the library. Alassar had been overjoyed at this privilege, for he had long hoped for an opportunity to see the extensive collection. While exploring the library, Alassar’s attention had been drawn to a door which he had not noticed before.

“Unusual that this escaped my attention,” he had thought at the time as he walked over to the door. Noticing that the door was slightly ajar, he felt it would do no harm for him to take a quick look inside. There was a treasure of learning contained in all the many scrolls arranged in their neat holders and he was hungry for the opportunity to examine even one. As he looked over them, he was uncertain which one to view. Finally, a title in neat script caught his eye and he took it to the nearby table.

Unrolling the parchment, he held his candle high above the document. There, before him, he saw that the scroll was written in a dialect of Black Speech which was so pure and perfect in form and syntax that at first he could only make out a few words. Then he saw the order in the runes, and drawing upon his previous knowledge of the language, he was able to translate a small portion of text. “The high tongue!” he realized, shocked at his discovery.

He had pursued a section of the text when a sense of great danger came upon him, warning him to leave the room quickly. Putting the scroll back in its place, he had fled quickly and returned to the library. He had been relieved to find that His Majesty had not yet come back. Forcing himself to breathe slowly and deeply, he calmed his hammering heart and settled his nerves. He appeared quite nonchalant a few minutes later as he looked over the scrolls and found an innocuous one titled “Fishing Off the Coast of Orrostar.”

Yes, he knew the name of the malady which inflicted the girl. Even more importantly, he knew the manner in which she had been stricken. Just thinking of the fate which lay in store for the innocent girl caused a heavy sense of despondency to bear down upon him. “Doomed,” he thought. “This lovely child is doomed with no hope of escape.” However, Alassar dare not tell His Majesty how he had obtained this information.

“Nay, I have no name for the ailment.” Alassar found himself repeating what he said previously. “Strange,” he thought. Such a thing was unthinkable to his well ordered mind. He was becoming agitated. He must direct his well-trained mind to make his body relax.

“Lord Alassar, are you sure that is quite true?” His Majesty sounded amused.

His nervousness returned and intensified. Alassar forced himself to look up into the face of his master. “Sire, what do you mean?”

“Alassar, you know full well what I mean. Do not attempt to conceal the truth from me, for I have many ways of knowing things. Always be truthful to me. I value candor in a man.”

The king could see through him! It was useless to try to hide anything from His Majesty, and so Alassar confessed that he knew of the existence of the hidden room. He did not feel purged of his guilt until he had revealed everything which he had learned in that scroll. At that moment, realization came to him. He was one of the few living men who had obtained the secret of the most dread of the Nazgul weapons – and what it did. Even more ominous and forbidding than that, though, was the terrifying knowledge of just what His Majesty – and perhaps his nephew really were – undead immortals.

“Now that that matter is out of the way,” His Majesty was almost laughing, that cold, sarcastic sound that was part laugh and part hiss, but devoid of all mirth, “perhaps you will tell me how you propose to remedy the situation.”

Suddenly feeling extremely weak, Alassar leaned forward and clutched the table with both hands. “Sire, neither of them can leave Carn Dum – ever! When the girl dies or…” Alassar’s voice broke in fear, “is… ‘transformed,’ Hyarion will be very bitter, and bitter men have a tendency to talk too much. He will tell all his colleagues about your nephew, and then, if they do not guess what he is, they will strongly suspect it.” Alassar’s words sped from his mouth as though he had no control over his tongue.

“Your Majesty, as you are very aware, people will always gossip and spread rumors, and the more extravagant or spectacular the tale, the quicker and farther the stories will travel. Should the kings of the northern and southern kingdoms have any inkling of this – and I do not like to think about the elves in Rivendell – everything you have worked to build here will be in dire jeopardy.”

The king was silent, turning the stem of his wine goblet slowly around and around in his fingers. Alassar had the sensation that the king was laughing at him, mocking him. Feeling His Majesty’s eyes upon him, as though they were burning a hole through his mind and soul, the steward quaked in horror. Would the dread king slay him for reading the forbidden scroll and then lying about it, or even worse – a shudder of icy cold fear went down Alassar’s spine – would he turn one of those Silent Ones after him? Or most horrifyingly of all, use one of those terrible blades upon him?

“Your Majesty, please…” Sweat trickled down Alassar’s forehead and his heart throbbed in his chest like the beating of a hillman’s drum. The king’s form began to shimmer, glowing a silver pale white, and a wave of dizziness swept over the steward. Trembling, unable to see anything except a cloudy image, he rose to his feet and groped along the table to where the king’s seat was set. His dry throat began to constrict as though a great hand were tightening around it, and the proud steward began to weep, sobbing like a little boy who had been hurt. Falling to his knees, he gripped the king’s robe. “Your Majesty, mercy! Mercy I beg you!”

The king’s reply was harsh and cold. “Rise to your feet and return to your seat, Steward! Such fawning and groveling is not worthy of a man!”

Taking his breath in great gasps, Alassar stumbled back and almost collapsed in his seat.

“‘Tis true that you have committed a serious breach of trust, but surely you must know that I knew about it all along. Perhaps you feel that the obtaining of such knowledge was not worth the price, and perhaps you are correct. Now that you have it, though, you can never turn back.” Alassar was certain that somewhere in the rear of the room, he could hear hollow voices laughing and mocking and sense unseen fingers pointing at him in ridicule. He looked around but saw nothing.

He drew a deep breath and asked the question that was tormenting his mind. “Sire, then you are not–”

The King interrupted him. “No, your existence is safe enough, Lord Alassar. You will not die today.” The king was silent for a while after that and then spoke again. “The answer to your other question… the Lieutenant of Shedun fortress and his pretty little slave will remain here forever. Tell him that I have appointed him to a much better position than he had before.”

“And the woman?”

The King’s voice took on a new tone, one that Alassar recognized as something common to all men. Lust. “Have her brought to my chambers when dawn covers the mountains. There is a… cure… to her sickness… but do not concern yourself with what it might be. You are free to go, my lord Steward.”

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The Witch-king’s Opulent Bedchamber, Carn Dum. Early morning of November 10, 1347
Written by Elfhild
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Elína awoke to the sound of voices and the sensation of sinking into a delightfully sumptuous cloud. She opened her eyes – it took a great effort to do so, for it seemed that the weight of her eyelashes had increased tenfold – and saw through the mists that clouded her vision dark shapes receding through an arched entryway. Their heads bowed, long liripipes dangling from their hoods like serpents, the sable-clad servants exited as silently as shadows moving upon a wall. Candles were set about the room, misty amber halos surrounding them like orbs of muted light, like the faint beam of a lantern held by a traveler who was unlucky enough to find himself wandering in the deepest fog.

A movement in the room, a stirring, like a breeze through the cotton grass which grew in the tundra. A man looked down at her from eyes of quicksilver set in a handsome, regal face, a luminous being whose pale skin shone with silvery phosphorescence. Mists wrapped around his form like the misty vapor expelled from one’s lips whilst breathing in the frigid air of the north. His raven black hair and beard almost had a silvery sheen from the reflection of the soft light which surrounded him. He was dressed in kingly robes, rich blues and cool whites embroidered with thread-of-silver. Power and might seemed to emanate from him, pulsating like the steady beat of a heart.

Elína gasped weakly when the man reached down and picked up her hand, turning it over so that the wrist was exposed. Even though her arm from her wrist to her shoulder was completely numb, somehow she felt his touch, the coolness of his hand, the tiny ridges and whorls which spiraled around his fingers. He brought his other hand up and stroked his fingers across the wound which cut across her wrist like a grim bracelet. Upon his forefinger, there was a golden ring set with a stone which glittered like a shard of ice, the gleam of its faucets reflecting the light of the candles and sparking in shades of amber, yellow, pink and white. The coruscating jewel held the weak, dying girl mesmerized, the glittery sparkles somehow bringing a sense of serenity to her.

Murmuring a few words, the man slowly drew his fingers around in a circle above the wound. Elína whimpered as sudden warmth flooded through her frozen arm, making her muscles contract in painful spasms. “Shhh,” he whispered, his voice deep and seductive, “the pain lasts for only a little while.” He caressed her aching arm slowly, his skillful fingers applying light pressure, the gold of his ring warming her frozen skin with gentle heat.

Gradually warmth and feeling came back to her arm, and Elína looked up at the man in amazement. An enigmatic smile upon his face, he lifted her wrist up to his lips. Elína gasped in surprise as she felt his warm tongue laving her skin. Her wrist began to tingle as he bathed it with his tongue. She whimpered, for it felt as though her skin were being pulled, stretching, uncomfortably, but a murmur from his lips and a series of long, lingering kisses upon her wrist stilled her protests.

When at last the man drew away from her, Elína gasped loudly when she once again saw her wrist in the candlelight. The cut was gone! Her eyes wide and fearful, she looked to the man. Gone was the ethereal light which seemed to radiate from the core of his being; gone were the mists which floated around his form. He was a man like any other, of solid form, of flesh and blood. Somehow the transformation was more terrifying than the initial apparition.

Trembling, Elína licked her lips. “Elína say… t-thank you,” she whispered.