Chapter 5. Plotting and suffering

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On the road near Morva Torch, evening of October 6, 1347.
Written by Angmar and Gordis.
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“Wretched luck!” Griss cursed. The sound of Uffi’s screams had gotten on his nerves. He looked over to where Algeirr knelt beside the wounded man, who lay writhing on the ground.

“Griss, Heggr, Kvigr, Meldun, come over here and help me! I have to take this arrow out!”

“What about old Gunni?” Meldun, his face stark white, asked. “He is lying over there dead! What are we going to do about him?”

“We are not going to stay out here and dig a hole with our hands while Uffi bleeds to death. Now let us tend to Uffi!”

Uffi looked up and cursed all of them. “Don’t take off my leg! Don’t take off my leg! I’ll kill all of you if you do!”

“That might be a hard thing to accomplish,” Algeirr laughed grimly, “seeing as how we do not even have a knife.”

Griss, with Heggr right behind him, walked over and stared at Uffi. Uffi was pounding one fist up and down on the ground as his wounded leg was bleeding him to death.

“Go find a piece of wood and if any of you has a coin, give that to me!” Algeirr commanded. “Kvigr, run over to the saddle bags, get an old shirt or something that you can rip and bring me a good length of it! Hurry! Uffi was hit in his thigh, and if we don’t stop the bleeding, he will soon be a corpse!”

Griss found a coin in his money pouch, and as the three other men held Uffi down, Algeirr put the coin above the wound, wrapped the strip of cloth above the injury and wound the ends of the cloth around the length of wood that Meldun had brought. Using the stick as a windlass, Algeirr tightened the cloth until the blood flow was stanched. Griss admired the outlaw leader’s calm demeanor and knowledge of treating wounds. “He must have learned quite a bit in the Arthedain army,” Griss thought.

“Now comes the difficult part.” Algeirr smiled grimly at Kvigr, who was holding Uffi by the arm. Breaking off the feathered end of the arrow, Algeirr pushed the whole shaft through Uffi’s thigh until the arrow head protruded out the other side. Uffi shrieked and thrashed in pain and the men holding him could barely keep him on the ground in his struggles. Algeirr tossed the remaining shaft and bloody arrowhead over into a pile of weeds. Wiping off his perspiring forehead, Algeirr nodded to Griss.

“Go over to the saddle bags and find some more old shirts, breeches, anything that might be there, so that I can bind up this wound to keep the dirt out of it.”

Mercifully, Uffi had fainted by the time his wound was bound up. When he had revived, they hoisted him up on one of the horses while Algeirr rode behind in the saddle, keeping the weakened man from falling. Kvigr was assigned the task of walking beside the horse and attending to the tourniquet. Algeirr reminded him as they set off for Broggha’s camp, “Keep the tourniquet tight. After guessing when about ten minutes have passed, let the blood run for a little while, and retighten the cloth. It is the best we can do for him.”

They had barely started moving towards Broggha’s camp, when Algeirr suddenly stopped the horse and slipped out of the saddle, motioning Meldun to take his place.

“I will stay here and try to find out weapons,” he said. “I can’t face the Jarl unarmed, like a beaten dog. You go now and bring Uffi to the healer. Don’t brag about our misadventures, probably at night nobody will notice that you are weaponless.”

Griss started to protest, but he saw the wisdom of Algeirr’s plan. The last thing he wanted was to be ridiculed by all the camp.

“I will return tomorrow to help you, if I can,” Griss ventured.

The ride seemed endless. Night had fallen, cold and dark, a thin sliver of sickle moon hanging low in the sky. Uffi had long stopped moaning and slumped in the saddle in front of Meldun.

At last, Griss took a sharp turn left, off the road. Soon they saw a welcoming blaze of torches through the trees. The camp sentries, once they recognized Griss and Heggr, seemed little inclined to question them further and let them into the wide clearing.

Late as it was, the camp was still awake, bawdy songs, muffled cries and drunken laughter resounding in the surrounding trees. It seemed there was some drunken revelry going on. Kvigr saw a large, brightly lit wooden building with sentries at the entrance. Griss told him it was Broggha’s hall, and disappeared in this direction to warn the Jarl of their return and to give him an account of his mission.

Griss reappeared quite soon though, bringing the news that the Jarl had gone to bed with his wenches, and was not to be disturbed until morning. The mention of wenches brought the ache and frustration back, and the men cursed under their breath, vowing to find this bloody Tark named Taurendol again and make him pay.

“There are guests from the North in the camp today,” explained Griss, pointing to a medium-sized black tent erected near Broggha’s longhouse. The outlaws looked in wonder at the two somberly-clad men guarding the tent – obviously both were Tarks.

Meanwhile, Heggr returned from another direction, bringing back a squat old man in dirty leathers and furs, with a grand necklace of bear’s teeth hanging around his neck. Several other charms were attached to his wrists and sleeves.

“Here is Hrani, our shaman-healer,” announced Heggr proudly. “He will attend to Uffi’s leg.”

In the Arthedain army, Kvigr had grown used to neat, efficient tark-healers, so he looked in doubt at the dirty little man who was peering at them owlishly, obviously just out of his bedroll. Moreover, the shaman was reeking of cheap ale and swaying drunkenly on his feet.

But what choice did they have? Soon Uffi, still unconscious, was lying on his back on the ground near one of the campfires, while the healer, having cut away his pants, examined his wound, prodding it with his dirty fingers.

“I think he is a goner anyway,” declared the healer after the briefest examination. “But perhaps he will live, if I cut away this leg.” He grinned at the assembled men, obviously happy with his own competence.

The shaman took out a long knife and started cutting the flesh just below the makeshift tourniquet. Uffi sprang back to consciousness, screaming and thrashing. Heggr quickly found a splinter of wood and pushed it into Uffi’s mouth, lest he bit off his own tongue. The others now firmly held Uffi’s legs and arms, while Kvigr applied his weight to the man’s shoulders.

Soon the healer put away his knife and pulled out of his bag a small saw. Kvigr watched in horror how the old rusty saw bit into the bleeding flesh, cutting the white bone with a sickening sound. Uffi cried for the last time and swooned again.

Kvigr felt the bile rising in his throat and turned his head to look away. He suddenly noticed a very tall, richly clad Tark standing nearby and watching the gruesome scene with morbid fascination, a faint smile playing on his thin lips. To Kvigr’s surprise, the Tark somehow felt the youth’s intense gaze, and turning abruptly he made his way to the black tent near Broggha’s quarters.

“A man from the North,” thought Kvigr, shivering, cold dread creeping over him. He heard many tales about the northern sorcerers told at night around campfires. It was said the witches of the North could charm you with their gaze like a serpent charms a mouse; he heard they could disappear and reappear out of nothing; some said they could even fly… A brief look at the man’s face somehow made such tales seem all too real.

At this moment Uffi started to scream again, a high tortured wail. Kvigr smelled the reek of burning flesh, and saw that the stump had just been cauterized. It seemed they used the blade of a broad battle axe, heated in the flames of the nearby campfire. At this moment, Kvigr’s guts suddenly convulsed and he rushed to the nearby bushes to vomit.

***

Balling his hand into a fist, Heggr pressed it firmly against his abdomen and belched loudly. Griss ignored the sound and concentrated on the piece of stringy venison that he was chewing. He could not help feeling sorry for the other man whose bad teeth pained him, often giving him so much trouble that when he ate, he settled for a bowl of stew. Both men had been concerned that there would be nothing left to fill their stomachs in the camp, but they had been pleasantly surprised that there was a great amount of food left over.

Across the campfire from them, Uffi was beyond the point of knowing or caring that he had lost his leg. Occasionally the man moaned and twitched in his slumber.

“Ought to put the poor devil out of his misery,” Heggr mumbled as he stuck a finger in his mouth and tried to work loose a piece of vegetable that had gotten caught in one of the decaying holes in a tooth.

“He won’t last long. He’ll either get fever or some raging infection.” Griss finished the piece of venison and wiped his hands off on his filthy leathers.

Heggr’s mind was soon on something more pleasant. “You know I’m going to miss that woman. She was a pretty little thing,” he said mournfully.

“You’re not going to miss her half as much as I will. She doesn’t have anything much left that I didn’t explore,” Griss chuckled proudly.

Heggr shot him a dirty glance. “I didn’t get to do much exploring at all! You always get the best of everything!”

“No point in talking about her! No point in even thinking about her! We’ll never see that pretty little morsel again.”

“I have quit thinking about her! I am consoling myself by reflecting upon all the pretty little wenches in Cameth Brin who will be falling all over themselves just for the chance to be with Broggha’s men.”

“We’ll have our pick there!” Griss agreed enthusiastically.

Heggr yawned. “I don’t know about you but I’m tired and my teeth are bothering me. I’m going over to our lean-to and try to get a little sleep before we have to get up.”

Griss grunted a “good night” to him and looked over the fire at Uffi. He could see by the light that Uffi’s eye sockets were bathed in shadow, but his face looked a ghastly ashen color. Griss wondered if the man would live through the night. He shrugged his shoulders and spat in the fire. “Nothing to me if he lives or dies.”

Griss amused himself for a while by thinking about the wenches of Cameth Brin and how he would have his fill of them, but then he looked over to the Jarl’s longhouse. One of those Northern men had just come out of the tent near the cabin. “Must be taking a nighttime stroll,” he thought. Griss looked back into the fire, but he had the sensation that eyes were upon him, eyes which could almost bore into the soul. Feeling uncomfortable, he resolved to study the fire and not look up. However, he sensed something compelling him to gaze at the tent. What was worse was that he felt himself rising to his feet, walking through the assembled gathering around the fire and making his way towards the tent.

As he had feared, it was one of those Tark men from the North. A chill ran down his spine. “Must be the coolness of the night,” he concluded, not wanting to admit to himself that the Tark made him unreasonably afraid.

“Let us walk,” the tall, richly dressed man said pleasantly as he moved away from the tent. Like a lapdog, Griss followed him into the woods until the man stopped near a large tree.

“Your name is Griss.”

“Yes,” Griss replied almost mechanically.

“That youth – Kvigr I believe is his name – is weak and not to be trusted. Do you want a man like that around Jarl Broggha?”

“No, certainly not.”

“You want to keep the Jarl safe, do you not?”

“I would die for him!” Griss exclaimed.

“I do not think that will be necessary, but I am confident that should the occasion demand, you would lay down your life for him. You are extremely loyal, Griss, and the Jarl is proud of you, more than any of his other men.”

Feeling proud at the compliments, Griss began to relax. “Surely this man is no enemy, though some in camp are terrified of him,” he thought, proud to have been singled out.

“Weak men are dangerous, treacherous… When you have the opportunity, Griss, eliminate Kvigr quietly so that his friends will never know what happened to him. I know you can be trusted to do it efficiently.”

“It would be my great pleasure,” Griss answered, inclining his head towards the man and beginning to feel a growing loyalty to him.

“You will be successful. Come now, let us go back to the camp.” The man turned and beckoned to Griss.

Griss felt an almost euphoric feeling as he walked back with the man. It was though he could see into the future. He was dressed much like the Northern man in fine clothing, and he was sitting in a great hall on Broggha’s right side. Griss smiled to himself.

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Cameth Brin, afternoon of October 6, 1347
Written by Gordis
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When Tarnendur’s heavy footfalls died in the distance, Gimilbeth sat for some time immobile, thinking furiously. The King was making a big mistake, and there was no way out of it that she could see.

Gimilbeth wouldn’t have hesitated to start clandestine diplomatic relations with Angmar behind her father’s back, but much as she tried, she couldn’t pinpoint any Angmarian spies in Cameth Brin. She didn’t believe that there were none, of course, but it seemed they were too clever to be detected. Not like the old Curugil, the head of the King’s Private council: not only was he appointed Seneschal of Rhudaur on Malvegil’s bequest, but everyone knew that he was sending reports to Malvegil almost every month. Any of the others, who were so keen on alliance with Broggha, could have been on Angmar’s payroll.

“Which one?” thought Gimilbeth. “Turamir? Belzagar? Or all of them?” The last idea was far too disconcerting, but not impossible. She decided to have a cup of Khandian coffee with each suspect in turn, probing them gently. Then she could try to send a message North…

But it was for the future. Now she had a more immediate task on her hands: to stop Broggha from entering Cameth Brin. The man should be removed as soon as possible. No time to bargain with Carn Dum, proposing Rhudaur’s allegiance in exchange for Broggha’s head. Gimilbeth thought of poison, or an assassination. But how to get to Broggha in his camp, amidst thousands of loyal Hillmen?

There was only one answer to this problem: magic. As little time as she had to leaf through the black book, she knew already that it mostly contained various spells, including malicious magic devised to ruin and cause to perish men and women, cattle and flocks and herds and animals of every kind, meadows, pastures, harvests, grains and other fruits of the earth, to afflict and torture with dire pains and anguish these men, women, cattle, flocks, herds, and animals, and hinder men from begetting and women from conceiving.

There was one particular spell that could suit her quite well, the one sending a knife to seek the blood of the chosen person. If cast properly, this spell would find Broggha in his secure camp – any one of his men might be compelled to kill him.

Gimilbeth berated herself bitterly for her cowardice: she had the book for ninety years, but only opened it this morning. Now she had to act almost blindly, an inexperienced amateur trying to cast a powerful spell that might prove too difficult for her. Gimilbeth refused to think what would happen if the spell went wrong and rebounded on her. Regardless of the danger, she decided to try this very night.

Her decision made, Gimilbeth rose and stretched like a big lazy cat. She was bone-tired after a night spent down in Tanoth Brin. She couldn’t afford two sleepless nights in a row, lest her creamy skin become sallow, and dark circles appear around her eyes.

Gimilbeth went upstairs to her bedroom and ordered Nimraen, a Gondorian maid, to prepare her herbal face mask. Soon Gimilbeth was sleeping peacefully in her feather bed, a big fluffy cat at her feet and the green herbal mask on her face.

Once, long ago, a new maid came unexpectedly into Gimilbeth’s room, saw her green face, dropped the tray with coffee and ran screaming all the way to Tanoth Brin. Hillmen were simple folk and firmly believed in magic, witches and fairies. Now the fact that Gimilbeth turned into a frog every night had been firmly established, and gossip carried it far and wide through the land. Old matrons at the castle and down in Tanoth Brin shook their heads, pitying Gimilbeth’s future husband. And the fact that in 20 years no one was forthcoming was another proof of Gimilbeth’s weirdness.

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On the road leaving Morva Torch, evening of October 6, 1347
Written by Rian
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Callon sighed again. What had those men done to his sister while he was examining the wounded mare? Terrible pictures rushed into his brain. He shook his head in frustration and rage, but only allowed himself a slight movement – he didn’t want to disturb his sister, leaning stiffly and silently against him as they rode double on her mare. The man walking next to them shook his head in silent sympathy; he, too, had a sister…

In the general bustle of leaving, Callon had managed to grab the arm of the leader, Eryndil, and take him aside for a quick whispered conference. “How was my sister? What did they… what had they done to her?” he had asked the man urgently.

“I don’t know,” Eryndil had answered, concern showing in his eyes. “When I found them, they were arguing over things that a young lady such as your sister (so she was his sister!) should never have to hear. Brutish barbarians!” He lowered his voice. “I’ll be frank, so you’ll know what you have to deal with – they were discussing raping her and then murdering both of you. She was bound and gagged and could hear everything they said. And – I’m sorry, but by the look of her clothing, I think they had already taken some liberties with her.”

Callon bit his lip hard; he felt sick. His sister, whom he had taken on this trip to protect… Eryndil put his hand on Callon’s shoulder. “She was brave, your sister – there was no fear in her eyes. But there was something perhaps worse – an emptiness… If they are too strong to give in to fear, perhaps that is all that’s left to them – to leave, as the elves do … ”

At that point, one of Eryndil’s men had come over to him to confer about some detail of the next part of their journey, and Eryndil released his hold on Callon’s shoulder, saying, “We can talk more later – right now, the sooner we leave, the better for us all.”

Callon nodded and joined his sister, who was standing by her mare, Hwesta. Caelen’s eyes were fixed on the horse’s soft muzzle as she stroked it gently over and over, her hand shaking.

“Come Caelie, we have to get away from here. Eryndil is waiting.”

Caelen nodded absently and mounted the mare in front of Callon.

***

Caelen leaned against her brother out of sheer exhaustion, but was unable to relax. She had to keep alert and strong; she had to keep ahead of the memories before they overtook her in a dark, terrifying wave.

“It wasn’t me they… it wasn’t me… they didn’t really touch ME,” she thought wildly, her mind racing frantically around, trying to not alight anywhere too long.

Callon shifted slightly in the saddle, and she felt his hard, toned leg muscles against her body – the muscles of a strong, expert rider. She recoiled in fear and felt a stark panic rising within her that she couldn’t understand. “My brother! My brother! He would never hurt me!” she told the fear in her head, and then dimly realized that it was the mere presence of strength that had frightened her. The strength of men, that had so recently… but that hadn’t happened to her, really, not really to her…

“Shhh, shhh, Caelie, I’m here,” soothed Callon, stroking her hair, and then realized with a sick feeling that his being there hadn’t been much good so far.

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October 7, noon – on the march north from the rescue
Written by Valandil
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“We can rest here,” said Eryndil, indicating a small clearing – really no more than a break in the trees of about 6 rangers each way – with a fallen tree trunk across it, which could make for convenient seating.

“No fire,” he added, stepping aside to let the party pass him. He watched the eyes of each one as they trooped past. Some of his men exchanged with him a nod. But they all went past and selected a spot, where they dropped their burdens and stretched out to rest, even while they opened their bags for a small repast.

When Callon and Caelen at last came, still mounted, Eryndil reached out his hand to take the bridle from Narbeth.

“My apologies that we cannot provide you with more comfort here, milady. Unfortunately, our circumstances will not allow it.”

But then he turned and gestured for two of his men to vacate what appeared to be the better places to rest, and motioned for Callon and Caelen to dismount and seat themselves there. They had brought much provision of their own, so Eryndil took one of their bags and handed it to Callon, that he might share some of its contents with his sister. They seemed grateful, but also awkward in their response.

“Why do I make so much over them?” he thought to himself. Each of his few attempts to speak with Caelen had felt awkward. He had noted the sidelong glances of his men (though none had dared to say a word) – so he had thenceforth directed his speech only to Callon. What was it about Caelen that set him at a loss?

Perhaps she was like his younger sister? Well… both like and unlike. She did not look too much the same. Yet perhaps there was something alike in their hearts. He was quite fond of his sister – and hoped to somehow spare her the fate that seemed in store for this land.

Caelen… it would be worthwhile to spare her too.

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October 7, noon – on the march north from the rescue
Written by Rian
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Caelen leaned against the tree trunk wearily, her brother’s cloak wrapped around her. Her mare munched some goodies in her nose bag close by. Men moved quietly but purposefully around the camp. She huddled deeper into Callon’s cloak; the scent of horses, mixed in with her brother’s scent, comforted her a little. Eryndil’s men were careful to keep their distance from her, as per his orders.

She watched Eryndil and her brother as they spoke together quietly, heads bent together, and wondered briefly what they were talking about before she sank back into the kind of stunned wariness that she had retreated into since those men had mistreated her. Before today, men were either nice or neutral or bad, but the few bad ones were kept off by the nice ones. But when bad men had power, too, and were more in number, then even nice men apparently weren’t enough to keep them off…

Yet these men she was with now had saved her and her brother. What were they like? Why were they with the king, and not the bandits? Were they power-seekers, too, or was it possible that they actually wanted to use their strength for good, as her father and brother had? But she had heard of deserters from the King – they were probably just there for now until a better opportunity arose. Eryndil’s men had treated her with respect, though, even though they had opportunity to do otherwise.

She was glad that they were leaving her alone – she realized with a shock that even the maleness of her brother was starting to disgust her a little bit. “That’s not fair!” she told herself firmly. “He can’t help being a man! And he’s always cared for me!” She shifted uneasily, trying to find a more comfortable spot, and some more comfortable thoughts, but the difficult thoughts kept intruding. Why did Eru make women weaker than men? Or if he chose to do that, why did he make men with ugly passions towards women who were too weak to fight them off, and were at the mercy of the nice men showing up… or not showing up?

She remembered a time just a few months ago, when she had caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror that had made her stop and look in surprise. Her mother had just finished putting up her hair and she was wearing one of her nicer dresses – they were heading over to a friend’s house to celebrate an anniversary. Her mother came up behind her, laid her head next to Caelen’s, smiling in that soft, lovely way she had that started with her lips and ended in her sparkling eyes. Her father came up behind them and wrapped his arms around them from behind, his strong, handsome face reflected in the mirror above theirs. “My lovely ladies,” he said, with a kiss for them both, before he headed off down the hall.

Caelen, who was rarely out of riding habit, couldn’t get the image of herself out of her mind, and the blush it brought to her cheeks was noticed by more than one young man that night. She had wondered about this new side she had just seen of herself – it seemed fragile and beautiful, like her mother, but like her mother it had a strength, too. Her mother, whom most people would call quite beautiful, was not a weak beauty – she had no problem controlling her strong husband and sons, although Caelen wasn’t quite sure how she did it. However she did it, though, it was obvious that her men liked it.

But those men on the road had a different kind of strength, and had taken the fragile, beautiful thing she had seen in herself, and grabbed at it, and fouled it, and torn it, and laughed over it, and it was crying inside of her now, seeking only to hide.

Callon finished his talk with Eryndil and headed towards her. She huddled further into his cloak.

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October 8, before dawn – the Royal Palace at Fornost
Written by Valandil
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Beleg rose to the tapping on the door before the servant came inside to verify that he had been awakened. “It’s alright, I’m ready.”

He threw off his covers and pulled aside the curtain of his sleeping booth. His room was cramped, so it was but a couple short steps to see if the embers of the fire still gave off any heat – not much. He stretched and took up the bundle he had gathered last night. For one who would someday be King, he owned little enough of the Kingdom now, he thought – but it made for easier packing. There would be a warm fire in the kitchen, and breakfast besides. And then they would depart – for Amon Sul.

His mother had chastised him last night for appealing to his grandfather Malvegil, but Beleg was disappointed. It had been their long tradition to spend every second winter – and Yule season – at Amon Sul, the home of his mother’s parents. But each time before, he had been allowed to take some of his closest friends. “Not this year,” had replied his grandfather, “for I have other errands for them.”

So his only company this year would be his father, mother, brother and sister. Not even his cousin could go. They would be joined by a few servants and a strong bodyguard – including 30 horsemen – as his father, Celebrindol, strove to build a cavalry for Arthedain.

If this year was like the others, the travel would be leisurely enough. And with a day’s stop at Bree, they would likely arrive at the tower in 12 to 14 days. It would be a pleasant enough trip – enhanced by the bright colors of an Arthedain autumn.

Beleg sighed; the Eryhantale had passed a week before, and last night had concluded the feasting of the Harvest Festival Week. Now the fare would be harder until the Yule Feast, as everyone kept aside what they could for the long winter to come. Meanwhile, it was time to descend from his third story cell – and see what the kitchen far below might have to offer one about to set forth on a journey. Maybe something good not taken in the feasting.