Chapter 8. The Rangers and the Criminals.

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October 8, 1347, just after dawn – several leagues north of Morva Torch
Written by Valandil
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As his men broke camp, Eryndil stood off by himself, surveying what he could see of the sky in the growing light as the sun slowly rose.

Their journey so far had been a bit slower than he had hoped for – but the terrain was rugged. The first night his men had been fresh, and he had hoped for a full day’s march through the night – and at least a half day’s distance of four leagues. Yet they had only made between 2 and 3 leagues. Yesterday, another 5 or 6 – but if there were to be any pursuit, it could only begin today at the soonest – and would be a weak pursuit at that. So last night, when Ceruvar had brought forth his harp, Eryndil had not objected, as he had on the stops of the previous night.

And then had come the scream.

Eryndil’s own men had huddled together in fear – he had even felt the fear himself. How could a man not, with the sound of that thing. They had spoken on for perhaps hours in hushed whispers – about things like “Mewlips” and “Vampires” and other such subjects of old tales almost forgotten.

This morning, all seemed well-rested and refreshed – even Callon and Caelen. But beneath it, everyone still seemed a bit tense and shaken up. Nonetheless, they should make better time today – and tomorrow should bring them to their intended destination.

A part of him still debated within himself his intended course of action – but no, it would be best. Especially after that scream. He could be sure to send his charges off to relative safety, while he tried to cover for them. He straightened up and called for Narwaith. When the man came, he drew him aside and spoke with him in hushed tones.

“Narwaith, I want you to take Callon and Caelen – and Gwaerod – on to Duinand. Choose three men, none from our thane-hold, save yourself. And take at least one of our two other “city boys”. Go straight north all day today – then tomorrow straight for Duinand. Go to the Thane there and request a soldier’s winter lodging for yourself, your men and claim these,” he indicated the brother and sister, “as your servants.

“Further, do not mention my name – and take heed that you not be recognized – I think few enough in my father’s household would know you. Understood?”

Narwaith nodded in acknowledgement.

“Good! I wish to play my father a little trick. But meanwhile, cover your tracks for the first league today, and the first half league tomorrow, when you change your direction to the northwest. The rest of us will backtrack to erase what little trace we’ve left on rocky paths – and to guard against pursuit – or else to lead it astray. We should join you within three days of your arrival there.”

His plans discharged, Eryndil called the whole company together and announced, “We’re splitting up.”

***

Departing with seven of his men from Callon, Caelen, and the remainder of his men who would escort them to Duinand, Eryndil set his course due south, back-tracking their path from the previous day. He and his men took great care to leave no trace of their passing – and to disrupt whatever signs of their passage from the day before had been left behind, by man or by horse.

Eryndil doubted greatly that the men he had left behind would have the spirit to give chase – even if they managed to quickly find their weapons. Nor did he expect that Broggha would send troops after him – since he would essentially have a two-day start, with little or no trail to follow.

Still – he was a man inclined to take precautions, by nature and by profession. If he had taken greater precautions than necessary nine times – they might be needful and save his life on the tenth. There was no need to change that habit now.

So south they went, through most of the morning. At last they came to the place he had sought. Ahead of them, their former path went downward between two banks, or clefts, that rose on either side. He sent Norumar with two men to the left, while he took the other four with him to the right. The two parties advanced on – in sight of each other, but screened from view of the pass by the trees and the dropping off of the land. At last they came to the south end of the clefts, where they overlooked the approach to the south, side-by-side.

If there would be a pursuit, this would be the place to halt it – or at least to slow it. Both parties had a commanding view of the south, but they could remain concealed from below. Yet they could see, and signal to, one another. They were at least 30 rangar above the ground beneath them, and little more than half a furlong apart.

All below them was still, so the men settled in to rest and to wait. They drew forth provisions from their packs for a light lunch, and set turns to watch, while Ceruvar explored the drop toward the pass below them. If a message by word of mouth were required, it would fall to him to carry it, so he must choose his quickest path.

As they waited, the sky began to darken. Clouds had begun to form, and to thicken, turning a deep, dark grey. At last the clouds burst into a cold autumn rain.

Eryndil was elated. This would ruin any chance of them being tracked. He waited only long enough to ensure that the rain would hold out for a time. Then he signaled Norumar and his men to back-track to the north again, and to meet him where the path rose up to them – the place where they had separated just hours earlier.

By the time they all reached this spot, Eryndil had determined his next course of action. They would now turn northeast, rather than northwest to Duinand. There was an inn on the road about 2-3 leagues that way from here. False hints dropped there would satisfy the curious than “Taurenol” had gone back to the Ettenmoors for the winter – or to some other place. Feigned “carelessness” about the marks of their current route would further ensure this (so they took great care to leave deep tracks in what mud they could) – and divert attention from Duinand – their true eventual destination.

Besides – the inn was on the road east of last night’s camp. He might find out more about that scream – since it seemed to come out of the east.

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Camglas at Ostinand – October 8, 1347
Written by Valandil
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Camglas stood looking out the window at the storm clouds that had gathered to the south.

“Dark clouds over Rhudaur, sure enough,” he thought to himself. For lately this subject had been much on his mind. Only thoughts of dark clouds besides the ones that only brought rain.

“Snow… the next time,” he said as he turned back to his work.

He was in a small room in the southeast corner of his old manor home, on the second storey above the ground. The harvest had come in all across his thane-hold, and his reeves had brought their reports from all the householders on his land.

Harvest-wise, it had been a good year. His own personal harvest would likely bring his entire household through the winter alright, with a bit to start them into spring. He might be able to settle up with cash from all the householders’ shares that were his due – from those who had it. Cash would come in handy. Especially now that the crown exerted taxes on its Thanes – as if it did not have enough householders and personal property of its own! Besides – there was to be a new Count of Penmorva. And Camglas did not doubt that Broggha would find reason to invent new taxes to increase the burden on his thanes. And the King would back him too!

He sighed when he thought to what his noble house had come. They were more independent in days past. They were able to be generous. They were renowned patrons of the arts even – for their standing. And they were noble men, and great. Family tradition held that one of them had slain a troll!

And now what were they come to? Little more than over-burdened, broken-down farmers, Camglas thought, pinching pennies to pay the dues imposed by the King or greater nobles.

And… he wondered how long even this would last. At 160, he might have a few years left. But things were changing. Would his son even make it to 160? As Thane here? Rhudaur was not as it had once been. And it had never been Arnor. But – if unlike their predecessors of old, his eldest son Dornendur seemed fit enough to be a thane in this age – though his love of the table and the cup were a bit too strong.

This drew Camglas’ thinking to other members of his family.

Yes… there were dark clouds over Rhudaur indeed.

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Eryndil at The Three Goats Inn – evening, October 8, 1347
Written by Valandil
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Eryndil and his seven companions had reached the inn just as the sun would have been setting – but they hadn’t seen the sun since the rain had started, and the rain hadn’t stopped yet, but had become a slow, steady, drizzle. The innkeeper had been glad to see them – few enough travelers on the road at this time, and he only had a few others. While he and his family prepared to serve the band of soldiers, the men warmed and dried themselves before a roaring fire at one end of the common room. There were a few locals present – stopping in for news or to chat before going on home. The innkeeper said that two small parties of merchants had stopped in, but they had not yet come out from their rooms.

As for news of the scream, the innkeeper had none – but they had heard it, sure enough, for it had woken all in the place and had chilled them to the bone. He learned too that a small delegation who seemed to hail from Angmar had passed through the evening before, but had stopped only to refresh themselves and their horses. Then they had pressed on northward rather than taking lodging – which the innkeeper thought odd (but an innkeeper would surely think so). This was a few hours before the scream came.

Dried off at last, the men gathered at a table placed just before the fire. Hot drinks were brought out for them, and they began to talk and to jest with one another, and this is some of what the other patrons heard:

“So, Dilion, would this be a right good place to spend the winter?”

“Indeed it would Lossion – but our rights to winter quarters extend to no inns. We would have to pay from our own pockets for it – and our purses would run dry ere the Yule!”

“It’s a shame Varion,” bellowed a large one. “For I think this innkeeper’s daughter can’t take her eyes off you!”

The men all laughed, as the subject of this speech blushed and scampered off from filling “Varion’s” mug.

“Well Marion – you have sure scared her away now!” responded “Varion”. “And so worthy of resting the eyes upon herself!” he added, with a wink to the girl, who now huddled near the entrance to the kitchen. Then turning back to “Dilion” he asked, “Do we still mean to make for a village in the lands east of Pennmorva for winter? Or shall we just make huts or a cabin in the woods to the southeast of that town?”

And on they talked of their purported plans, each one taking the end of the other’s name and adding the “-ion” when addressing him. Food was now brought forth to them – roast fowl, boiled potatoes, carrots and cabbage, bread, butter and cheese – and they began to eat as they continued their converse.

At last, the one called “Throndion” spoke in a voice somewhat hushed, but still audible, “Have we still time to make huts against the winter cold, …Taurenol?”

The men all froze in silence for a moment and then spoke in whispers that could not be heard, seeming to chastise the man who had spoken.

With a stern look upon his face, Eryndil laughed triumphantly to himself. Lothrond had played that to perfection. Soon all the wagging tongues would claim to know where “Taurenol” was headed for the winter. If any pursuit DID come this way, they might well be steared to the east or the southeast, while he and his men would return back northwest to Nandemar and Duinand.

It had come as a bit of a surprise to Eryndil, when men had begun to speak of him as “Taurenol” – not knowing even who it was that the name belonged to. Only that he brought the King’s Justice at times of despair and then melted into the wilds without a trace. The common people loved him, although it was mixed with some fear and apprehension. So – he had “owned” the name – and while his men all knew him as “Eryndil” – few, perhaps none other, knew that he and “Taurenol” were one and the same. Thus he was “Eryndil” to his men when none were about, and “Taurenol” when others were present – if they wished to make themselves known as ‘Taurenol’s Band’.

Nimloss, across the table from him, was looking him in the eye as if trying to get his attention and gestured slightly toward the corner of the room over Eryndil’s shoulder, even as he tried to keep his face somewhat shaded by his hood. Eryndil turned that direction, calling for more drink for his cup.

There at a small table to one side of the fireplace, he saw that a merchant had come down with his lady. Only wait… that was truly no merchant. It was his brother Vilyandur! And “his lady” was their own sister Gildurien!

Vilyandur’s eyes met his own.

The evening continued – but later, as each party broke up for the night, Eryndil discretely passed over by Vilyandur, who had just sent Gildurien off, and whispered so that none other could hear.

“Well met, my brother. What takes you out on the road at this time?”

“I return home, brother – from whence I shall not say. But one can keep my secrets who has secrets of his own to keep, yes, ‘Taurenol’?”

And with a wry smile, Vilyandur turned to the small stairway and went aloft to his rooms.

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Morva Torch, early hours of October 8, 1347.
Written by Gordis
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Kvigr was lying trussed on the floor of a dirty hut, the tight ropes painfully biting into his wrists and ankles. He told himself calmly that it mattered not, as he would not need his legs or arms or other body parts anymore…

After the trial, Kvigr remained numb for a long time, his mind totally blank. He even dozed for a few hours, but then the pain brought him back to bitter awareness.

Soon his head would be stuck on a pole in his village of Penn, for all to see, as is the way with brigands and murderers. Now Kvigr was glad that his father was dead, and wouldn’t feel ashamed for him. But his poor mother would see it, and all the neighbors, and Hegga, if she were still alive… Perhaps she would even shed a tear… before marrying someone else.

What had he done? With his own hands he had dug a grave for himself and likely for the fair Lady Aewen as well. The thought of her made him flinch… The brute had flogged her mercilessly, but was that all? Kvigr imagined the cruel giant Broggha brutally raping the poor lady again and again… The scene was so vivid that Kvigr moaned in hopeless anguish…

Aewen’s cries and Algeirr’s cruel words resonated in his brain.

“A stupid pup, weak and silly… He was never of any use… I can’t care less… can’t care less… can’t….”.

Something snapped inside him and Kvigr wept.

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Morva Torch, Afternoon of October 8, 1347
Written by Angmar
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Though scheduled for that morning, the execution of Kvigr had been delayed because a chill autumn rain had fallen. When the skies brightened in the afternoon, it was deemed that the execution should commence, for in spite the weather, Jarl Broggha wanted the man dead by nightfall.

The sun gleamed on the raindrops still clinging to the colorful autumn foliage, adding a carnival air to the great clearing in Broggha’s camp. The gibbet stood high on its platform above the gathered throng of people. The device was little more than a pole with a crossbeam and brace, with an attached metal loop driven into the end of the crossbeam. The lumber had been cut quickly, the lumber still rough and weeping with oozing pine sap.

Since the method of public execution had been virtually unheard of before in Rhudaur, there had been little time to prepare. By necessity, the instruments selected were rude improvisations using common tools found upon farms. A brazier glowed on the platform, a number of useful implements lying near at hand. The executioner, one of Broggha’s men who had volunteered for this service, and his assistants were nervous, but all of them realized there was a promise that if they became adept, there would be more such work for them in the future.

A chill autumn wind blew from the west and fanned the fires in the brazier as Broggha climbed the stairs to a raised observation platform, his six bodyguards following in his steps. Drawing his great fur cape about himself, he sat down upon his log throne, which had been placed there for the occasion. Two more men flanked an ashen-faced Aewen, her arm held in a sling, as she struggled to climb the stairs. When she stumbled, she was caught by one of the men before she could tumble off the steps. Looking apprehensively at Broggha, she took a designated seat beside him, with Malaneth standing nigh to her.

“Bring forth the condemned!” Jarl Broggha’s great voice boomed out.

A horn sounded as guards with spears kept the path cleared for Kvigr. His hands bound behind his back, he was marched forward, the sound of the screaming hoots and jeers of the throng echoing in his ears. All of Broggha’s men who had not been assigned sentry duty or who were not away on scouting missions were in attendance, as were many of the morbid curiosity seekers from nearby villages. Parents held small children aloft on their shoulders so that the young ones would not miss any of the spectacle. As the children pointed fingers to the gibbet, the parents laughed as they answered their questions.

“What is going to happen, Father?”

“We are going to see a great event, son! A villain is going to die today in a most peculiar manner and we are going to witness his death!”

“Oh jolly! This shall be amusing!” the child exclaimed as he pounded on his father’s shoulders in his excitement.

Some innovative merchants had set up temporary marketplaces from the backs of wagons and hawked everything from carved wooden whistles and other toys to bread, cakes, wine and ale.

Kvigr, his head bowed, stood atop a platform as a noose was placed around his neck, the rope running through the ring at the end of the crossbeam and feeding out to the hands of three men on the ground. One of the executioner’s assistants bound the condemned’s knees and ankles with ropes.

The crowd watched in silence as Broggha rose to his towering height. “You have been found guilty of the crimes of treason, murder and abduction, and have been sentenced to death. Have you any words to say before the sentence is executed?”

“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.”

“Your request will be honored,” Broggha responded munificently. As the Jarl resumed his seat, he brought his right hand down towards the ground, the signal for the drummers to begin their death knell and the execution to commence. A stark look of terror and disbelief engulfed Kvigr’s face as he found himself hauled into the air by his neck. The crowd roared its approval as the three men held the rope taut while Kvigr’s legs bucked and kicked spasmodically. The noose slowly strangling him, Kvigr’s body reacted to his terror and a stream of urine soaked his breeches. Fingers pointed at him as the shouts of the crowd rose to a fever pitch.

The executioner signaled to his assistants and they slowly lowered Kvigr’s nearly unconscious body to the floor of the platform. They waited until Kvigr sucked gulp after gulp of air into his lungs. Clearing his mind of confusion, the executioner set his mouth into a tight line as he drew a dagger from his belt. Quickly he did his work as Kvigr screamed his agony, watching as the severed parts were tossed into the brazier. The crowd howled and clapped.

Looking into Kvigr’s pain-filled eyes, the executioner bent and plunged the dagger into his abdomen, cutting from left to right and then slightly upward. Kvigr’s intestines began spilling out. The executioner drew out the rest with hook and threw them into the fire. Aewen and Malaneth screamed, Aewen soon falling into a swoon as Malaneth blanched in horror and put her hand to her mouth. Some in the crowd did not have the mettle to stomach this gruesome sight, and turned their heads, some retching, but most cheering.

Kvigr’s life almost gone, the executioner ended it by slicing upward into his torso and drawing out his still-beating heart. Holding the dripping muscle in his hands, he presented it first to the view of Broggha and then turned and showed it to the crowd. Hats were pulled from heads and tossed into the air as the people screamed their approval.

An assistant handed an axe to the executioner, who divided first Kvigr’s head from his body, and then his four limbs. His head would be placed in a box and returned to the village from which he had come, and the arms and legs would be delivered by special courier to the four closest villages to the border of Rhudaur.

At the conclusion of the execution, Jarl Broggha, a smile of satisfaction on his face, walked regally down the stairs and through the processional way held open by the guards. Even though his back and shoulders throbbed painfully, this had been a good day, for the news of the Jarl’s justice would spread throughout the whole country. Kvigr’s death would serve as an example to any others who would dare raise their hands against the powerful chieftain.

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Morva Torch, Night of October 15, 1347
Written by Angmar
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One week had passed since the execution of the criminal Kvigr. All that day, there had been a great commotion in camp as stores of supplies and possessions were loaded in packs for the trip to Cameth Brin. Before dawn the next day, the packs would be loaded on the pack saddles of horses, and the journey to the capitol would commence. A small garrison were to remain in Morva Torch to “keep the peace” in the area. The men were exhausted from the labor of the day, but not too exhausted to hear the latest news.

On the day of Kvigr’s death, ten riders in pairs had been dispatched to carry the severed pieces of the felon’s body to the village of his birth and to the four corners of Rhudaur. One pair – the two who had ridden to the man’s place of birth – had returned just that morning. After reporting to Jarl Broggha, the men had been dismissed to relax and were now describing their trip to the off duty men, who hovered around them.

The men stood, laughing and talking, around the campfire, taking advantage of the heat of the fire to warm their backs. Griss and Heggr were all ears to hear what had happened and were listening intently to the man’s account.

Between liberal sips of ale from the drinking horn, the short, one-eyed man scratched his stubby beard, reflecting upon what he would say next.

“Kvigr’s old dam – and I’ll say she had a real figure on her for a woman that age…” he winked his good eye, “I notice things like that…”

“Go on with your story! We don’t want to hear about this wench!!” Heggr complained irritably.

“Give me a minute, will you? This ale is good!” The courier was obviously enjoying being the center of attention. “Well, anyway, we rode up to the camp. Everyone eyed us suspiciously. Maybe they had already had word of what had happened. Who knows? It doesn’t matter.” He lifted the horn to his lips again and squinted his good eye at the crowd.

“Are you going to tell the story today or do we have to wait all week?” a man muttered angrily.

“None of you have any appreciation for a good story, do you?” the one-eyed man said. “I’ll tell it, I’ll tell it! There were not too many people around when we rode up. After that little visit we paid on them last year, not too many people live there anymore. The Jarl’s man – the thane he put in charge – came running out of his longhouse with his council right behind him and all of them stood there waiting like hounds with their tongues hanging out, all eager to see what we had brought them. After the proprieties were exchanged, the thane ordered that a regular ceremony be held in honor of such an occasion!”

“You mean the delivery of a severed head is an event worthy of ceremony?” Heggr guffawed.

“Why don’t you just shut up?” the one-eyed man shouted angrily.

“All right, all right,” Heggr grumbled. “What happened next!”

“The thane held the package up in the air as he walked to the center of the village – all of his counselors keeping in his footsteps – real solemn, you know, as a boy pounded on a drum. The stinking head attracted every dog in the village, and they followed along behind, barking and yapping! It was quite a procession, and I felt sort of humble at being a part of it. The thane ordered a post set up in the middle of the town, and there he stuck Kvigr’s head for all to see!” The man wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand and waited to see the crowd’s reaction. “That is about all there is to tell.”

“What about his mother?” Heggr asked.

“I thought you weren’t interested in his mother,” one-eye said churlishly. “My drinking horn is empty. Boy,” he looked to a young Arnorian thrall, “bring me more ale!”

“I wasn’t interested in the middle of the story, but I am now.” Griss grinned.

“No fairer woman of that age have I ever seen in all my days! Her hair was darker than the raven’s wings and she wore it in two braids wrapped around her head with a cloth pinned over it. Her dress was of poor quality, but she filled it out most admirably! Her pretty face had hardly any wrinkles, but had a sad look to it. With a woman like that…” one-eye winked.

“We know what you would do to a woman like that!” Griss interjected. “Now what about her, besides the fact that you are lusting for her?”

“When she saw her boy’s head up atop that poll, she screamed like some demon and then fainted dead away! One of the women stuck an onion under her nose to revive her, and she finally came around, but she was as pale as a spectre in a barrowfield!”

The boy had returned with one-eye’s refilled drinking horn.

“Now that I have finished my tale, leave me in peace! I’m tired from my journey, and the Jarl has let me off for the rest of the day! Now don’t you louts have something to do?” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand as he sat down and turned his attention to his ale.

“Let’s go over to the cooking area and see if there is a scrap of meat or something left from the supper,” Griss suggested to Heggr.

Distracted, the other man mumbled, “Aye.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Griss queried. “Your jaw is generally flapping all the time.”

“My teeth are bothering me. It is this cold air that makes them ache.”

“I’ve been around you long enough to know that that is not all that is on your mind. Out with it, man! What are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking I’d like to go courting!” Heggr grinned, showing several brown, decaying teeth in his lower jaw.

“Before you do that, I suggest that you get the shaman to pull some of those teeth out of your fool head. As you look now, no woman would have anything to do with you! And do something about your breath, man! You would stink out the vultures that gather around the village cutter’s cart.”