Chapter 3. Tarks are Good for Something

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Camp at Morva Torch, October 6, 1347
Written by Angmar
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Jarl Broggha had ordered a great feast be held in honor of the dignitaries from the North who were visiting the camp. Fires had been built in the clay earthen ovens the night before, and the Jarl’s thralls had been occupied at their task of baking bread since before dawn. Kettles of stew were bubbling over fires; deer, squirrel, boar and ox were roasting on great spits throughout the camp. The smell of cooking meat blended with the smell of mead, ale, unwashed bodies and the dungpits. Though some of the men had already partaken of too much brew, the Jarl insisted upon order in his camp, and rowdies found that justice was administered all too quickly.

The Jarl and his guests had been in conference in his long house for hours while the whole camp celebrated their arrival. The building was heavily guarded at both the front and rear entrances, for the Jarl had given orders that he was not to be disturbed while discussions were in progress.

The Jarl was addressing a distinguished looking man, taller even than himself, who sat across the table from him. The table, the chairs, and almost every object in the room had once belonged to an unfortunate landholder of Rhudaur, who had since ceased having a need for such things. Though clad in traveling clothing, the visitors’ dress was far richer than that of the Jarl’s. The tall man was quietly listening to the Jarl’s words.

“The King will soon have naught to fear, for when Rhudaur is in my hands, it is also in his.” When Broggha spoke, he was fond of using wide, sweeping gestures of his hands to emphasize the importance of what he was saying, and his hands sometimes were more eloquent than his speech.

“The tributes that have been sent to the capital have been quite ample. The King was especially pleased with the quantity of plate and jewels, the fine horses, seed grains, and other tokens of your alliance. He values the continued friendship that is shared between himself and you. You have his promise of support should need arise.”

“There will be a great deal more of goods, I promise him! The lords of this land are ripe for the plucking, with plenty to provide for the levies and to pay my men.” Broggha was waving his right arm in an extravagant fashion to emphasize the promise of the future. “The king of Rhudaur is weak; he fears me and my growing power and influence. He has sent emissaries to me offering me whatever position I wish to accept in his kingdom.”

“And have you accepted?” the other man asked quietly.

“Aye, I have.” The Jarl’s hands stopped beating the air and he took a drink from his goblet. Though he had long been in league with the Northern King, he would let his liege’s underlings wait for the announcement of what position he would hold in the Rhuduarian kingdom.

“And what is this position?”

“Besides my own castle, which is quite large and rather grand, I might tell you, I have accepted the position as chief advisor on the Privy Council.”

“A commendable appointment,” the other man nodded.

“Nothing more than an attempt to purchase time and try to buy me off. The fool does not know that I want much more – his kingdom and his daughter’s hand in marriage!”

“Jarl Broggha, you have grown to be quite a powerful man.” The other man’s eyes glittered as they narrowed. “When Rhudaur is in your grasp and the land is divided, the name of Broggha will be remembered forever.”

***

Sounds of revelry in the camp had reached a fevered pitch with the sounds of loud shouting and cursing mingled with the screams and giggles of the female thralls. In the long house built of logs that served as Broggha’s headquarters, eight of his lieutenants lay sprawled and drunken, their heads upon the table. Several had slid beneath the table and were snoring peacefully with the hounds.

Holding his dagger in his hand, Broggha speared a chunk of cold mutton on the tip and plopped the meat into his mouth. His hunger still unabated, he reached a mighty hand into a platter of cold roast beef and began tearing off chunks. Washing it all down with a swallow of ale, he wiped his mouth off on the back of his hand and loudly belched twice.

Broggha smiled as he thought of the generous promises of Carn Dum. There would be aid should he need it – but Broggha was more than certain that his own men could carry his plans off quite well. The important guarantee concerned the orcs. Those brutes would increase their harassment on the holds of those accursed Dunedain nobles who were loyal to King Tarnendur but would stay clear of Broggha’s people.

Broggha thought ahead for a few days hence when he and a great contingent of his men would march in triumphal procession through the streets of Cameth Brin. There would be many other of his men who would be cheering along his victory route. Their purpose would be both to add their voices to the exultant crowds and to make certain that no foolish Dunedain would get the idea to try to assassinate Broggha.

People were always awed with parades and show, but Broggha cared little of the affectations of people. His interests lay in the impression that his great force would make upon the king and his nobles. Broggha was now a force with which to be reckoned.

The hour was growing late and he called to the thralls to put more wood in the brazier. Broggha took another draught from his tankard, belched and stood to his towering height beside his chair. Gathering his fur robe around his shoulders, he shouted to Aewen and Maleneth, “Filthy Tark slatterns! The night will be cold! Come and warm my bed!”

Maleneth was able to hide the surge of resentment in her eyes, but Aewen, who was younger, could not conceal her indignity.

“Come here, wench,” Broggha bellowed as he threw her across his shoulder and carried her off to the raised platform and his furs.

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October 6, 1347 – a few leagues north of Broggha’s Camp
Written by Valandil
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Eryndil sat on the fallen tree, rubbing his chin reflectively at this latest bit of news.

His last orders had been to shadow Broggha’s advance as far as Penmorva, reporting anything out of the ordinary, and then to seek what winter quarters suited them.

Keeping an eye on Broggha’s enormous company had been an easy task. Even when his scouts started snooping around close by, it was no trouble to slip away. Easy enough to get lost in THESE hills. And these particular hills… he had known them from boyhood. “Eryndil” he had been named at birth, and as the 3rd son of a Thane, he had lived up to being a “forest-friend” from his earliest days – while his older brothers had more serious duties of learning to run their father’s estate. And now… at 40, after 15 years in the King’s service, men called him “Taurenol” – “wood-wise” – for few could equal him in the wilds.

It had been easy enough to continue the chase a little past Penmorva. He wondered why Broggha had set up his camp – and how long he would stay – and why he didn’t just march on down to Cameth Brin now – before winter began to set in.

He looked at the faces of his patrol – the 12 men under his command – all first-termers. Nine were from families of Householders – seven from his father’s own lands. All of these nine were pretty good woodsmen. The three “city-boys” were learning well enough. Another year or two and they could hold their own, perhaps. Four of his men – three of those from the country, including the two brothers – were sons of soldiers. Eryndil’s own father had done little soldiering himself – but Eryndil felt like he was making up for it.

This latest news though… first the young couple headed toward Morva – where that scraggly bunch of probable Arthedain deserters was. And now, the riders coming in from the north – headed in the direction of Broggha’s camp. Who were THEY? And did they intend to ride to Broggha, or were they seeking Cameth Brin, unaware of the great camp of men in their path?

The wind whipped up, and he thought of winter once more. This close to his father’s estate… that might be a good place to settle in for winter this year. He thought of his younger sister, whom he hadn’t seen in 5 years now. And his father, mother… everyone else! Most of the other men could spend the Yule with their own families, and they could always keep 3 or 4 out afield, yet within a winter day’s hike of reach.

It would sure beat another winter in the Ettenmoors, by Eru!

But before they made good on any winter plans, Eryndil decided to check into these latest developments.

“Let’s go!” he said to his men, standing and turning toward where the new reports had come from, keeping to the shadows of wood and stone.

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On the road near Morva Torch, afternoon of October 6, 1347.
Written by Gordis, Angmar, and Valandil
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Algeirr calmed his men, who were muttering darkly, angry and disappointed, and sent them to tend to the horse. They obeyed reluctantly, as they knew that no one of them could best their leader in fight. But they were far from content, and still shot angry glances at Algeirr and Griss and lustful ones at the girl.

While the young tark, aided by Kvigr, was busy with the wounded mare, three other mercenaries with drawn swords stood guard around them. Griss and Algeirr were holding the girl’s arms, Algeirr’s knife firmly held at her milk-white throat.

The distraction left Algeirr time to think and observe the others. He noticed that Heggr, Griss’s companion, was as disappointed as his own men, if not more. He stood nearby, sucking his bad teeth, his dark hungry eyes riveted to the wench, as a cat watches a fat mouse.

Even Griss himself looked distracted: he was holding the left arm of the girl and was using his right hand to stroke her buttocks, when he thought nobody was looking. When the girl squirmed and kicked Griss’s knee with her foot, cursing under her breath, Algeirr made his decision.

He grinned good-naturedly at Griss and received an answering smile: the man seemed relieved that Algeirr’s anger had passed.

“I must have a word with you, Griss,” Algeirr whispered conspiratorially. “Bind the wench’s hands, so we can talk.”

Griss drew the girl’s hands behind her back, and Algeirr passed him a piece of rope to bind them together. When the girl started to struggle, Algeirr put some pressure on the knife at her throat, drawing a trickle of blood. Then he took out of his pocket a large dirty piece of cloth, which normally served as a kerchief. But this time Algeirr used it to gag the girl. Struggling frantically now, she tried to avoid the dirty cloth that was being pushed in her mouth. But Griss held her firmly from behind, pressing her body to his with both arms.

When the girl opened her mouth to scream, the gag finally found its way into her mouth, and the only sound that came out was a low moan. This time, it was Griss’s turn to take out his kerchief which they tied firmly over the girl’s jaws, securing the gag in place. The two outlaws apprised their handiwork, smiling with satisfaction.

Algeirr looked back at the group near the mare. The three outlaws were still gawking at the operation and effectively screened the scene from the Tark. Heggr was the only one watching him and Griss, and his shrewd grim gaze made it quite clear that he wished to be a party in whatever was going to be discussed. Algeirr nodded towards the side of the road and they made their way through the low shrubs, pushing the struggling girl between them.

“Let us bind her to a tree,” Algeirr said to Griss and Heggr, once they were safely out of earshot from the road. Caelen was soon bound to a pine-tree, ropes securing her wrists and her still bleeding neck. Algeirr sat on the thick carpet of pine-needles and grinned at Broggha’s men.

“I have a proposal, gentlemen,” he said amiably. “Let us have fun with the tark wench now and kill them both afterwards.”

Seeing that Griss was about to protest, Algeirr stopped him, saying, “Broggha needs not be told of this, I gather he has wenches enough. Of course, all the other lads should be let to have their part of the fun, that will help them keep their mouths shut.”

“What say you to that?”

As Griss listened to Algeirr’s words, Heggr kept telling him with sharp glances that he liked Algeirr’s plan to use the woman now and after the sporting was concluded, kill the both of them.

“Why shouldn’t we have a little fun?” Griss told himself. Broggha always had the best of everything – the best women, the best ale and wine, the best food, the best horse. All men like Griss and Heggr could do was cast lustful looks at women like Aewen and Maleneth and hope their leader didn’t notice. When Griss had been holding the girl, he couldn’t keep his hands off her, and now he wanted to do a lot more than stroke her rump with his hand. Just looking at the girl made him ache. He caught her eye and his bold expression said, “I hope I am first!”

Broggha didn’t even know this girl existed. This would be simple; Griss was the head of Broggha’s spies. Oh, Broggha thought up the missions sometimes, but it was Griss’ sharp mind which kept the records of the activities of every last one of his spies. They would bury the girl and her brother deep so that not even the scavengers could dig them up, and no one would ever find their bodies.

Algeirr was speaking to him now, “What say you to that?”

Griss had already decided. “Let’s all take a tumble with her and kill her and her brother. Now who is going to be first?” Griss eyed Algeirr. There was no point in getting the man any more angry than he already had been, but it had been a long, long time since Griss had had a woman!

***

There was a loud THWACK on the tree where the girl was tied. The men looked sharply toward the sound, and saw a steel arrow, sunk deep into the tree, about an arm’s length over the girl’s head.

They wavered for just a moment – instincts telling them to flee, but their better sense telling them to hold still. Then a voice called out from the forest, “HOLD! In the name of the King!”

Eryndil strode forth, drawn sword before him, five men behind him with spears extended.

“Now… MOVE!” he commanded, “Out onto the road.”

One of them had a better idea and dove for cover. “Fool,” thought Eryndil, just as an arrow struck the man’s thigh. Then he signaled for two of the fellow’s comrades to help him out into the road.

Eryndil paused before the young woman at the tree as his men passed him, leading the others now right onto the road. He watched as the other two young ones who had been apart were brought forth by his three other spearmen. That left him four archers in the woods – and two of them were Narwaith and Nimloss – who wouldn’t miss their mark with a clear shot on the road.

He turned then to the girl. Some would have fainted at an arrow strike like that, but her eyes looked at him levelly – without fear, with no expression at all.

“My sword is a bit clumsy for this, but I dare not set it aside,” he told her, and then walking around the tree, reached his left hand to support her shoulder as with his great sword he cut the ropes binding her to the tree and tying her hands. Those hands freed, she quickly reached up and pulled down the kerchief holding the gag in her mouth and began to cough and spit as she rubbed her wrists and throat.

“Now that one,” Eryndil said, indicating Callon, “Is he your husband?” He had to be sure the man hadn’t brought her here to them, though he doubted it by the matching bloody marks on their necks.

Her eyes opened wide as she turned her head sharply toward him. “He… cough, cough … is my…” but then she just turned and ran toward the young man in the road. Eryndil’s men let her pass, and she threw her arms about him and the two embraced.

Eryndil signaled for the two to be led out of the circle of spears, then turned his attention to his own captives. From the forest he had seen that they now numbered seven instead of five – and that the two additions were likely from Broggha’s camp. This complicated things, so it was best not to acknowledge it. And he had given the brothers a strict command, though Eru knows they have a score to settle – and Eryndil wasn’t sure if he could keep his own bowstring in check, were he in their places.

“So… deserters from Malvegil’s Army? He hangs such, doesn’t he? Now… lay your weapons aside – in a pile – here!”

The men complied, wordlessly, but with venom in their eyes. Eryndil then had them lie face-down on the road, with two rangers between each. He commanded his men, “If one moves, stick ‘im!” as they began to search them in turn, drawing out not a few stray daggers and other things. Then he addressed them further.

“You have fallen into the hands of Taurenol, Servant to King Tarnendur of Rhudaur – and I do not do the office of Malvegil of Arthedain. If you heed me, you will survive our first meeting, otherwise…”

“Deserters do no one any good. But kidnappers, thieves, murderers… and other such,” he said, looking back at the girl, “these break the laws of our land. As it is, my timely intervention has spared you men the disgrace of breaking our good King’s Laws, and falling into his disfavor – for this you can be thankful. If I had come later, I would have no choice but to slay you all.”

Oh – double fool! Just at that moment, Gwaerod – the slowest-learning of his men – was searching the last of the captives when the man swung about with a dagger. Gwaerod warded off the blow at the price of a sliced forearm. This just wouldn’t do, thought Eryndil, as he rushed forward with his sword. But as Eryndil drew close enough to strike, and Gwaerod tried to rally himself and spear the man, two arrows met their marks, one in the chest and one in the throat, and the man slumped back and lay still. Eryndil smiled grimly to himself. That one in the throat came from where Narwaith was posted – ‘he might be better than me now,’ thought Eryndil. He noted that the man was one of the apparent deserters – not one of Broggha’s men. That at least was good.

The rest of the men seemed more cooperative from then on. Eryndil noted that the sun would be setting soon. While Lothrond tended to Gwaerod, Norumar and Ceruvar gathered up the weapons of the brigands. “Now,” said Eryndil, “give each one its own special hiding place in the woods yonder,” indicating the forest on the south side of the road. “Maybe these men can find them in the morning.” But if Norumar and Ceruvar did their jobs right, it would take all the next day.

To reach Broggha’s camp – a likely destination – one would take the road east. Eryndil and his men had come from the north, and he intended to depart to the northwest. He called down Hithirion and Griblung from the woods, keeping his two best archers in hiding. Then he commanded his captives to rise. “Now… walk!” he said, pointing westward. “You two,” indicating the ones who seemed to be leaders, “help your wounded comrade.” He instructed six of his men to walk behind them, to the next bend in the road, as far as they could still be seen. Then his men were to stop and watch their captives go at least another two furlongs beyond. By then the sun would be setting and it would be almost dark. As they walked away, he looked to where his last two archers were hiding and motioned for them to follow.

Now was just the wrap-up. The young couple explained about their wounded horse, so he gave them the weapon they asked for. The pair walked the animal just inside the woods and the deed was done. Then the slain man was dragged to the edge of the road and covered with a blanket, weighed down by stones, left there for his own comrades to bury. The horses belonging to the bandits were hobbled to keep them from running far – Eryndil checked the knots to make sure they couldn’t be untied, so that the men would have to find sharpened steel to cut the ropes before the horses could be ridden.

They made ready to depart. Eryndil asked that his wounded man could ride one horse while the young couple doubled-up on the other – explaining that they would just walk, and over rough terrain. He asked in part so that the pair wouldn’t decide to flee. It was turning dusk when his six men returned from their walk. Ceruvar and Norumar had finished their work, so they all departed. Eryndil and nine of his men walked – one of whom led the horse that carried Gwaerod (who had never sat on a horse before) – and Callon and Caelen on another horse in their midst.

Narwaith and Nimloss joined them about half a furlong into the woods. On they marched – due north at first, after Eryndil had extracted an oath from them that they hadn’t harmed Broggha’s men.

It would be useless to try to gather more information on the riders seen headed toward Broggha’s camp, Eryndil sighed. Now… despite all these other precautions, he still only needed to make sure that they were not followed.