Chapter 7. The Knife in the Dark

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Cameth Brin, evening of October 7.
Written by Gordis
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Gimilbeth didn’t cast her spell the first night, but postponed it to the next.

In the evening of the fateful day when she learned of the Council’s decision, she had more time to read the black book, and she became aware that she lacked important things needed to cast the chosen spell. A dagger she had, as most of the high-born ladies did in such troubled times. She didn’t have black candles, but settled to paint the ordinary ones on the surface, using the kohl cream she usually prepared for her make-up.

But there were worse things: she needed three frogs and a black cat to kill during the ritual. The cat, as Gimilbeth found out to her immense relief, could be substituted by a black cockerel. Gimilbeth doubted that she could ever kill a cat, even if a kingdom were at stake. She thought she could manage to kill the frogs, though.

Fortunately it was raining at midday on the Seventh of Narbeleth, so Gimilbeth caught the three frogs in the garden herself. She had sent Nimraen, her Gondorian maid, to the market to buy the black cockerel. The faithful maid, hearing this strange request, managed not to flinch, but Gimilbeth was sure that now loose tongues would start wagging with renewed vigor.

By the evening, everything was neatly arranged in Gimilbeth’s still-room in the Palace basement. At eleven, Gimilbeth dismissed her maids for the night, and, dressed only in her thin silken shift and a heavy cloak, descended to the still-room.

The room was cool and dark, filled with the sweet scent of herbs. A drying rack hung from the rafters. The large marble table in the middle of the oblong room served as a workspace – it was now empty, but for the nine candles. Another table by the wall contained the still for distilling potions, a mortar and pestles for grinding, a balance, silver and wooden bowls and plates for sorting and mixing of herbs. The shelves lining the walls displayed a collection of jars and bottles with tinctures and oils – all neatly labeled by Gimilbeth’s own hand. The fire in the corner was banked low.

Gimilbeth felt nervous and elated. The little black book opened a whole new world to her, a dangerous and exciting world full of shadow and power, a world where her ancestors on the mother’s side felt at home.

She thought of her mother and of Inzilbeth’s grief and shock if she could see her daughter now. Inzilbeth was one of the Faithful, or had become one, once she met Tarnendur.

But what about her grandmother, Lady Serinde? The black book was ancient, but it contained lots of more recent marginal notes and additions made in different hands. Gimilbeth was shocked when she recognized her grandmother’s hand, Serinde’s unmistakable flowery script. So Serinde practiced Black Magick, perhaps she had even been initiated in a Black Temple…

Gimilbeth shivered imagining her haughty noble grandmother lying all naked on a black altar, lit by nine candles, while the black-robed priest bathed her body in blood. Was it human sacrifice? Gimilbeth supposed so. She knew that even with the Great Temple destroyed, dark rites hadn’t stopped at Umbar.

What a pity she hadn’t been initiated when she still lived there! But it couldn’t be remedied now. There were no black altars in Rhudaur and no Dark priests to conduct the rites and give her a new sacred name in the Dark Tongue, the name to be kept forever secret. Now anyone could weave a counter-spell against her, as her names were known to many. She only hoped there was nobody familiar with Black Arts in Broggha’s surroundings.

Gimilbeth lit the Nine candles on the stone table and discarded her heavy cloak. The room was cold and she shivered in her thin shift. Cringing inwardly, she took out her dagger and killed the three frogs, intoning the customary prayer to the Dark Lord and spilling blood over her hands and bosom. Then she took the trussed cockerel and slit its throat, intoning Broggha’s name and the spell that would reach him over the leagues.

Gimilbeth’s heart pounded wildly and her fingers trembled. She started to feel dizzy, the smell of blood cloying and revolting in her nostrils. She felt her mind expanding and making contact with another… The intensity of anguish and hate in this other mind was like a physical blow… Her vision dimmed, the room disappeared, only the Nine lights floated in the darkness…

Swaying on her feet in exhaustion, Gimilbeth raised the dagger and plunged it downward into the cockerel’s breast, while crying out the last words of the spell.

She could have sworn she felt someone’s fingers around the hilt beneath her own.

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Morva Torch, Evening of October 7, 1347
Written by Elfhild
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At last evening had come, and night had brought an end to the weary day. With the help of Malaneth, Aewen somehow managed to do all her tasks, the preparing and serving of the meal and the cleaning up afterwards. Her back throbbed with a fury and every movement was agony.

But her duties were not over. Though she still suffered from the beating, Broggha would not grant her any mercy when he dominated her with his vicious passions, and he was even harsher with her than usual. When he had finished his brutal assault, she lay beside him, sobbing into the rough coverlet on the straw-filled mattress. While the heartless monster slipped off into the serenity of sated lust, Aewen cried out her anguish, gasping until she thought she might die of suffocation. At last the fit of weeping had passed, and she collapsed in exhaustion, not moving for some time and hardly daring to breathe.

She had such hopes of escape, and now she was even more trapped and miserable than ever! True, it was foolish even to consider escaping, especially with a man she did not even know. Kvigr could just have easily used her a while for his pleasure, and then killed her, disposing of the body somewhere in the woods. No one would have missed her for long.

Whether Kvigr’s intentions had been pure or not, she would never know now, because the young man had been sentenced to die. The Jarl would not even grant Kvigr mercy by giving him a speedy end, but insisted on prolonging the torture until at last death claimed the poor fellow. Aewen’s fist clenched the coverlet. Broggha was a cruel tyrant, ruthless and treacherous, a truly evil man! Oh, how she wished that someone would kill him!

Then the thought came to her – “Perhaps I should do the deed…”

But what was she thinking? Surely he would kill her this time if he caught her attempting such madness!

She felt her arms reach up, and then her hands lifting her torso from the bed. Slowly, she rose into a kneeling position beside the prone form of the sleeping man. Her heart began to pound wildly and her fingers started to tremble. There the Jarl was, his eyes closed in peaceful repose, his chest rising and falling, his lips twitching foolishly as he snored loudly.

What was she doing? Had she gone mad? It was as though someone else was controlling her mind, her body! One leg slid from the mattress and then the other followed it as she rose to her feet. Her heart was beating so fast that she could barely concentrate. She felt herself moving towards her cloak, where she had hidden the knife that Kvigr had thrust into her hands in the midst of the desperate fight. Soon it was in her hand once again.

Turning, Aewen looked towards the sleeping man. Everything in the long-house was still as a tomb; the fire grew low and silent in the brazier. Her stilted movements were almost lazy as she approached him, the knife-hilt held tightly in her clammy palm, her knuckles growing white from her relentless grip.

Almost before she had realized what had happened, Aewen found herself standing beside the little bed, the knife raised above the Jarl’s heart.

She swore she felt the pressure of an invisible hand upon her forearm as she brought the sharp blade downward.

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Morva Torch, night of October 7, 1347
Written by Angmar
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The throngs cheered and called out his name as Broggha made his triumphant entry into Cameth Brin. His steed was resplendent with its fine leather bridle and saddle, the caparison hanging down gracefully over the horse’s haunches. The streets were narrow thoroughfares which were choked with dust in the summer and mud-filled morasses in the rain.

Though none of his men were accomplished musicians, still their horns rang out, impressive though discordant. The drummers kept up a constant rhythm that throbbed to the pace of a human heartbeat. The sound intensified as the procession turned a corner. Broggha beamed and waved as the crowd shouted out his accolades.

He turned towards the right and saw Aewen among the crowd. Her lips were turned up in a blood-covered smile.

“No!” he cried, waking up immediately to see the flash of firelight on a knife poised above him. He did not move quickly enough, though. Rolling his body to the side, he bellowed in pain as the fiery agony of the knife cut a bloody path across his shoulder blade and back.

Furious and in pain, he rolled off the bed and on his feet. His back felt as though a fiery serpent had crawled across it, and his blood dripped down over his back and onto the floor. The woman backed away from him, her knife gripped tightly in her hand and thrust forward.

“Give it to me, Aewen!” he commanded.

“No, no!” Her eyes looked feral in the light of the brazier.

He rushed towards the woman, easily dodging her misdirected attempts, and grasped her small wrist in his great paw, wincing as his wounded side clutched her shoulder. Bearing down his great strength, he heard the crunch of bone as he viciously shook her wrist back and forth. The knife thudded with a doleful sound on the floor. Broggha quickly released the woman, hurling her back on the bed as he bent down and picked up the knife.

“I should kill you!” he roared as he walked to the brazier. The knife was old, uncared-for and rusty, and as he held the blade to the fire, some of the fragments of rust burnt off. Still, when he had finished, the knife’s blade burnt red.

He bent over Aewen and looked into her terrified eyes.

“You will never try to kill me again!”

She screamed as she felt the flat part of the fiery metal singe a trail between her breasts. By the time he had finished branding her, she had swooned. He tossed the knife into the brazier and walked to the door. Opening it, he shouted into the night, “Men! Hasten to me! I have been wounded!”

The Jarl’s angry roars of pain and rage had awakened the whole camp. Sleeping off the night’s drunkenness, many men awoke confused. Thinking that the camp was under attack, they rushed to grab swords, axes and clubs, only to feel foolish when they discovered their mistake.

Griss, in spite of the ale he had consumed, had not slept well, and was one of the first to reach the Jarl. He found the leader still on his feet, in spite of the blood which he had lost. Broggha sat down on a bench as Malaneth brought wet cloths and pressed them against the torn flesh on his back.

“Summon the shaman!” Broggha ordered, and two men rushed off to fetch the medicine man. Soon they returned with the grinning little man, who immediately went to the Jarl. Prying and peering at Broggha’s shoulder and back, the little man cackled and muttered a spell. Packing the deepest wound with a wad of cloth holding a mixture of bear fat and herbs, the shaman then bound Broggha’s back. Imploring the strength of the bear to aid in the healing, the old man touched the necklace of teeth around his neck. The Jarl sat back on his bench and called for a tankard of ale.

Looking towards the bed, he harshly bit out, “Is the woman still alive?”

“My lord, yes,” Malaneth replied, “but she fell into a swoon from which she has not awakened.” Aewen, who had been covered by Malaneth, lay soundless upon the bed, her face ashen.

“See to her, old man,” the Jarl barked out gruffly.

As Malaneth held the lantern over the bed, the old man turned back the cover. Looking up, the light of the lantern making his eyes glow with some fell lustre, he cackled, “A perfect dagger mark!” The old man began dancing about the bed, swaying and chortling, and babbling gibberish.

Malaneth felt sick to her stomach when she again saw the hideous burn between Aewen’s breasts.

“Will she live?” Malaneth asked gravely.

“If my dance pleases the spirits that dwell in the earth, the air, the fire and the water, she will, but if not, she won’t!” the old man laughed and merrily danced about the room as he mumbled.

“Her wrist is terribly swollen!” Malaneth gasped.

“Just set the break, then splint the wrist and bind it. One of the men can surely attend to that matter. You don’t need a shaman for something so simple as that!” the old man exclaimed as he concluded his dance with a fierce roar, flailing the air with a stick carved with magic signs and the image of a bear.

He raced back to the table where he had left his herbs and jars. Coating the sacred magic stick in the ointment, he rubbed it over the seared flesh on the woman’s chest, and with Malaneth’s assistance, he applied a light dressing on the wound.

Griss wondered if they were only patching the woman up so she could be brought before the Jarl’s justice. He pondered whether the Jarl would execute a woman or not, a practice which was seldom done. Though she had been marred by her ordeal, still her face was left beautiful. “It would be a shame to kill her,” he thought.

One of the workman who had been laboring all night on building the gibbet was escorted into the hall.

“Jarl,” he bowed – then wondered if he should address him by the title of “my lord” – “the gibbet will be completed by dawn.”

“Let me know when it is finished,” Broggha said, adding, “Aewen will watch the death of her lover, if she has to be tied to a chair!”

Malaneth looked sadly down at her friend, and wished that she had been successful in her attempts to kill the brute.

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On the road to Eryndil’s father’s thanehold, North of Morva Torch.
Just before midnight, October 7 1347
Written by Rian
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Ceruvar, having obtained Eryndil’s permission to bring out his harp, carried it over to where Caelen was huddled next to her brother, taking his time and making sure his approach was seen by her so as to not startle her. He bowed and addressed her respectfully.

“My lady, we are soldiers, fighting to protect home and family and things of beauty that evil would mar, were it left unchecked. While we are far afield, music reminds us of these things, and encourages and sustains us. Therefore I respectfully ask your permission to play for the men, though it is only with a soldier’s rough hand on the strings.”

Callon, sure that his sister would still be too traumatized to answer the man, started to reply, but to his surprise, his sister checked him.

“I… I …” She gathered her courage and forced herself to answer. “Far be it from me to check any of your well-earned pleasures,” she answered with only a slight tremor in her voice. Noticing how he had to lean in closer to hear her voice, which was far weaker than normal, she clenched her fists and shook herself slightly, forcing herself to speak up. “Please feel free to play for the men. I owe you my life for your service to home and King; please don’t let my presence check your pleasures…”

Her voice faltered, and a cold wave of fear shot through her body as she thought of the pleasures that the brigands had wanted to take with her. “No, no, they will not win!” she thought to herself angrily, and forced herself to continue.

“I mean, please do whatever you would do normally – I don’t want to hinder you in any way, especially after all you have done for my brother and me. But I thank you for your courtesy in asking my permission.”

She stopped awkwardly, angry at her uncouthness in front of this man, but she didn’t know what else to say and thought more words would only make it worse.

Ceruvar, seeing and understanding her distress, saw the heart behind the halting, awkward words and understood the uncouthness was due to her recent trauma. He bowed again, thanking her graciously, and returned to the men.

“Good for you, Caelie!” whispered her brother. “Don’t let those brigands win! Fight it and come back! I know you’re strong – stronger than those cowards are. To attack a woman!” He stopped, too angry for further words.

His sister, exhausted, leaned back against him, and he covered her protectively with his cloak. They listened to Ceruvar’s playing, which was far better than his modesty had claimed, and their bodies slowly relaxed as the music flowed around them, blending with the night noises. One of the men started singing along softly as Ceruvar started another melody. His voice followed the melody at first, then wove in and out and all around it in a merry dance as the melody grew more lively. As he and Ceruvar finished with a flourish, the men laughed and clapped softly, complementing the two musicians on their skill.

Eryndil laughed along with his men. “If you two keep that up, you’ll have the very trees dancing!” he teased. “But I’m afraid that we’re too far afield for dancing right now, and it’s getting late – why don’t you finish up with a quieter piece, and then we’ll draw for first watch.”

Ceruvar nodded with a smile, tuned a few strings to change the harp to a minor key, and started playing an ancient and beautiful lullaby. Callon felt his sister sigh and slowly relax into his body.

Suddenly the night was rent with a terrible scream.

Caelen’s heart leapt into her throat. She felt she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t see – all she could feel were cold hands, evil hands, grasping and pawing and hurting her, touching and rending and fouling her innermost body and soul, pulling her down to hideous depths… She began frantically fighting to get away from the arms…

Callon gasped and felt his body go cold all over. His nerves and muscles went numb; his sight blurred. He felt something close to him struggling and knew in the back of his mind that he needed to hold on to it tightly, because it was precious and he had to protect it, but it was as if he was watching his body instead of commanding it, and his arms stayed limp and lifeless. He suddenly felt the cold air against his chest, and saw through a mist the precious thing escaping. Stumbling to his feet, he grabbed at it – at – wait, his sister! what was wrong with him?! – and managed to catch the edge of the cloak that he had fastened around her.

Caelen screamed again and fought like a wildcat to get away, but her brother had his senses back now, and he wrapped his arms tight around her from behind, pinning down her arms. “Caelen, it’s me! It’s Callon, your brother! Don’t fight, sweetheart, it’s ok now,” he urged into her ear, and then caught her as she collapsed.

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North of Morva Torch, Night of October 7, 1347
Written by Angmar
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The only sound to disturb the silence of night was the distant hooting of an owl as the small party of horsemen rode along the trail. Riding beside the standard bearer who proudly held aloft the staff of the black and red Angmarian banner, a horseman called out a halt and drew rein. The other men silently regarded him as the chief ambassador stopped his horse and listened. There had been a shifting of the forces of magic. Someone had called upon the same power that he himself had invoked so many times.

“A dabbler,” he thought, amused. “A mere novice who seeks to call upon that which he does not even understand.” He began to visualize a distant form around whose body rose the smell of blood, sticky-sweet and cloying. “Who is this untaught person who dares to call upon the ancient arts?” More importantly, for what was this unknown person striving? A look of anger convulsed his handsome features.

The image of a dagger… the vision took firmer shape in his mind. Old and rusty… Suddenly it was smeared with blood. He tried to see the murky image in his mind more clearly… at whom was the dagger directed?

Then the veil parted and instantly he could see a huge, tall red-bearded man – Broggha! The dagger portended death. The man unsheathed the sword at his belt and drew a symbolic circle about his horse and himself. He began to chant in an ancient, archaic tongue as he sliced deeply across his left forefinger and let the blood drip over the ring that glowed on his right hand.

“Not by my power, which is nothing, but by the power of the Darkness, which is all and from which all things came, I call upon the Two Lords of Darkness!”

He waited for a few moments until he felt the power infuse his being, permeating each component of his body’s makeup and filling him with the energized malice that, when fully invoked, could turn a rational man mad.

“I beseech the Mighty Ones to halt the flight of the dagger in its path and to ward with protection the one for whom the blade was intended!”

At that moment, Broggha rolled away from the dagger that had been meant for his heart. Through the swirling ethers, the ambassador heard the piercing shriek of a woman, and sensed the melting of metal as the dagger was consumed in a bright flame. The dark cloaked figure screamed his anger into the night, a dreadful sound which made the blood run cold.

He had been almost too late! If he had not sensed this attack and stilled the magic which had unleashed it, all of his plans would have been for naught.

Now, he concentrated his power towards the doer of the deed. His gleaming black steed pawed the ground, winding the night air. The stallion had caught the scent of a mare in heat, her smell borne along by the night air. The stallion’s eagerness was stilled with a soft word from his master. Such attunement to the beasts around him brought a comfort and was often quite useful.

The man listened as the owl called again. Down below the bird, a small mouse scampered along the ground as it searched the rich harvest of autumn seeds. The owl dipped down and caught it in his claws and flew back to his perch, where he tore the small creature to tattered fragments of bleeding flesh with his beak. In the man’s mind, he could see the bits of fur, the blood and entrails as the owl relished his meal.

The man smiled as the blood-covered image of a woman – the nebulous vapor of a crown suspended in the mist above her head – materialized in his mind.

“A woman,” he chuckled, “but who is she?” He would discover her identity, and when he did, she would pay for this audacity!

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Cameth Brin, night of October 7, 1347
Written by Gordis
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Power flowed so forcefully through Gimilbeth’s body that it slammed her against the wall. Her thoughts in disarray, her vision dimmed, she couldn’t recall the last incantation, aimed to tear her mind free from the contact with another.

Gimilbeth crawled back to the table and groped blindly for the book, but her fingers, sticky with blood, only met the stone and the bodies of the frogs. Her mind was flooded with paralyzing fear and unbearable anguish.

Suddenly the pain came. She felt her right hand crushed by invisible fingers, then the skin between her breasts started burning, as if scorched by a hot iron.

Tears ran down her cheeks and she moaned in pain, clutching her bosom, but the pain only intensified. The Nine lights were dancing before her eyes in a spinning circle. With a shrill cry Gimilbeth collapsed on the cold stone floor.

When, an hour later, she resurfaced from a pool of murky darkness, it took her a few minutes to realize that the last wave of pain had left her body. She got to her feet. The candles were still burning and by their light she was able to read aloud the last spell. Only then she allowed herself to relax.

She examined her breasts. The skin was unblemished and the breastbone seemed whole as well. Puzzled and relieved, Gimilbeth decided to dwell on the problem later. Now she took off her blood-stained shift, tore a clean strip from the hem and dipped it in a kettle of warm water over the brazier. Using the wet cloth as a sponge, she carefully washed away all the blood from her face, body and hands. Then she swept the table and flung the bloody rags, carcasses of the frogs and the dead cockerel into the fire and watched as they burned, sitting naked on a stool by the fire.

The pain had been bad, but it seemed to her that the spell must have worked. Over leagues and leagues of forest, over swift streams and broken crags she had reached the dirty Barbarian in his lair. Now Broggha was dead, and that alone was worth all the suffering.

The corners of Gimilbeth’s lips slowly turned up in a smile. The welcome heat was warming her frozen body. The next time she would be better prepared. The next time she would learn all the spells by heart, she would never forget a single word, whatever happened. That there would be a next time, Gimilbeth had not a slightest doubt.

She had tasted Power and, though seasoned with pain, its taste was sweet.

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Morva Torch, Night of October 7-8, 1347
Written by Elfhild
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Thankfully, Aewen remained unconscious for the duration of the old shaman’s dance, for surely a sight would have only frightened her even more. When she did awake, it was to the sound of screams. Vaguely, she wondered who was screaming. Then she realized it was herself.

One of the Jarl’s men was holding her down by her shoulder and arm on the side opposite to her broken wrist, while the other was setting the bone. Shrieking, she struggled and writhed in pain as her bones were pulled back in place. Though the night was chill and, despite the brazier’s fires, the long-house was cool, Aewen broke out into a sweat as a raging fire raced over her naked body. The agony was too much for her to bear and once again she fell into a swoon.

It was near dawn when she awoke again, her mouth parched with thirst. Her wrist was splinted and bound up tightly, and the ointments upon her brand were greasy, the sheet clinging to them. Where the skin had been seared the most, she felt the least pain, for the intensity of the burn had squelched the feeling in her skin. However, the edges where the heat had not been so great burnt as though a fire had been kindled within her flesh. All her body was burdened with weariness and her poor, mangled wrist was aching.

“Water,” she moaned weakly, and Malaneth, who had been keeping a restless vigil, quickly fetched her a draught, holding the cool liquid up to her lips.

Aewen wearily recalled all of the night’s events. Had she gone mad? Truly it was folly to attempt to kill the Jarl, and she had paid dearly! What had possessed her? She had wondered that at the time the strange urgings had come over her, and she wondered it even now.

Possessed… she had certainly acted as though some fell spirit had taken over her body and moved it about without her consent. But such thoughts were absurd. It was she who was responsible for her own actions, and her misfortune could not be blamed upon anyone but her and her futile attempt to escape.