Chapter 10. Moving on

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Morva Torch, Night of October 15, 1347
Written by Angmar
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The brazier in Jarl Broggha’s great longhouse was glowing brightly, providing light and warmth for the building. The Jarl sat back in his fur-draped chair and looked across the table at his captains as some of his men-at-arms drank from tankards of ale.

“Jarl, I think your decision to promote the fellow Griss to captain is a judicious one. He has proved his loyalty more than once. While he is not one of our most outstanding warriors, the men admire him and look up to him for his leadership.”

“Though I will be hard-pressed to find another scout and spy as good as he is, I think it is time that he have more responsibility. The man has a quick mind and good perception. Find another spy for me, Captain. I will pay him well!”

“There is a man – nothing more than a cutthroat and robber – but he is wily, and if he is paid enough, he will serve the purpose.” The Captain hoped that the man would be all that and more. “Jarl, let me make him the offer and we will see what he says.”

The Jarl reached into a small chest on the table and drew out a piece of gold and slid it across the table to the Captain. “Tell him there is plenty where this came from,” Broggha grinned.

The Captain picked up the coin, putting it in the pouch at his belt. Then he rose to his feet and bowed. “I will know his reply by morning.”

Broggha rose to his feet, a signal for his men-at-arms to do the same. “The hour grows late, gentlemen, and it is time for me to retire.” He glanced to Malaneth, who was clearing the table of the empty tankards.

“Certainly, Jarl, good night to you,” the Captain slid his chair back and after more good nights, he and his men departed.

“Malaneth, come sit on my lap.” The Jarl pushed his chair back.

“Aye, Jarl,” the woman replied, keeping her eyes down as she slid onto his lap and smoothed her skirts.

Pulling her close to him, Broggha held her in a tight embrace as he kissed her neck. “Two days ago I sent dispatch riders ahead to Cameth Brin. They bear a message to King Tarendur announcing that we should be arriving near Cameth Brin in three day’s time. I have had a cart prepared to transport you and the wench Aewen. After I have the two of you established in the keep on the lands that I have been bestowed by the king, I might present you to the king’s court. Perhaps you will be ladies-in-waiting to the young princess.”

“Is that possible, my lord?” Malaneth asked as she felt his beard against the back of her neck. “Will he not know how you… obtained us?”

“It does not matter what he does or does not know. The king is afraid to gainsay me. I am far more powerful than he is,” he murmured into her ear as he picked her up and carried her over to the fur-covered bed.

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Morva Torch, October 8 – 15, 1347
Written by Elfhild
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“I beg that a message be taken to my mother and a woman named Hegga of my village, asking for their forgiveness and telling them that I love them. I ask the Lady Aewen for forgiveness and am sorry that I have brought her more grief.”

Kvigr’s words echoed in Aewen’s mind, and over and over again she saw his brutal death, how he writhed in agony as he was hanged, the bloody emasculation and disembowelment. Though she had fainted many times throughout the horrible execution, still what she had seen would haunt her for the rest of her life. His death was all her fault; if she had not agreed to run away with him, this whole tragedy never would have happened. What was happening to her mind? First she had risked her own life by trusting a man she did not even know in the hopes that she could escape, and then, later, she had attempted to murder the Jarl in his sleep because of some strange compulsion which she still did not understand. Not only had her madness brought the Jarl’s anger down on her, but it had also caused a man his life. She wished she was never born.

Though her whole body was in agony – her back from the whipping, her wrist from the break, and her chest where her skin was seared by the hot metal – somehow Aewen managed to find sleep that night. A horrible dream came to her while she slumbered. In it, the parts of Kvigr’s body had traveled across the miles, leaving trails of blood and gore in their wake. There, gathered before her in the midst of a crossroads, they drew together by some means of enchantment, and became whole once again… if it could indeed be called whole. For where the severed limbs rejoined the torso, the clothing was ripped and stained dark with blood.

Shaking in terror, she beheld the gruesome sight. Kvigr’s dead, hollow eyes looked at her with a cold, sickening lack of expression that was somehow all too expressive. Then his mouth seemed to move, and he mumbled out the words:

“I hold you accountable for my death.”

Aewen woke up screaming, but no one really cared, save Malaneth.

***

As the cold days of mid-autumn passed, the pain of the many injuries inflicted upon her by her master gradually began to diminish. Each day was spent in suspense and fear, for she did not know if the Jarl planned to punish her further or even kill her, or if he had deemed that he had punished her enough already. Now it was the 15th of October, and still Aewen was alive. Soon they would be leaving this place, and Broggha had spoken of her being a lady-in-waiting to the poor princess whom he desired. It appeared that he had spared Aewen, feeling that she had learned her lesson. For her life, Aewen was grateful, though always would she live in guilt, feeling that Kvigr’s death was her fault.

But a nagging worry had unsettled her mind, and she wondered how she would approach the Jarl about this matter. She feared she was with his child.

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Morva Torch, October 8-15, 1347.
Written by Gordis
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Algeirr was drunk that night. He rarely permitted himself to relax completely, but now was such an occasion. Was it the full moon peering shamelessly at him from the heavens, or the tale about Kvigr’s old dam and her grief told in the camp, but something snapped inside him and no amount of booze could quench this unease.

At first, Algeirr was simply angry at the fool who couldn’t be trusted to spend one night in Broggha’s camp without attempting to steal the Jarl’s favorite mistress. He had watched Kvigr’s execution unflinchingly, and only worried about his own hide.

As the Jarl had been wounded, the knowledge of healing arts that Algeirr had picked in the Arthedain and Cardolan armies proved handy: he had proposed to wash the wound with infused Kingsfoil leaves. He had a goodly supply of the staff in his backpack and spared quite a lot to regain the Jarl’s trust, more than was really needed.

Broggha was a suspicious bastard, no mistake there, so he made Algeirr first try his healing arts on the Jarl’s wench, Aewen. When the leaves did wonders for the deep, oozing burns on the woman’s chest, the Jarl reluctantly offered his own back to Algeirr’s ministrations, but the mercenary had been very much aware of two of Broggha’s cutthroats hanging at his elbows with drawn knives.

Then weary days passed one after another. The Jarl seemed not in the least grateful, and affected not to notice Algeirr at all. The mercenary was not given any duties, neither was he promised any rewards. Every night, the feeling of insecurity made it difficult to find sleep, and Algeirr always kept his sword at his side, straining his ears to the sounds of approaching murderers. Not once had he mused about leaving the camp for good, but some deep, ingrained instinct told him, that had he tried to leave, he would be caught and executed the same way Kvigr had been.

Algeirr often dreamed of Kvigr’s execution, but in his sleep he felt no indifference as he had watching the event itself; instead, he often found his cheeks wet and his heart pounding fiercely.

So, one week after Kvigr’s execution, Algeirr paid his last copper coins for a keg of ale and got drunk alone in his hut, watching mournfully the hilt of the knife he drove deep into the earthen floor in front of him.

It was in this sorry state that Griss found Algeirr in the evening of the 15 of Narbeleth. Griss was clearly surprised to see Algeirr so unmade. He stooped at the door looking down at the sprawled mercenary. Algeirr blinked back with swollen, bleary eyes and motioned Griss towards the keg of ale without a word. Griss shook his head: he was now Captain, and had no wish to gulp cheap ale after sharing good Gondorean wine with the Jarl.

“The Jarl gave me a promotion,” said Griss, wondering whether Algeirr still had enough wits left to understand him. “I am to be one of his Captains, and you will be the head of the scouts, in my stead, if you so wish.”

With that he flicked the golden coin the Jarl gave him.

Algeirr’s hand shot out and gripped the coin in a fluid gesture. Griss was startled by such agility in the drunken man, but then he roared with laugher.

“I see no amount of ale may quench your lust for gold, my friend,” Griss said good-naturedly. “Cheer up and stop this nonsense. We are going to a place where all our lusts will be satisfied, be it for gold, fame or fine wenches! We ride to Cameth Brin on the morrow and let the Tarks tremble at our approach!”

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October 12, 1347 – an hour after sunset –
in the woods outside of the Thanehold of Ostinand
Written by Rian
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“Well, what do you think? Shall we move on?”

Alagos turned over on his back and looked up at the stars, waiting for an answer, as his friend gazed thoughtfully on the homestead below. The lights in the buildings shone with a warm glow in the dark.

“I don’t know,” replied Tyaron thoughtfully. “It looks like a messenger arrived a while back – let’s stay a bit longer and see what happens.”

“Fine with me,” shrugged Alagos, chewing on a bit of grass.

Tyaron joined his friend gazing at the stars, but he preferred to stand. As the bright constellations slowly took their turns rising in the sky, he greeted each with a solemn song sung softly in an ancient tongue that few walking the earth now knew. Sometimes Alagos joined in with the intricate harmonies, but more often than not he remained silent, which was unusual for him.

Finally, as the first hints of dawn came into the east, Alagos spoke again.

“Who are you interested in?”

Tyaron sat down next to his friend and sighed. “The girl … she reminds me a little of your sister …”

“And the young man with her reminds me of you,” said Alagos thoughtfully. “Which one in the group reminds you of me, I wonder?”

“The pack horse,” answered Tyaron with a grin.

Alagos smiled back; he was too comfortable to get up and avenge the friendly insult. They had shared many over the years, and Alagos figured he was in the lead, anyway, as the more vocal of the two.

“Well, then, let’s give them a few days and see if they leave. If they do, we’ll put our things back on our backs and both make like pack horses and follow them,” said Alagos, sitting up and shaking the grass out of his long hair.

Tyaron nodded his assent, and as the morning light now made them more visible than they wanted to be, they melted quietly back into the deeper woods.

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October 12, 1347 – an hour after sunset – Thanehold of Ostinand.
Written by Valandil and Rian.
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The sounds of gaiety filled the Great Hall, but loudest in EryndilÂ’s ear was the boisterous laughter of his eldest brother Dornendur.

“And now,” Dornendur said, turning back to Eryndil and pausing just long enough to take another deep draught from his tankard, “Did you hear this one? Three Halflings walk into an Inn. Innkeeper says, ‘What do you…’ “

Yes – Eryndil had likely heard that one. He had heard EVERY joke that Dornendur tried so very hard to tell. But he just smiled politely and nodded as his inebriated elder sibling continued on yet another monolog.

Nonetheless, it was good to be home – and for the whole winter! His family had been so excited to see him. His little joke on his folks – of sending some of his men ahead, along with the brother and sister they had rescued – the joke had come off half decently. As King’s Men, they had demanded the right to winter lodging – and as his father Camglas had no others, he was well under his quota as Thane. But, as Eryndil had expected, he had begrudged what was demanded as an obligation – while for the barest wanderer, he knew his father would have put up gladly, out of kindness, if the boon was asked. Then two days later – yesterday – Eryndil had arrived with the rest of his men. His father was surprised beyond hope at his appearing. His mother – embarrassed at the treatment his other men had received. And now – Callon and Caelen were welcomed as if they were part of the family.

This feast tonight was in his honor. It was a joyous homecoming celebration. The modest-sized Great Hall was swelled with 80 people or more – maybe 100 with the servants coming and going. The head table was crammed with 13 – sitting elbow-to-elbow as they presided over the happy occasion, for there was all Eryndil’s family, including Dornendur’s wife and three children, and even Callon and Caelen. His elder brother had even given up his own place of honor – at their father’s right hand – to Eryndil this evening.

As Dornendur finished his latest tale, Eryndil tried his hardest to laugh a bit, but Dornendur sighed and slumped slightly forward. His wife, on his other side, seemed oblivious to him as she pulled apart a roast fowl, but his children – all between 10 and 18, tittered and giggled at their father’s condition. Eryndil took the opportunity to turn to his left.

His father sat rather quietly, eating slowly, but looking quite pleased. He also looked… old! How the last five years had aged him, thought Eryndil. But these were not good times in Rhudaur – not for Dunedain Thanes.

His mother was on his father’s other side. Lady Rildorien had lost little of the beauty that had been the fame of the Angle when his father had swept her off her feet. But tonight she seemed preoccupied – trying to split her attention between her husband, and the work of the servants keeping the celebrants well supplied. She had little enough attention left to give her own plate – which sparsely filled to begin with, was mostly untouched.

Beyond his mother was his younger sister, Hendegil. She was not the little girl that Eryndil had first left behind 15 years ago. And when he returned five years back – a special bond of friendship and respect had grown between them. And now, at 25, she was quite the young lady. Eryndil winced to think that Rhudaur was no longer a fit place for her. Innocent she was, and a lover of lore and peace and all that was good. Faithful she still was, beyond his doubt – though clearly very much alone.

Next to Hendegil sat Caelen, and then Callon. Hendegil had befriended Caelen quite quickly, once she learned that her courageous brother had rescued her – and had even tried to comfort her before. On this night, the two talked non-stop, with Callon at times trying to listen, or even to add a word or two (Eryndil laughed inwardly at each attempt he made… much funnier than Dornendur’s jokes, for sure) – at other times eating with the appetite of a young man his age and surveying his surroundings.

Next to Callon sat EryndilÂ’s brother Vilyandur, and then their sister Gildorien. The two spoke mostly to one another, turning to do so that none might hear. But their looks strayed mostly between Eryndil and Callon & Caelen. The eyes of Vilyandur seemed most often to drift back to Caelen.

Well – at least they apparently hadn’t spread the word about meeting Eryndil at the Three Goats Inn four days past. He could be glad for that. But he had little doubt they would be off toward his dreadful Marugond by the end of the month, or some other Eruforsaken place – to spend the night before the Fall. Bad part was – they would be sure to try and get Hendegil to go with them this time – maybe even try to drag Callon and Caelen along.

EryndilÂ’s eyes then drifted beyond the head table, out to the others gathered on the main floor below – various cousins and servants and guardsmen attached to the household – along with about half of his own men (the five from households on this thanehold were excused to go to their own families for the winter – but had to report their whereabouts and meet at Ostinand at noon each Orgilion (Saturday) – the first day of the week). There were also some friends from town and various and sundry other guests.

Eryndil next took in the room about him – and thought of his father’s holdings. It was really remarkable for a Dunedain Thane to be doing so well in this day. Eryndil had taken that for granted growing up here (just as he now felt he had taken his father and mother for granted) – but through his years in the King’s Service, he knew all too well how rare it was. Of course, their ancestors’ foresight in making the place so defensible a few generations back had been crucial. Ostinand could likely repulse an assault from a small army – but because its defenses seemed so strong, they had never even been tried. It was also fortunate that they were a bit off the major highways – and that the surroundings were just prosperous enough to keep everyone in a bit of comfort, and not so rich as to attract the wrong kind of attention.

A servant suddenly came into the Hall with a look of express purpose on his face. It was a watchman from an upper tower. He strode straight up to Eryndil’s father and leaned toward him as he spoke sharply, but in a hushed voice. “Thane Camglas – a rider approaches!”

Camglas sat up straight, nodded to the man, and then smoothed his clothes and the edge of his short-trimmed beard, that he might give the fitting appearance of a proper Thane at his dinner to this night-time visitor. The watchman went out through the main doors.

A few minutes later, he re-entered with a man dressed in the livery of the KingÂ’s messenger service, and the look of having just endured a hard ride. The room became quiet, as the watchman swept out his arm toward Camglas, signaling to the messenger that he could proceed. The sound of his footfalls on the stone floor filled the room. He approached the Thane and bowed, Camglas inclining his head in return. The messenger spoke first.

“Greetings, Thane Camglas, son of Borlost!”

“Welcome, rider. We have plenty of fare this eventide. Did you come to join our revelry, or does other business drive you?”

“The King’s business, oh Thane. I come at the command of King Tarnendur, seeking information on the whereabouts of your son, Eryndil, who leads a command of men in the King’s Service.”

Camglas’ eyes remained fixedly forward – he would not turn them toward his son. But it seemed to Eryndil that his heart sank. “You know that men like my son in service to their King will spend many a year away from their homes and kin. Why do you come seeking him here, when he might winter anywhere about Rhudaur, wherever his duty has taken him?”

The messenger replied, “We know not where to seek for your son, oh Thane. But the King has great need of him, and we knew naught else where to begin.”

“Father, it is enough,” said Eryndil, rising to his feet. His father ruled his Thanehold, but Eryndil was sworn to the King’s service, and could brook no more delay in knowing his liege’s will. Turning to the messenger, he added, “The one whom you seek is here, for I am he. Speak now your message.”

The messengerÂ’s eyes darted back and forth between Camglas and Eryndil, but then his excitement evidently growing, he withdrew from his cloak a sealed scroll and handed it to Eryndil.

All eyes in the room were now upon Eryndil as he received the scroll, broke the seal, rolled it open, and read it in silence.

– – – – – – – –

Eryndil of Ostinand,

Your loyalty to the King and the steadfast performance of your duties, have brought your name to the KingÂ’s attention.

You are hereby requested and required to set aside your current duties and assignment as a patrolling warden – and to report to King Tarnendur at Cameth Brin within a sennight of The Day of The Fall, for an appointment as a Royal Advisor. You shall join a few others – like yourself – on whom the King will depend in these difficult days.

The men of your patrol shall attend you – and may be kept as your retainers, or else reassigned to other patrols if so best suited to them. Come in state. Quarters have been reserved for you – and provision for staffing a household.

By Order of King Tarnendur

– – – – – – – –

Eryndil read it three times over. The first time, he barely took it in. The second, he reassured himself that it indeed said what he thought it said. His third reading was slow – pondering the various words and the meanings that might lie behind them. Then he spoke.

“I am ordered to Cameth Brin. I must leave in a few days. Narwaith! Nimloss!” The two ‘orphans’ from this thanehold were perfect for this assignment – and stood as he called their names. “Go at dawn and round up our companions from their fathers’ homes – bring them here by tomorrow sunset.”

He turned to his parents. This would be painful to them – it was already showing. It might be painful to him someday as well, when he had a chance to recall it. “Mother – it grieves me to make from you such an early departure. Father… I am asked to make my arrival noticed – and I would make all speed. May I take horses for my men and myself? I will return them – or payment for them.”

There – it was done. There was now little else to do, but be swept along, it seemed. His father nodded, and turned away. His mother fought back tears. Hendegil didnÂ’t fight them back – but surrendered to them, and buried her head in EryndilÂ’s chest, softly repeating, “noÂ… noÂ… no”. Then collected herself and stood stiffly, trying to regain her dignity. Eryndil looked up and saw that Callon and Caelen were right behind Hendegil – but they didnÂ’t share her look of distress. Instead, their faces were set with determination. Rather, Callon’s face was. Caelen’s look was a bit more pensive – or less clear to make out.

Callon spoke, “Sir – may we go with you? Please? We have family in Cameth Brin, that we would join if we could.”

Eryndil pondered this. He knew that they had tried to convince Narwaith on their journey to take them to Cameth Brin instead of Ostinand – or to let them go, that they could travel to Cameth Brin themselves. Narwaith had done right to refuse them – keeping Eryndil’s command. Besides, having once fallen among bandits, it were well to not let them be exposed in such a way once more.

He thought further. If he brought them, it wouldn’t do to announce to all that they had been rescued from some who might have been Broggha’s men (a posibility Eryndil had suspected from the start) – not right away. They could go ostensibly as his servants… or relatives, family friends… or just some Dunedain travelers who had taken up with an armed band for protection on the road.

***

Caelen listened to her brother’s request to go to Cameth Brin with Eryndil with mixed feelings. It would be good to be with family again, but it had been so wonderful here… she and Hendegil, after some initial shyness, were now inseparable friends. And it was good to see her brother’s face gradually lose the wary, watchful expression that it had worn so continually since they had left their home. Tonight he had looked really happy for the first time in quite a while.

But she knew that tone in his voice, and knew that one way or another, they would soon be leaving this place.

It looked like fate had decreed that they were not yet to stop running.