The Dark Mage of Rhudaur by AliceNWonder000137  

The Dark Mage of Rhudaur

1) The Hall of the Witch-King of Angmar, Carn Dȗm, Early Spring, 1405

Deep within Carn Dûm, the fortress-capitol of the Realm of Angmar, evil plans were being developed to extend the power of the kingdom.  In the year 1276, the Witch-King, chief servant of the Necromancer, came to the north to establish a realm in which to destroy the Dúnedain Kingdoms.  The Witch-King brought with him minions of trolls and orcs and other evil beasts, but found the land ruled by Dwarves.  Within a few years, the Dwarves had been routed and the refugees brought tales of slaughter and the building of a great stronghold of dull red stone.

The fortress was actually two strongholds: one sitting upon the base and shoulders of a huge mountain, and the other, delved within the rock of the mountain.  The outer walls were fifty feet high and twelve feet thick.  Crossbow loops were placed at regular intervals and portculli could seal off sections of the interior at will, creating killing zones. From there, a series of complex and deadly defenses would pose a serious problem to any attacker.  The Lord of Angmar declared that the fortress was impregnable, and it would appear that his words would prove to be true.

Deep within the mountain, the Witch-King, and his High Priests, the Gulmathaur, ruled the land and plotted the conquest of the North.  Snow covered the ground of the courtyard and blanketed the surrounding mountain.  A horn sounded, shaking snow from the roof of a sentry post and armored men moved to the massive iron gate.  They moved wooden bars and trolls upon the battlements hauled heavy chains to open the way for a rider.  Horse and rider huffing steam in the cold, men led them to a nearby stable where the man dismounted.  A dark priest crunched through the snow and ushered the rider towards the keep.

The rider, a striking middle-aged man wearing well-cut robes in brown hues of cinnamon and rust, walked along a dark corridor within the depths of Carn Dûm, tapping the floor with his staff.  The staff, the sign of a user of essence, was topped with a gilded skull vomiting evil-looking vines from its mouth and eyes.  The man’s dark brown eyes glinted, reflecting the light of the wall torches as his breath came out in steam.  His dark skin was wreathed in white hair and a white beard.

As he strode confidently forward, his pace was interrupted by a deep voice. “The Master is waiting. Proceed…”  The man, a mage by trade, nodded cautiously to the huge sentry, an 11-foot-tall troll. This monster was one of the elite Hoerk Tereg, personal guards to the Witch-King himself.  The plates of its armor reflected the dancing torch fires.  Thought smaller than his hill troll cousins, this Olog Hai was faster and smarter.  Undaunted, the man passed through the doors of the grand hall where few men have ventured.

Within the cavernous chamber, sinews and ligaments of red porphyry stretched from floor to vaulted ceiling in patterns resembling those of the bowels of some sea monster.  At the center of the hall was a pool of blood in which a huge pink swordfish floated. The man focused his eyes on the fish.

Is that a throne?  In the mouth of the fish?

The mage stood in awe of the horrific sight before him, glancing at the six glassy figures flanking the pool.

“Approach Ethacali,” an eerie, ethereal voice instructed the man.

           Ethacali’s skin crawled and the hair on the back of his neck prickled up.  He took a breath and walked forward until he could see a robe in the shape of a man and a crown floating above the shoulders of the robe.

“The Lord of the Nazgûl,” Ethacali whispered under his breath.  He could feel an intense chill as he grew closer, as if his very life force was being drained.  He grit his teeth and gulped down hard.

The crown nodded.  “Indeed. You have risen rapidly in my service and your success in the East has come to the attention of the Necromancer. It is time for you to join the inner circle.”

Ethacali gasped quietly.  The mage was not one to exhibit much reaction, but this was the culmination of all his life’s work: his hopes and dreams.

“However, you must show yourself worthy of this honor.  I command you to journey to Rhudaur where you will awaken a long-sleeping force.  Take this tome and learn of it well.  It will provide you with the knowledge and powers you will need to complete the task. I will give you command over thirty warriors of the Trûpalog Tribe and five of my trackers.  Above all, restrict any overt use of your power so as not to show its source.  You must depart tomorrow.  Until then, enjoy the hospitality of Carn Dûm.”

A thick, leather bound book appeared before Ethacali and he stooped to pick it up. He bowed low to the Witch-King and backed away, slightly shaken despite his earlier confidence.  As he departed the hall and walked past the massive troll, a man and a woman in priestly robes met Ethacali.

“Come with us.  We will show you to your chambers,” they said impassively and without expression.

Ethacali’s journey to Carn Dûm was difficult.  He had passed through the mountains, enduring the torrential spring rains and then into the forbidding cold of Angmar.  As a native of Logath in the east, he was unaccustomed to freezing temperatures despite his reputation for being tireless and of iron constitution. He would be glad to get some rest and a hot meal.  His first encounter with The Lord of the Nazgûl had gone well.  Soon he was soaking in the hot baths of the fortress. Lounging near the side of the bath, he began to read the tome.  It was an ancient text bound in a light metal.  As Ethacali scanned through it, he noticed some newer writing.

What’s this?  Runes…  written by… by the Necromancer himself… What could possibly be so powerful as to warrant this much attention?  By the darkness!  This was…this was written towards the end of the First Age!

He poured over the tome for hours, soaking in the words and in the hot water until a Rhûnnish slave approached and knelt, her head down and eyes averted. “The master wishes you to get your rest before your long journey ahead,” she said without looking at him.

The mage pulled his eyes away from the tome and looked up to see a young woman from a land that neighbored Logath.  She had reddish skin and high cheekbones, but he couldn’t see her eyes since she was looking away.  He started to rise and shook off some of the water on his arms.  The slave stood and offered Ethacali a towel and his robe. The whole time she never made eye contact with the mage.  “You are from Rhûn?” he said part as a question, part as a statement.

The woman lowered her head.  “I was.”

Ethacali could see a hint of pride in her face, but it quickly faded.  The lords of Rhûn would send the Witch-King tribute that would include gold and slaves.  Their lot was usually miserable, but this woman was well groomed and seemed healthy.  “What is your name?”

“I have none.  I am a servant of the master.  Please, come to your quarters.”  She led him down a hallway well-lit by lanterns.  At the door the woman bowed.  “I am for you tonight.  The master commands it.”

The mage was caught off guard and his voice caught in his throat. “Ummm.  I…I am happily married.  Please extend my…regrets to the master.  I appreciate the thought though.”  He coughed uncomfortably and nodded to the woman.  “Thank you.  Have…have a good night,” he said as he went through the door.  Ethacali closed the door and put his back to it.  He pulled a small cameo from his robes with the painting of a dark-haired woman with reddish skin.  He let out a deep sigh and lowered his head.  He missed Logath more and more with each passing day.  He missed the warmth of home and gentle breezes that filled the evening air.  He missed the warmth of his wife’s touch and smell of her cooking.  He missed his sons and their sons and the laughter of children. Then he stopped himself and realized that all the missing in Middle Earth meant nothing.  The Witch-King had summoned him and had given him a task. He would see it through and then return to the warmth of Logath.

The Camp of the Macha Mur

Dust kicked up along the road leading up to the camp of the Macha Mur, a Dunnish warband.  A rider in a black cloak reined in his horse before the guards who had lowered their spears in his path.  “I bring word from the master!” he called.  “I must meet with the war chief.”  He held out a scroll that bore the seal of Angmar.  “Make way!” he demanded in an imperious tone.

The two sentries pulled their spears up, allowing the rider to proceed further into the camp.  He spurred his horse, and it grunted as it kicked up more dust.  As he rode to the largest tent in the camp he pulled the reins hard, causing the horse to rear.  “I bring word from the master!  The war chief must come forth!”  He swung his leg over the saddle and jumped to the ground.  He waved the scroll over his head and pulled back the hood of his cloak with his other hand.  “Where is the war chief?”

The flap of the tent was pulled back by two warriors clad in leather.  Their long, matted hair and bristly beards flowed from beneath steel helmets.  A short man with braided brown hair emerged and the rider took a step back.  “I am Lumban,” the war chief said, swinging his cloak about his shoulders.

The rider gasped.  Lumban reeked of alcohol, but what was even more stunning was that his cloak was woven with human and orcish ears, pickled and preserved.  “I…I bear a message from the master,” the rider said, holding out the scroll.  His earlier arrogance had faded at the sight of the war chief.

Lumban stretched his broad shoulders and took the scroll with a huff.  He looked the rider up and down.  “You are of the high men,” he said with disdain, his nostrils flared.  “How is it you come to serve the master?”

The rider straightened himself and the haughty expression returned to his face. “I am a lord of Rhudaur,” he said, tilting his chin up.  “You will obey the master’s commands.”

Lumban took a sudden step forward, causing the rider to step back again. “You think us barbarians because we are not of the high men.  We are the Macha Mur; we are the iron fist of the master.  It is because of us that you sleep in your warm chambers at night.” Lumban balled up a fist.

The Dúnadan initially grimaced but then looked around at Lumban’s guards, a wild, unruly bunch.  He took a deep breath and then put his palms out to placate the war chief.  “I am but the messenger.  I would ask that your read the master’s orders.”

The war chief cracked the seal on the scroll and began to read.  He looked back up at the rider.  “The master agrees to this?”

The Dúnadan nodded.  “He does. The lands of the rebels will be yours to sack and own.  You must begin to march within a fortnight.  The tribe of the Siol Nûnaw will march from the north.  You will lay waste to those who refuse the master’s generosity.  You may take slaves and treasure as you will, but what lies in the Yfelwood belongs to the Master.”

“I wonder what is in the Yfelwood that is so valuable?” Lumban asked boldly, “that we cannot share in the bounty?”  He tugged at one of his braids and looked up at the tall rider.

The rider sneered and looked down his long nose.  “You would be wise not to question the commands of the Witch-King,” he said, invoking the lord of Angmar’s name.  He snorted and then turned back to his horse.  “Obey or not.  The consequences are yours.  If you do as he commands, great riches await your…tribe,” he said as if the word itself were an object of disgust.

Lumban stood silently as the Dúnadan climbed back into the saddle.  A guard released the reins, and the rider sped off, leaving another cloud of dust.  The war chief pointed out at the rider and looked to his men.  “I still have room for two more ears on my cloak.”  When the rider had faded from view, he read the scroll again.  “This will take some planning,” he told his men.  “Gather the leaders of the war band.  We cannot underestimate the rebels.  They are still high men and thus formidable.  Soon, all of Rhudaur will be ours and the tribes will be as they were before their invasion.”

One of Lumban’s bodyguards grunted sourly, scratching his face through his thick ginger beard.  “Will we have to share with the Siol Nûnaw?  Those prissy twats can barely fight.”

“That may be, but I’m not ready to cross the master just yet,” Lumban mused. “We must still please Cameth Brin and Angmar…for now.  Send a messenger to Garon Monûnaw so we can speak about the march.  Once we defeat the remaining high men, we can…renegotiate the spoils.”

The Camp of the Siol Nȗnaw

Garon Monûnaw sat on an elegant seat at the war table of the Siol Nûnaw and let out a deep sigh.  He pulled at his long white hair and shook his head.  “We have finally achieved a lasting peace.  Our lands are prosperous, and our people are content.  Now, another war,” he said in a heavy voice.  He turned to his nephew.  “Cagh, I’m too old.  You will have to lead the war band.  You have my trust, nephew.  Gather the leaders of the Vulseggi and have them meet here.”

Cagh sucked air through his teeth and shook his head.  “I will do as you say, uncle, but the Dúnadain are not our enemies.  They are our trading partners, and they mean us no harm.  We haven’t been to war with them for fifty years,” he implored.  He pointed to his gilt leather cuirass on a nearby stand.  “They are craftsmen and philosophers.  They know that they’ve lost control over Rhudaur.  Like us, they just want to live in peace.  Only five of their towers remain.”

Garon put his palm out.  “I know, Cagh, I know.  You don’t have to convince me.  I don’t like it either.  Look around, Cagh, our harvests are plentiful, our trade is profitable.  We just planted our crops.  Now is not the time to go to war.”  He then sighed, putting his hand over his face.  “But…the Witch-King demands it.  We cannot go against him.  After all, we are here because he pushed the Dúnadain to the edges of Rhudaur. I fought in the last war almost fifty years ago.  We drove the high men back into the Angle.  I have no wish for us to go to war again.”

“Well, what can we do?” Cagh said, spreading his hands out.

“We have to go to war.  We have no choice.”  Garon pulled out a map of Rhudaur and pointed to the Angle in southwest Rhudaur.  “Of the Gondryn towers built a thousand years ago, only the five towers of the Dol Cultirith remain.  In the Northern War fifty years ago, we had driven the Dúnadain entirely out of Rhudaur, but bold Vulfredda Melossë counterattacked and retook the Angle.  She was an admirable opponent, worthy of respect.  House Melossë is the last of the great Dúnadain families in Rhudaur.”

Cagh nodded.  “They rose against Aldor the Addled.  I read about Celebendil Melossë rebelling against King Aldor.  Long he stood against the forces of Cameth Brin.”

Garon smiled.  “I taught you well and you are smart and well read.  But Celebendil fell in battle, the last warden of Rhudaur, the Aran-onen-Egladil. I was there when his tower was brought down, and he and his sons slain.  I thought the day was won when his grand-daughter Vulfredda rallied the last of the Dúnadain and drove us back.  Her stand blocked the passes, preventing our Easterling allies from joining. Arthedain and Cardolan crushed the orcs later that year and we had peace.”

Cagh bit his lower lip.  “I hate this.  War will be the end of us,” he said and then turned to go, but Garon caught him by the arm.

“You will find a way for our people to survive. Do what you must.  Pretend to fight.  March slowly.  Say it was the mud.  Return to me with our people.  Cagh, you will find a way.”

Chapter End Notes

We introduce the mage, Ethacali, the Witch-King of Angmar and two of the Dunnish tribes, both very different in character.

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The Yfelwood of Rhudaur, Summer, 1405

Deep in the Trollshaws of Rhudaur, Ethacali’s expedition made its way slowly down the road toward the site indicated in the tome. The woods were thick and dark, with tall oaks and beeches tangled together.  In haste, one of the trackers, clad in light leather armor of brown and green, came up to the mage.

“Lord, there are trolls about.  We should take defensive measures.”

Unconcerned, Ethacali shrugged.  “Trolls do not worry me.  Continue your forward progress.  Besides, I have a troll of my own,” he said proudly, motioning to a stocky, white-skinned beast given to him by the Witch-King as a bodyguard.  The mage had named it Oologg, and it carried a monstrous two-handed sword in defense of its master.  Two other trolls accompanied the expedition, Orig and Cadnuir, and they lumbered along behind the orcs, keeping them moving into the forbidding forest. Ethacali took a sniff of the air and curled his broad nose.  It definitely felt wrong.  It was like nothing he ever encountered.  It felt ancient and malevolent.

The trackers continued down the path into a ravine, which lead past a marsh.  Ethacali scanned the area carefully.  “We are close,” he commented out loud.  Oologg grunted approval.  The mage pointed to a hill covered with loose gravel and some trees.  “Send the orcs up there to take a look.  Tell them to look for an area of depression.”

One of the trackers ordered the orcs to move to the hill. They scrambled up the loose gravel, sending up dust.  Once at the top, they began to scan around.  Suddenly, one of the orcs howled and a commotion sprung up as scimitars were drawn.

“What is happening?  Go find out!” Ethacali barked.  The trackers raced up the hill as orcs retreated back down.  From his vantage point, Ethacali could see the trackers firing arrows at the trees.

“Damn, Huorns!  I will level them with fire,” the mage said with gritted teeth.  He began walking up the hill.

I shall burn them with one ball of flame…  No, too obvious.  I will have to be subtler.

Ethacali held forth his staff and jets of fire sprang from the eyes of the skull.  He reached the crest of the hill and confronted one of the living trees as it swung its branches menacingly over two dead orcs.  The dark mage plunged his staff into the trunk of the tree, and it sizzled and shook violently.

“I will burn you all, one by one.”  The bark of the Huorn smoldered and turned red while its branches withered, and leaves fell in droves.  With the Huorn dead, Ethacali withdrew the point of his staff and leaned on it again.  There were hundreds of Huorns ahead, all angry.  This would not be an easy or quick task.  Yet another delay.  The deadline that he promised the Witch-King would be approaching rapidly.

The Yfelwood of Rhudaur, Fall, 1405

It took two weeks for Ethacali to reduce the Huorns to ash, but now the area south of the hill was cleared.  Excavation had begun near the hill, but nothing had been found yet. The orcs had built a dam in the big marsh to keep the excavation site from being flooded.  A nasty surprise was sprung on the diggers as a horde of flesh-eating bats, known as Serganka, slew three orcs before Ethacali could deal with them.

After exterminating the bats, the mage sat on a camp chair beneath an umbrella held by an orc.  He gazed down at the cameo of his wife and felt a deep longing.  It had been too long since he had been home and heard the laughter of children.  He looked up to see the excavation continuing.  “It’s the cost of doing business,” he said calmly to Oologg as the orc bodies were pitched into the smaller marsh near the path.  Oologg grunted as he attempted to read a book.  The mage had taken an unusual interest in the troll’s welfare and education and had taught the beast to read a handful of words.

He opened the tome that the Witch-King had given him.  He again read a passage that didn’t make sense to him.  What was he looking for?

… I am, who cast
a shadow o'er the face aghast
of the sallow moon in the doomed land
of shivering Beleriand

Who was ‘I’?  The words before had faded and part of the page was torn there.  This tome was truly ancient and had been written in the time of Beleriand.  Who wrote this?  The mage’s best guess was that it was Sauron, known as Gorthaur.  He looked back up at the excavation site and a chill came over him.  Did he really want to find what was down there?  He glanced back at his cameo and a sudden and deep loneliness fell over him.

The Yfelwood of Rhudaur, Spring, 1406

As the winter gave way to spring and the ground thawed, Ethacali moved the excavation north to try a different site.  This was taking far too long and the missives from the Lord of Angmar were beginning to sound impatient.  The Witch-King had sent him three orc shamans to help motivate the others. He put them to work, driving the miners to harder labor.  In the long months, several deep trenches were dug into the red, claylike dirt.

Ethacali was sitting in his spartan tent atop the hill, reading further into the tome.  “Oologg, have you completed your studies for the day?” he asked the white troll, who was seated in the dirt.  The mage was glad that Oologg had learned a basic level of hygiene for him to share a tent with.

The troll nodded slowly.  “Master is wise,” it said in a deep, halting voice.

Ethacali was pleased: the beast had come a long way in a year.  The mage turned back to his reading as something caught his attention.

“These spirits may fly as eagles, falcons, wild swans, or ravens. Death caught them amidst their shape change, condemning them to a shadow existence within Arda.  They circle above the tumult of storms, cyclones, and squalls to descend upon the unwary and drain their life.”

“She is imprisoned in a vault of kregora, an ore known to defeat the powers of all magic.  The entrance to the vault is embossed with many runes.  Despite her dreamless slumber, she taints the lands with her dark power and with her monsters, the Serganka.”

So, this spirit brought about the bats?  Who is she?  If we find her, what then?  “I am running out of time,” he whispered to himself.  “If I don’t produce results…I don’t want to think about it.”

The Yfelwood of Rhudaur, Fall, 1406

Spring gave way to Summer and Summer to Fall. Although the work was progressing well, Ethacali was growing impatient as the miners dug deeper into the earth. He sat in his tent as the autumn rain pattered on the shielding canvas.

There was an urgent knock at the tent door.

 “Lord, we have found something.  Come quickly,” one of the trackers said.

Ethacali bolted up and seized his staff.  With Oologg in tow, he rushed down the hill to the deep pit.  A ladder led down to a large hole in the ground, flanked by a fractured boulder. The mage took a deep breath and held forth his staff, creating a flame from the gilded skull.

The tracker unleashed two of his wolf-dogs into the hole. The vicious beasts cowered and whimpered in the granite chamber.  Ethacali sighed.  “Send in the orcs.”

Oologg motioned for the miners to enter, and fear was palpable on their twisted faces.  The orcs drew their scimitars and began to file slowly down the chamber. Other orcs carried tools to continue the excavation.  Oologg followed behind them, pressing them on with his massive body.  Ethacali came next, holding forth his flaming staff.

The group moved into a series of small caverns where Ethacali’s fire revealed the walls, covered in reddish-brown crystals. Suddenly, shrieks filled the air as orcs screamed and flailed about.

           “Serganka!  Damn, I should have anticipated this.  Kadard!” the mage yelled, speaking the password he had learned in the tome.  The shrieking died away as the flutter of wings fell silent.  He pushed his way forward to see two orcs, their flesh torn from their dying bodies. He shrugged briefly and pointed further down the cavern.  The orcs nodded slowly and moved forward.  Creeping cautiously, they passed through another cavern of flawed crystals and scattered rocks.

This would be a good defensive position.  I shall note it, thought the mage.

Ever onward they went, through another series of caverns, covered in crystals.  Passing through one cavern, Ethacali noted some wondrous blood-red crystals.  Ever the pragmatist, the mage ignored them and pressed on while the trackers marveled at their beauty and possible value.

 “Pay the crystals no mind.  We have work to do,” said Ethacali blandly.

They pressed on toward cracks in the cavern wall, where tiny streams of sunlight gleamed through.  The mage pushed the orcs forward.  “There, break down that wall.”  Grunting, the orcs struck the rocks with picks and shovels, eroding the wall with determined effort.  Soon, the rocks crumbled, giving way to diffuse sunlight in another chamber.

“There, in the dirt… that door,” said the mage with growing excitement.  The orcs showed nothing but dread.  Oologg, sensing his master’s desire, reached down and lifted the metal door from the ground by a handle.  Fetid air rose up from the gaping hole in the earth, which revealed a wooden stairway underground.

Ethacali tested the creaky stairway with his staff. “It’ll hold.  Let’s go.”

Taking a deep breath, the orcs began making their way down the creaky stairs.  After a long descent, they stepped out onto a floor of black marble covered with dust. The walls of the foyer were also of black marble and seemed to absorb the light of Ethacali’s fire.  A pair of blood-colored doors blocked the exit on the right side of the foyer.  The mage gulped hard.  This is what he both wanted and dreaded.

The mage moved past the orcs and examined the doors. He snapped his fingers and Oologg handed him the tome.  Ethacali sat on the floor, flipping through the pages of the book.

“Here…  I have the password,” he muttered and then approached the doors.  He whispered something arcane and silver lines magically appeared on the portal.  Then, he easily pushed them open with a dry creaking noise.

“The Necromancer is benevolent,” Ethacali said, half in prayer.

Together, they entered a chamber with a floor of latticed bloodstone and black marble.  Ancient, crumbled furnishings littered the area.  Following his master, Oologg had to crouch to enter the area, which was only eight feet high.

Cautiously, Ethacali looked around.  On the left side of the chamber was a gold-colored door. Corridors ran straight ahead and to the right.  The mage strode purposely over to the door and glanced at it.  He turned the knob slowly and the door opened.  With growing anticipation, he walked through into a narrow corridor, which branched into a “T”.  There, on either side, he discovered the Preparation Chamber and the Chamber of Evil Channeling, where evil rituals were held for the Dark Lord. Not Sauron, but Morgoth.

“These rooms were used to worship Morgoth almost five thousand years ago!  We are the first to enter them since that time,” Ethacali said with some excitement, “We will make our quarters here and press forward in the morning.  I shall begin our ritual here to commemorate our good fortune.”

As the orcs entered and stood in awe, Ethacali and the orc shamans laid out their evil paraphernalia and began chanting. Strange, tortured shapes appeared along the walls of the Chamber of Evil Channeling.  They writhed and shrieked as the mage called upon the power of the Necromancer.  When he was done, he felt renewed and invigorated.

“We shall succeed, and all of the North shall bow to us,” he said with confidence and the approving snarls of the orcs.

The following day, the expedition awoke and began to make their way down the right-hand corridor.  As they entered into a long-forgotten and dusty guardroom, Ethacali noticed a stairway down, deeper into the earth.  The mage motioned to the stairs, but at first, the orcs hesitated.

“Go, or I will flay your maggot-infested hides,” he ordered.  Although subtle and a man of great reasoning, Ethacali knew how to motivate orcs by fear.

Reluctantly, they began down the steps into the darkness. This led to a landing and then a waiting room with closed doors of blood red.  Before Ethacali could say anything, an orc touched the door.

From the door itself, flames erupted, searing several orcs. Screams and the smell of burnt flesh filled the room and a few orcs tried to flee back up the stairs before being blocked by Oologg, crossing his thick arms and shaking his head.

“Idiots!  Move aside!” shouted Ethacali, mildly singed.  He stepped over the smoldering bodies of the burned orcs and viewed the doors.

“Another symbol…” he said, searching the tome for an answer, “Yes, I have it here.”

He held forth his staff and uttered a word.  The doors creaked open, and a cold air rushed out. Even the unflappable Ethacali could not help but be chilled by the feeling of dread and horror that came out of those doors.  His skin crawled and there seemed to be an itch that wouldn’t go away.  The flames from his staff dimmed and crackled.  Their breath streamed out in the cold.

Beyond the doors, Ethacali could see two unmoving humanoid shapes, shrouded in darkness that no light seemed to pierce.  He stepped forward, holding two runes from the tome.

This is the first test.

He ordered the orcs forward.  Snarling and in fear, they inched toward the shapes, which seemed to float and shimmer in the gloom.  One of the braver orcs crept up to a shape, which appeared female, but it was difficult to see in the shadows.  It gingerly put its finger up to her face and touched her.  When nothing happened, he sighed with relief.

Then, the orc shrieked.  It pulled back its hand, but something was wrong.  Its arm shriveled and it began to turn white.  It rolled in agony on the floor, its entire body shriveling and blanching.  The other orcs watched in horror as their cohort died.  The other shape suddenly moved, reaching out and seizing an orc by the throat.  That orc howled and hacked at the shape with its scimitar, then it, too, began to shrivel. Shrieks echoed down the halls.  A fine mist floated from the dying orcs into the female form, and she began to breathe.

Despite his growing panic, Ethacali rushed into the corridor and confronted the two shapes.  He produced one of the runes.

“Naranatur, by the power of the Necromancer I bind thee! Thy powers are now mine to wield!” he shouted at the male shape.  The rune flashed and then vanished.

The female opened her eyes and looked at another orc. Before it could move, she reached out and seized it by the head, drawing its neck to her mouth.  Her jaw extended beyond what was humanly possible and she plunged fangs into its throat.  While this slaughter happened, the male froze, assuming a docile stance. Ethacali struggled to hold up the other rune, his hands shaking.  The light of his staff flickered and dimmed.

Finally able to hold up the rune, he called, “Skrykalian, by the power of the Necromancer I bind thee!  Thy powers are now mine to wield!”

Ethacali exhaled in relief as the female became still. In the corridor, the orcs cowered and snarled at the ghostly, translucent shapes.  These things were horrors beyond even their evil imaginings. The mage cautiously crept forward and looked at Skrykalian.  She was tall and noble in appearance, much resembling a beautiful Noldorin woman with the exception of white-feathered wings at her back.  Her nearly translucent face was serene and expressionless and her body entirely bare.  Naranatur stood taller still with black wings and a black sword.  He too was unclothed.

Ethacali walked around them, admiring their evil beauty. He remembered the earlier passage that he read.  It began to make sense.  These were the spawn of Thuringwethil, a vampire.  These were her Blood-Wights.

Thuringwethil I am, who cast
a shadow o'er the face aghast
of the sallow moon in the doomed land
of shivering Beleriand

“These are the Blood-Wights, my friends, long-forgotten horrors once in the service of Morgoth, eons ago.  Now, they serve me,” he said proudly.

Ethacali scoured the tome for more information. “There will be one more Blood-Wight; the greatest of the three.  She is called Blogath and I have one rune left for which to bind her.  Then, we can complete the conquest of Rhudaur.” 

Chapter End Notes

Introducing the Bloodwights, who were corrupted by the vampire, Thuringwethil.  I modified the Bloodwight backstory to make this as it seemed more interesting.  I want to present Ethacali as a complex character with layers of motivation.

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Carn Dȗm, Fall, 1406

In the wake of their success, the mage halted any further exploration to consolidate and assess their situation.  He even had the orcs clean parts of the tunnels and established quarters for the miners.  Ethacali spent many days learning how to communicate with the two Blood-Wights. They were fascinating creatures, who were wholly evil.  As the mage’s control over them increased, he grew more bold.  Soon, it would be time to bind Blogath herself.  He had to admit that he was still afraid to venture into her chamber.  But, like the man of learning that he was, he studied them in intricate detail to glean any advantage that he could.

Delving more into the tome, he continued to learn more about the Blood-Wights.  It almost seemed as if the tome added new portions of text as he progressed.  “Was this chapter here before?  I do not recall such,” he said, scratching his white beard.  “They survived the War of Wrath and hid in Eriador until the middle of the Second Age. They formed an alliance with the master as he subverted and destroyed Eregion.  Sacrifices were made to the master until the men of the land revolted and bound Blogath in this dungeon.  Now, the Lord of Angmar wants her.”

With the orc shaman, Grashur, beside him, they entered the chamber where Naranantur and Skrykalian were bound.  They walked in and Ethacali scanned the walls of the chamber, just to get his bearings.  The orc gazed at the nude figure of Skrykalian, a smile on his twisted lips. The mage could empathize.  She was inhumanly beautiful and it had been too long since he had been home.  Still, his vows meant something to him.  “Don’t even think about it, my friend.  They are for the Lord of Angmar.”  Grashur grunted his disappointment, but kept his distance from the Blood-Wight.

Ethacali approached Skrykalian and noticed that her skin was less translucent than when he last saw her.  There was a rosy hue to her cheeks, outlined by her coal black hair. He couldn’t help but touch her on the cheek.  She opened her eyes, silver, with catlike pupils that widened and then filled most of her iris, nearly making her eyes black.  She smiled, a smile that dug into the mage’s heart.  Her face then wavered and changed and he was now looking into the eyes of his wife, her warm, golden eyes framed by curly brown hair.

“Ethanya?  What are you…?  No. This isn’t real.”  He summoned his inner power and put his hand on her chest. “I see through you, Skrykalian. You cannot fool me.”

In an instant, Skrykalian’s face returned to that of a Noldorin woman, pointed ears poking out from her black hair.  “Is this not what you want, Ethacali?” she said, using his name for the first time.  “I am here for you.  I am your servant.  Do with me what you will,” she said, a soft moan escaping her lips.  The mage could feel her will probing his mind, uncovering secrets.  “Unbind me and I will be everything you desire.”

His hands shook but he raised an arm.  “Obey me, Skrykalian.  Tell me of Blogath.”

She struggled against the binding rune, unable to move more than a little.  There was a moment where her face twisted in frustration, but then became serene again. “No matter,” she said sweetly.  “I am of no use to you like this and you control me completely.  You will come to see the wisdom of releasing me.”  She moved her arms to let him see more of her body.

Ethacali looked away as Skrykalian grinned.  “Blogath.  Tell me about her,” he demanded.

“First, tell me about your wife.  How is she?  Is she lonely?  What of your children and grandchildren?  If we’re going to be allies, I want to know more about you.”  The mage could feel her burrowing into his memories.  “You seem like a good, family man,” she added, and he looked back at her.

“I…I am.  My wife…she’s…No!  No! Stop!  I am in control.  Blogath, tell me of her now,” he said, losing some of his cool.  He reached out and grasped Skrykalian by the face.  “Tell me!”

It was his wife’s voice that answered in his native Logath.  “You’re hurting me, Ethacali, please, you’re hurting me.”

The mage leapt back and put his face in his hands. “I’m sorry!  I’m sorry Ethanya.  I didn’t mean it!  It’s the stress.  I’m under so much pressure!  I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright love.  I forgive you.  I know,” she said and, with effort, she extended her hand and put it on the mage’s white hair.  “All is forgiven.”

He grunted and raised his head again.  He felt the hot flush of embarrassment.  He had revealed far too much of himself to her. “Enough Skrykalian.  No more games.  Tell me about Blogath.”

Skrykalian giggled, a sound far too similar to his granddaughter’s laugh.  “I was just teasing, Ethacali.  Very well, I suppose you have earned your reward,” she said as if speaking to a child. “You have surmised that we are the children of Thuringwethil and Blogath is our eldest sister.  You see, we understand family as you do.  We are not so dissimilar, you and I.  Perhaps we could just sit down and talk like civilized people.”

“So, you are vampires?”

She gave him a halfhearted expression, her face scrunched and one eye narrowed.  She seemed so normal, like a normal person.  He was tempted to give in.  “Hmmm, vampire is such a simple term.  We are also wights, half in the real world, half in the spirit realm.  You were correct in using ‘Blood-Wight.’  I would warn you though, that my sister is full of deceit.  Do not trust a word that she says.  I am, however, honest to a fault.  You can trust me.”

Ethacali felt stronger, more confident now.  “That trust must be earned,” he said, “and you have not yet earned it.”

She made a mock sad face with a deep frown, and she slowly raised her hand up and rubbed a knuckle near her eye.  “That makes me sad, Ethacali.  See the tears?  I am your path home.  You will see. We will become the best of friends.”

The mage raised his arm.  “That will be all.  Return to your slumber, Skrykalian,” he said as he poured his power into reinforcing the binding rune.  Translucent tendrils around the Blood-Wight began to constrict and she winced.

“Please Ethacali, this is too tight.  I will be good.  Just bind me to the wall there.  I’m not going any place.”

He pointed at her and, with his will, moved her to the wall. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. Is that better?”

Bound to the wall, she spread her arms and legs, letting him see all of her.  He looked away again.  “Much better,” she cooed.  “Now, please say hello to Er-Mȗrazôr.”

He narrowed both eyes, questioning.

Skrykalian sighed deeply.  “Oh, my dear mortal mage, the original name of the Lord of the Nazgȗl. He was a prince among the Númenóreans. He was the son of Tar-Ciryatan.  Oh, my child, you really must learn more about history.  Now, off you go and dream of me,” she said in a sultry voice.

Ethacali walked away, feeling shamed at the encounter. The Blood-Wight had clearly gotten the better of him.  He shook it off.  It was only a momentary distraction.  When he had bound Blogath, all doors would be open to him.  And, he had made some distinct progress.

“It is time to report my success to the Witch-King. I leave for Carn Dûm tonight,” he told the orc shaman, Grashur, “You are proceed no further down the corridor until I return.”

As winter approached and the flurries began to fall, Ethacali set out to tell of his victory.  Returning to the fortress city, Ethacali braved the snow and frigid temperatures.  As the mage dismounted and entered the fortress itself, steam floated from his warm body.  At the long hall into Carm Dûm he was met by a disturbing sight.  A horrid beast, part man, part orc, and part dog stood there, attempting a smile.  Its goblin fangs showed through curled lips in a canine snout.  Long red hair, braided in copper shrouded its face. Intelligent hazel eyes gazed out over a dog nose.

“Greetings Ethacali, I am Ulduin, Lord of the Sorcerers. The Nazgûl awaits you.”

Ethacali half bowed.  His amazement was obvious.  Ulduin sensed the mage’s nervousness and was pleased.

“My appearance is disconcerting.  I was a vassal of the Nazgûl Dwar and am the product of his mastery of breeding.  I founded the Order of the Blood of the Shadows, Bwaig-ir-Omdren in my tongue. The Witch-King has found use for me here in the North.”

Ethacali nodded warily.  “I see.  What does the Lord have planned now that I have uncovered the Blood-Wights?”

The beast laughed in a gurgling chuckle.  “We shall see mage, we shall see.”

In the Hall of the Witch-King, Ulduin led Ethacali up to the pool of blood.  The mage secretly chafed at the thought that some ‘experiment’ held a higher position than he.  At the edge of the pool, Ethacali bowed low to the Nazgûl.  “My Lord, I bring good tidings.  I have bound the Blood-Wights Naranatur and Skrykalian as you have commanded. Upon my return, I shall do the same to Blogath.”

An elf, who stood beside the Nazgûl, nodded to Ethacali. “I am Camthalion, Lord of the Gulmathaur.  You have done well in the service of the Lord of Angmar.  Tonight, we shall celebrate and learn of the plan to devour the Northern Kingdoms.”

The Witch-King stood from his throne and floated across the pool of blood toward Ethacali.  “Yes, let us rejoice our good fortune.  Come, Ethacali, tell me of your victory.”  The iron crown of the Nazgûl floated ominously above his shoulders and a broadsword was strapped prominently to his belt.  Its deep red pommel was crowned with a massive ruby. Ethacali saw Quenya runes on the scabbard of the sword, saying Vasamacil, the blade eater.  Hanging near the Witch-King’s throne were other weapons of long renown: a morning star of black eog, a volcanic glass, forged in the depths of Utumno; a Númenórean steel bow; and a helm made of overlapping Sea Drake skin plates with a spiny crown-shaped crest.  The Witch-King noticed Ethacali’s fascination with these relics and he held out his hand.  The morning star and helm flew to his grasp.

“This is Nallagurth, the death’s proclaimer,” he said, showing the weapon.  The eog was subtly inlaid with veins of fused diamonds.  “I received it from our Lord Sauron eons ago.”

Displaying the helm, the Nazgûl continued, “This is the helm of my father, Tar-Ciryatan of Númenór.  Enough of this for now, come, I wish now to tell you of my plan.”

The group walked to the Council Chamber, where the Witch-King sat on a throne on a dias raised six-feet above the floor.  Already seated there was a Dúnadan of middling age dressed in black robes with an elaborate staff.  Also seated there was an elf-woman in exotic attire.

Ethacali recognized the Angûlion by reputation. He was a sorcerer born in Númenor and had lived beyond the count of years.  Rumor had it that the Angûlion was a cousin to one of the Nazgûl.  The elf-woman was introduced as Ulgarin, an Astrologer from the realm of Helkanen in the uttermost east.

The others took their seats and Ethacali was offered one near to the Angûlion.  The Witch-King pointed to a map on one of the walls, depicting the North.

“In the spring of the following year I shall launch my grand assault.  It is my intent to destroy the Kingdoms of Arthedain and Cardolan.  In the last war we were thwarted by the presence of rebels in the land of Rhudaur.  So, to accomplish my plan, I am tasking Ethacali with crushing the rebels to ensure the way into Arthedain is clear.”

Ethacali examined the map closely, remembering as much detail as he could.

The Witch-King continued, “Ethcali is to use his new allies to bring about the destruction of the rebel tribe, Vulseggi, and the House of Rhudainor, the former rulers of Rhudaur.  You must take care, however, the spies of the elves are everywhere.  The fall of Southern Rhudaur must not appear to be motivated by Angmar.  An ongoing skirmish between the Vulseggi and our Cultirith rangers will be excellent cover for the fall of the Rhudauran beacon towers, the Gondryn.  Ethacali, you are to meet with Hirgrim, captain of the Cultirith and plan this action. You will complete the task no later than the Spring of Fourteen O’ Nine.”

The mage bowed, honored to receive such a blessing.

The Witch-King stood and walked to the map. He pointed to a lake in the heart of Arthedain.  “The Angulion shall lead the assault on Annuminas and Fornost.  Our losses will be heavy, but the destruction of the capitol of Arthedain will cripple them.  I, along with the warlord troll Rogrog, shall assault the Tower of Amon Sûl. From there, the door to Cardolan shall be open and Tharbad shall be destroyed.  I will need you, Camthalion, Ulduin, and Ulgarin to prevent the elves from intervening before our plans are ready.”

 The group stood and bowed to the King of Angmar. “It shall be done.”

Tharbad, Narwain, 1407

Young Dagar sat in his cell, head in his hands.  His usually finely coiffed brown hair was now a mess and his ‘Imperial’ beard and mustache were starting to blend with two days of stubble.  His clothing was expensive, but now disheveled with wrinkles and stains.  Without looking up, he continued his story to his cellmate.

“My father, Culberth of Thuin Boid sent me here to apprentice in the Merchant Guild, but I was led astray,” he sobbed, “My so-called friends led me into drugs and wine.  I was expelled from the Guild and now look, here I am,” Dagar whined.  He was a small man, who was very organized and given to putting on airs, but his recent misfortune had shaken him badly.

Mildly interested, the cellmate nodded.  “So, what are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know.  I can’t go home, I’ve been disinherited!”

The cellmate nodded again and sat up in his cot. “Hey, I can get you a job at the Nightsinger’s house.  Can you keep accounts?”  The dark skinned man had a toothy smile, full of hope.

“Yes, I can do that.  But, how can I if I’m in here?”

“Don’t worry, lockup is only for a couple of nights. We’ll be out in…say... About now.”

At that moment, the fat jailer, Mardil came and unlocked the iron doors to the cell.  Dagar and his newfound friend stumbled out and were led to the office of the Minister of the King’s Justice.  Mardil unshackled them and departed as a well-dressed man approached.

“I am Herucalmo Galadhelion, a barrister.  Your case is minor.  I can get it dismissed for a fine,” he said, matter of factly without emotion.

Dagar nodded silently.  The doors to the office opened and Herucalmo ushered them in.

“All rise for the Minister of the King’s Justice, the honorable Eärdil,” a bailiff called.  An imposing man of Dúnadan ancestry entered.  His jet-black hair and green and gold robes of state cut a noble figure.  He sat and looked down upon the two from his bench.  He read the charges and smirked.

“Fortunately, it has been a slow week, and I am feeling benevolent. However, I want assurances that you two clowns will not be returning here,” Eärdil said sternly.  The Minister had a well-deserved reputation for fairness and adhering to the letter of the law.  He stared deeply into Dagar’s eyes.  “I sense that you are only a mischief maker and not a true criminal, young man.”

Dagar looked away and blushed.  “Sir, I swear you will not see me here before you again.  In fact, I have a job waiting at the Nightsinger’s house.”

Eärdil raised an eyebrow and snorted.  “Interesting… Well, I wish you luck, young man. Do not make me regret my decision.”

“You will not, Sir, I can assure you,” said Dagar with some renewed confidence, making eye contact with the minister.

As Mardil showed them to the gate of the city jail, they could see the snows falling on the streets of Tharbad.  Dagar’s friend motioned him northward along the Cherant Aran Canal, where they passed the large house of the Gondorian Embassy.  Two guards stood outside, clad in shiny chainmail shirts.  Their helms bore the symbol of the white tree surrounded by seven stars.

They joined the heavy merchant traffic along the Menatar, the main road through the city, and crossed the South Bridge.  Along the great bridge, numerous kiosks displayed their wares, and the road was bustling with shoppers.  Many merchants sheltered under the bridge gatehouse, known as the Ryncaras Tharbad.  It was an imposing stone structure with narrow spires, constructed by now lost technology in the days of Númenor.

The pair worked their way to the island in the center of the Gwathlo River. This was the heart of Tharbad, where the King and his family ruled the city.  The Merchant’s Quarter, the Commons, the Docks, and the Thieves’ Quarter were also located here.

Dagar blushed as he passed the “Lover’s Delight” on the right of the road. He had spent far too much of his allowance here in the past months.  Along King’s Row, Dagar saw many of the shops he frequented during the time in which he had some money.  Dagar liked to pretend to be far above his station and would often purchase useless things reserved for the castles of the nobility.  Somehow, this made him feel important.

As the pair passed the King’s House, or Bar Aran, traffic was being diverted to a nearby street.  Dagar, ever enamored of royalty, snuck forward through the crowd to get a glimpse of the house.  There, he could see the gates being opened by the Royal Guard.  A man dressed in the tunic of a prince road out with a complement of guards.

Dagar inhaled sharply.  “That is Prince Braegil the Scholar.  They say he is the most learned man in Cardolan.”

His friend shrugged.  “Seems he’s always away on some expedition.  I guess if you have the money…”

Dagar nodded, stroking his ratty goatee.  “Yes, I have heard he is looking for mithril.  Wait, what is this?”

A carriage drove out of the gate, pulled by two magnificent white horses. A middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair sat on one side, while a striking young woman with raven hair sat on the other.  The carriage turned to pass the two.

A man on horseback wearing the surcoat of the Royal Family rode up to them. “Make way!  Make way for her highness, Princess Nirnadel and the Chancellor Nimhir!  Make way.”

They stepped back several paces, clearing a path for the carriage and it rolled past them with clattering hooves.  Dagar bowed, but looked up in time to see her gray eyes smile at him as she waved.

“By the Valar, did you see her wave at me?” Dagar asked, giddy as if stunned.

His friend chuckled.  “Sure, sure… if you say so.  Like she’d give you the time of day.”

House of the Nightsingers, Gwirith, 1407

Spring had come to Tharbad and the rains had continued for nearly a week. That was one thing that Dagar disliked about Tharbad.  He missed his home in Thuin Boid.  It was rough and rugged and far from the cultural sophistication of Cardolan.  As thunder rumbled in the distance, Dagar turned back to his accounts.  As the book keeper for the guild, it was far from glamorous, but it kept him fed and housed and that was the best he could hope for in these days.

His mind often wandered to that day in front of the Bar Aran when he saw Nirnadel. He dreamed of a life among the elite where he could attend lavish functions and be praised by the rich and famous.

A knock on the door roused Dagar from his daydream.  It was Haedoriel the Bard, a member of the Guild.

“Greetings, young Dagar.  I see that you have gained some weight back.  I was becoming concerned,” said the bard with his characteristic smile. Haedorial was known for his extensive knowledge of lore, his infectious smile, and his crystal singing voice.  He was always impeccably dressed and groomed, someone that Dagar could look up to.

“Good morning to you Haedorial.  I see the storm has dampened your day in the market.”

The bard nodded as he removed his dripping hat and raincoat.  He hung it on an old wooden rack and walked to the fireplace to warm his hands and dry off.  “I hear you hail from Rhudaur, young man,” he said, always curious and hungry for lore.

“Why yes, my father Culberth serves Vulfredda, the lady of the Vulseggi,” Dagar said with some pride and regret.

Haedorial began to light up a pipe, striking a match on the brick of the fireplace. “Vulfredda?  You don’t say?” the bard asked and then thought for a moment. “She is descended from House Melossë, one of the noble houses of Rhudaur that came from Númenor with Elendil the Tall.” The bard took a seat next to Dagar. “It’s been a good year so far.  I played for the Royal House this past Yüle. King Ostoher is a good patron,” he continued as he warmed his hands by the fire.

Dagar’s eyes brightened.  “Tell me about the Royal Family,” he said, his voice full of excitement.

Always ready to tell a good tale, Haedorial launched right in.  “Our King has the blood of Isildur in him, though he is not a direct descendent.  He is a fine lord of pure Dúnadan lineage.  He fought with his father Minalcar in the Great Northern War fifty years ago and became king upon Minalcar’s death in thirteen eighty one. So far as I have seen, we have had peace and prosperity since that time.”

“Tell me of his children,” Dagar asked, probing for more information.

Haedorial stood and poured himself a drought of ale to ward off the cold.  The heavy patter of rain beat down upon the roof as a characteristic Cardolan fog began to form outside.

“Gladly, my good Dagar, gladly.  The crown prince, Valandur, is a noble lad.  He leads the cavalry and has skirmished with both Rhudaur and Angmar. He is truly cut in the mold of the Warrior Kings of Cardolan.  Price Braegil the Scholar is considered to be one of the great loremasters despite his youth. I have spoken to him many times and he respects learning and scholarly pursuits.  He has been to Rivendell and has spoken to Elrond himself.  I consulted with him back in Fourteen O’ Five, when he led an expedition to Lond Daer, where the fabled Mithril Room of Tar-Telemmaitë was located.”

“I’ve heard much of Prince Braegil, but Tar-Telemmaitë?” Dagar asked.

“Yes, one of Númenor’s Kings.  He was obsessed with mithril and collected a great treasure of it.”

“What of the King’s daughter?” asked Dagar.

“Ah, what a delightful young lady.  So cultured and educated.  I have not met her as of yet, but I hear so many good things about her.  Do you know she speaks Quenya, Sindarin, and Adûnaic?”

“How excellent,” Dagar gushed.

Haedorial stood.  “Well, I should let you get back to your work.  I will go to see the guildmasters.  I’ll put in a good word for you, my good Dagar.”

The Town of Thuin Boid, Lothron, 1407

Culberth sat by the bed of his wife, a Dorwinadan serving-girl.  It was considered to be bad form for Culberth to have married her, but they had a good life together, despite their wastrel son, Dagar.  However, she was now on her deathbed and Culberth could do nothing. As he held a cup to her mouth, his long and faithful assistant Nasen came in.

“Sir, can I get you anything?  You have been here for days,” Nasen asked, his voice full of concern.

Culberth shook his head.  “No, it is going to be all right.  Thank you for asking.”

Nasen nodded and withdrew.  Culberth cradled his wife’s head.  “I’m sorry.  I am so sorry.  You will be going to a better place.”

The dying woman reached up weakly and stroked her husband’s face.  “You have been good.  You must move on.  I want you to have a good life…  you must… you must forgive Dagar.  You must let him come home.”

Culberth furrowed his brow.  “But he has disgraced us…. Thrown out of the Merchant’s Guild! Even arrested!  How can I?” he ranted, waving his hands about.

His wife grasped his collar.  “You must!  Please, promise me.  Give him back his inheritance.”

Culberth sighed.  He had considered making Nasen his heir.  This would change things.  “Very well. Very well.  I will sent for Dagar immediately.”

Culberth stood and left the room.  He was the Chief Victueller of Thuin Boid and responsible for the grain and feed that went to the outlying Gondryn.  It was a great responsibility, and he did not know if Dagar could handle it.  He had all but given up on the young man, so lost in the clouds was he.

He saw Nasen in the main room.  “Nasen, I need you to send a rider to Tharbad.  Find Dagar and tell him to come home immediately.”

The balding assistant nodded.  “I know, his mother is dying.  I will send someone right away.”

“There is more.  I promised Maeve to return Dagar’s place here.  I know we spoke about another option.  I know you were hoping to take over.  I’m sorry.”

A flash passed Nasen’s face, and his cheeks flushed. He looked away.  “I understand sir.  We will make the best of it.  Let me send the rider.”

Nasen stood and walked to the stables.  His expression was one of stone.  He approached one of the riders of the town and gave him a note and some silver coins.  The blond-haired horseman shot out of town in a rush, headed for Tharbad.

Chapter End Notes

I want to write the Bloodwight as both seductive and chilling.  Ethacali is supposed to be in charge, but it he really?

Dagar is just an average guy who got into trouble.  He starts off as nothing special, no special skills or powers, but a determination to improve his life.

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Tharbad, Nórui, 1407

Dagar packed his belongings as Haedorial folded clothes for the young man to pack.  “I’m sorry to hear about your mother, lad.  You have my sympathies.”  The bard lowered his head, letting his curly brown ringlets of hair fall in front of his face.  Even in informal settings, Haedorial was always impeccably dressed, a silk doublet in red and gold with a felt flat cap of forest green that sported a jaunty hawk’s feather.

Dressed in a simple black satin doublet, Dagar nodded stiffly.  “Thank you. It seems my father wants me to come home for good.”  He looked out at the rain water that had gathered on the streets of the great city. This region of Cardolan could be very wet at times of the year.  Dagar inhaled deeply, smelling the falling rain and feeling the dank humidity.  He had come a long way since his time in jail. He had a job, a home and friends now. Accounting was not the most exciting thing, but it paid fairly well.  He could afford modest, but stylish clothes and his hair was neatly trimmed, parted in the middle with his mustache waxed and curled up at the end just the way he liked it.  He was a gentleman after all.

The bard clapped his hand on Dagar’s shoulder.  “I made sure that your carriage has good protection.  And here are five gold sovereigns for the road.  If you are ever back in Tharbad, my wife and I will gladly take you in and she would love to cook for you again.”

Dagar shook his head and put his hand out.  “No, Haedorial, I can’t accept this.  You’ve already done so much for me.  I was destitute and the Nightsingers took me in as if I was one of you.  I can’t.” The bard and his family had welcomed him with open arms and had taught him respect and responsibility.  That was no small feat.

“Nonsense, my good Dagar.  It has been a good year, and I am happy to share.  King Ostoher has kept the peace and our realm is prosperous. Now, you will take this and return home to be with family.  I hope that you will be able to see your mother ere she passes.  That is what a son must do.  And I trust that you will write to us as soon as time permits.  I insist.”  He pressed the pouch of coins into the young man’s open palm and closed it.

Dagar’s eyes misted up and his sniffed hard, wiping his nose with a fancy silk handkerchief.  “You have been good to me Haedorial and I won’t forget it.”  He forced a smile.  “I’ll return and maybe you can get me into the Royal Palace at Thalion.  I would dearly love to meet the King…and the Princess.”

The bard made a wry half smile.  “Still on about the Princess, huh?  Well, she’s not that much younger than you.  I hear she is very well read and very intelligent.  I hate to let you down, young Dagar, but it would be my bet that she marries a prince of Arthedain or Gondor to seal alliances. She’ll live a nice quiet life out of the limelight and her sons and daughters will be lords and ladies of that kingdom.  It’s a life that we will never know or understand.”

“A young man can still dream though.”

Haedorial laughed a hearty laugh.  “Indeed he can, good Dagar.  Indeed he can.  I will write you all of the royal stories that you can stomach.  I’m sure good Prince Braegil will find the fabled Mithril Room of Tar-Telmmaitë, the Fifteenth King of Númenor in the ruins of Lond Daer Enedh and I will tell you all about it.  Now, travel well and travel safe.  Rest assured, we have a good replacement for you.  Hasog, the man who shared your cell and brought you to us, has been training in accounting.  While your shoes cannot be filled, he is just the man to carry on.”

Dagar smiled.  “I will miss the Nightsingers.  This last year has been my…my redemption.  I know I was not the most responsible man.  With your kindness, I think I have learned my lesson.”

“That you have, my good man.  Now, your carriage is waiting.  Best not to keep your father waiting, dear Dagar.  We will miss you too, so do not be a stranger and write when you can.  And remember, you are only a few days ride away from Tharbad.  The realm is at peace and the roads are safe thanks to King Ostoher.” Haedorial picked up Dagar’s bag and took it to the carriage.  The driver hefted it into the trunk at the rear and then opened the door for Dagar with a nod of his head.  Two mercenary riders mounted their horses and took positions at the front of the carriage.

The young man wiped a tear from his cheek and then boarded, sitting down in the plush, red velvet seat as the driver closed the door.  Dagar looked out of the window and waved as members of the Nightsingers waved back.  He could feel the warm summer rain fall upon his arm and the humidity filled his nostrils.  He would miss the upcoming Autumn Fair or Eruhantalë.  The pastries and ales would be well worth the trip back though.  He would do his father proud, honor his mother and return with his fortune, a self-made man.  Then, with a snap of the reins, they were off to Rhudaur.

The Yfelwood, Cerveth, 1407

Ethacali sat in The Black Cave, part of the excavation of the vale.  Jet black crystals adorned the walls of the cave and it was a cool place in the summer heat and humidity of Rhudaur.  Lanterns hung on hooks throughout the cave, providing a bright light for the mage to read.  He had not turned the page of the tome for an hour, brooding in silence, worrying about how to broach Blogath’s chamber.  An orc came in and changed the water in his wash basin and then left past the unmade bed. He had one rune of binding left. Would it be enough?  Should he just march in there and attempt the binding? Should he question Skrykalian more? Should he awaken Naranantur?  Too many variables?  Too many things could go wrong?

He stirred for a moment and looked down at the cameo of his wife that had become a bookmark in this most valuable tome of dark knowledge.  He liked seeing Ethanya whenever he turned a page.  It was as if she were with him reading.  He thought back to his last day in Logath where he read to her at the dinner table, telling her and his family of far off lands like Harad and Rhȗn.  He could see her curly brown hair and her golden eyes.  He could hear the gasps of his grandchildren when he told them a spooky story from his travels.  Now he was in far off Rhudaur.  He knew that Blogath and the Blood-Wights were his path home.  Now, he had to deliver.

He exhaled deeply and put the tome down.  It was time for action.  He snapped his fingers and the orc servant ran in.  “Bring the shamans.  We will bind Blogath today.  We can wait no longer.”  The servant ran out and then returned with the ancient orcs, Urfase, Athrug and Grashur.

Athrug held the servant by the ear and pushed him into the cave.  “This snaga says you want to talk?”  The grizzled orc had a mop of sparse white hair and was bent from age, but he wore a gaudy silk doublet of black and silver along with fancy jewelry looted from the northern kingdoms.

“Let him go, Athrug,” the mage said sternly and the orc released the servant with a sneer.  “Yes, it’s time to confront Blogath.  You three will channel wards around me as I bind her. According to the tome, she is more powerful that the other two combined, being the eldest of Thuringwethil.  Grashur, you lead them.”  Of the three, Grashur was the only one he truly trusted.  Urfase was a dunce, but he was fanatical in his belief in the Dark Lord.  And Athrug…he’d once heard the shaman whispering to the orc miners about Ethacali’s incompetence.  He would bear watching.  The mage took the binding rune from the tome and looked at the thick parchment that it was drawn on.  It would do the trick.  It had to.

They walked through the crystal caves to the halls where Skrykalian and Naranantur were bound and, ultimately, the altar of the Dark Lord where Blogath was imprisoned.  Ethacali felt that one last questioning of the two lesser Blood-Wights would be useful and they descended the stone stairs.  In the binding chamber, they lit the lanterns and saw that Skrykalian was still bound to the wall and Naranantur floated in mid air, both still slumbering.  Ethacali raised his hand, and a green glow emanated from his palm onto the male Blood-Wight, reflecting off if it’s straight black hair.  Naranantur’s eyes opened, initially catlike with vertical slits, but then his pupils widened to make his eyes black.  He curled his lip up and then opened his mouth, his jaw extending beyond what was humanly possible, rows of sharp teeth within and prominent fangs.  The mage and the orcs took a step back.

“Unbind me, human,” the Blood-Wight demanded.  “Else I rip your throat out and feed you to the dogs.”  Next to his nude form, a black greatsword floated in the air.  He tried to reach for the weapon but translucent bindings held his arms fast.  “Unbind me now!”  It was like a wave of anger smashing into the mage.

“That won’t be happening, Naranantur.  You are bound to my will through the Necromancer.  My will is his will and you will obey.”  The green glow from his palm intensified and the Blood-Wight winced and narrowed his eyes.  The rage in Naranantur’s face faded and his teeth became normal, human teeth.  He appeared to be a tall, proud Noldorin Elf, haughty and disdainful.  He looked down his nose at Ethacali and was clearly not impressed.

“What is it you want, human? Trinkets?  Baubles?  What worthless thing can I give you to release me?  That is all you humans care about, isn’t it?”

The mage did his best to let the words run down his back, but they stung nonetheless.  He was in the presence of beings so ancient that it defied rational thought.  He grit his teeth and tightened his stomach.  “You will now obey the will of the Necromancer.  You will aid us in the destruction of the northern kingdoms.  I need to know about Blogath.  You will tell me,” he said as he closed his fist and Naranantur groaned as the spectral bindings tightened.

The Blood-Wight chuckled. “Blogath is eldest of Thuringwethil as you know.  She is a power beyond your imagination.  She ruled this region for Morgoth when your people were still in animal skins.  Go.  Bind her like you bound us.  See what happens.”

“What can I expect?”

“Do not worry, little human. I am sure that it will go well,” Naranantur said with a snide edge.

“What can I expect?” Ethacali said, more forceful this time and he tightened the bindings.

Naranantur grunted in pain and then made a gurgling laugh.  “She commands spirits of her dead fanatics and the Serganka follow her will. They will be in her chamber.”

The mage opened his hand and the bindings relaxed.  “There. That wasn’t so hard.  Is there anything else?”

Naranantur’s face untwisted and he breathed normally again.  “That is all I know.  Feel free to question my sister again.”

Skrykalian’s eyes opened as Naranantur closed his.  Ethacali’s mouth opened slightly.  She did this on her own.  He did not command her to wake.  “Good morning Ethacali,” she said sweetly.  “Did you sleep well?  I did. Now, if we could just sit down like normal people, I would be happen to share about my eldest sister.  Perhaps you can tell me more about your family.”

He ignored the probe.  “What more can you add?”

“Blogath enjoys bathing in the blood of her followers and long walks in the forest.”

She was testing him again and he could feel her worming into his brain, uncovering secrets like peeling an onion.  “Stop playing games.  You know I have the means to compel you.”  He raised his hand in a veiled threat.

“No please don’t.  I’ll be good.  I would be more worried about disloyal followers than Blogath, if I were you,” she said and glanced at the orcs.  She looked directly at Athrug.  “Do you like what you see?  Riches and more await you.”

Ethacali’s hand glowed green. “Enough!  I will make use of you soon when we conquer the north.  Resume your slumber, Skrykalian,” he ordered.

She blinked and then yawned. “We’ve told you all we know about my sister,” she said sleepily.  “You bound us easily.  You should not have a problem.”  She then closed her eyes.

The mage sighed heavily. The mental exchange had drained him. “Come,” he told the shamans. “This was fruitful.  I gathered much from our conversation,” he said, almost more to boost his own confidence.

Grashur gave him a quizzical look, one eye narrowed on a crooked face beneath messy white hair.  Scars from numerous battles ran down his forehead through his nose and down to his chin.  “I don’t follow, my lord.”

Ethacali smiled.  “We know that there will be spirits and bats in the chamber and we know to give Blogath a blood sacrifice for the binding. These Blood-Wights are smart, but not smart enough for the Necromancer.”

They turned to go, but Ethacali thought he saw Skrykalian’s eyes open.  He blinked and looked again but she was fast asleep.  “Urfase, I need five miners.  Bring them here quickly.  Go.  Go.  We need them now.”

The orc dashed off and then returned a few minutes later with the five.  “I told them that we’re expanding a tunnel,” he told the mage in a sniveling voice.  They continued further into the underground complex where it grew progressively colder. Their lanterns seemed to dim and they felt as if a dark hand were pressing down upon them.  The mage gulped.  Even in the presence of the Witch-King he was not this afraid.  He could see condensation on the walls and then his heart stopped.  A pool of water on the floor was dripping upwards and pooling again on the ceiling. His skin crawled.  What magic was this?  He felt lightheaded.  The miners grunted and squealed their displeasure, but Urfase pushed them onwards.

Focusing his lantern to a narrow point, Ethacali could see the chamber ahead.  Ancient bones lay scattered on the floor, some barely more than dust now.  Beyond, he could just make out some kind of altar made of obsidian.  He thought he saw the glint of metal on it.  Then, something moved near the altar.  “What was that?  Did anyone see that?”

The orcs shook their heads.  Urfase pushed the orc miners onwards.  They were close.  They would bind Blogath and then rampage through the lands of the hated Dúnedain. Ethacali would fulfill his task and then return to the warm lands of Logath and live in peace.  “There will be spirits ahead.  I have a spell prepared for them.  Flame will take care of the Serganka too.  Be ready,” he told the shamans.

They inched into the chamber and Ethacali raised his staff.  “Spirits of the Blood-Wight, I release you!” he cried, and a deep groan filled the room. There was a flash of light and then the room felt lighter.  He blew out a long breath.  This was going well so far.  “Grashur, have the miners stand in front of the altar.  And shine your lanterns on the ceiling.”  Lights turned upwards and they could see hundreds of huge bats hanging down.  Strangely, the floor was free of guano.  The mage sensed that these bats were somehow manifestations of Blogath’s will.  He channeled power into his staff again and it glowed green.  “Grashur, begin your ritual.”

The shamans began to chant in the Black Speech of Mordor and pounded their fists on their chests.  The five miners became frozen in place, unable to move.  Athrug moved forward and then dragged the edge of his dagger across one miner’s throat, spilling black blood onto the altar.  It pooled for a moment before sizzling and it was absorbed into the altar. Ethacali pulled out the rune with shaky hands and held it high.  The urge to run was nearly overwhelming.  Athrug slit another throat, and the blood sizzled on the altar before vanishing.  A deep moan emanated from the altar, definitely female.  The shamans continued to chant and the room grew colder still.  Ethacali thought he could see red, glowing eyes just above the altar.  Another throat was slit.  He could see a form now.  A female figure, lithe and tall.  He could see a face now, ethereal and beautiful.  He looked at the rune when something leapt onto one of the remaining miners.

“What the?” he began and saw a male figure rip the throat out of the miner with fangs.  Unlike Naranantur, this one looked demonic, red eyes slanted upwards at an impossible angle, hands that ended in claws more like a bear or a tiger with legs and feet like a beast with cloven hooves.  Blood sprayed from the miner’s neck and was suspended in a red mist which flowed into the demon’s open maw.  Before the mage could respond, the demon sank its fangs into the last miner’s neck.

In a near panic, Ethacali called out, “Blood-Wight, in the name of the Necromancer, I bind thee. Thy will is mine to command!”  The rune flashed and vanished and the demon became still.  His bare body and face began to waver and he morphed into a man, similar to Naranantur with black hair and wings.  His eyes closed.

Ethacali shivered and his hands shook.  That was the last rune.  The figure behind the altar slowly gained more substance.  A woman strode forward, tall, regal, beautiful beyond words.  Her white wings wrapped around her, revealing only her face, perfect with silver catlike eyes.  The shamans and the mage staggered back, nearly falling.  Her face was serene, peaceful, almost friendly.

“Ethacali,” she said in a slow voice that reverberated throughout the chamber.  “Welcome to my vale.  You have met my brothers and sister now.”  She pointed to the now slumbering demon.  “This is my consort, Balisimur.  I apologize for the surprise.  He really should have introduced himself first.  It was rude of him to feed before me.  It won’t happen again, I assure you.”

The mage continued to back up towards the exit.  “I…I…the Necromancer…” he stammered.  He had to survive.  He had to get back to Ethanya.

She took two more steps forward, into the light and then swung her wings behind her to reveal a perfect body, young and supple.  “Yes, the Necromancer.  Sauron Gorthaur.  Former vassal of my lord Morgoth.  Yes, we’re acquainted.”  She took another step and Ethacali held out his staff between them.

“Stay where you are, Blogath. Come no further.”  The staff glowed green, but Blogath raised her hand and the staff went dark again.  She was worming her way into his brain like Skrykalian, but far more powerful.  This was like a broadsword through the eye.

“Come now, there is no need for hostilities, is there?” she asked coyly.  “I am what you want.  I’m sure my sister told you about me, but don’t believe her lies.  I am your path home, isn’t that what you said?”  She slowly reached out and gently pushed his staff aside.  She looked down at the shamans, who were quivering on the ground.  “One of them will do.  I am hungry.  I have slumbered since the fall of Eregion.  Can you tell me, was Celebrimbor killed?  Has the Númenórean army arrived?  Oh wait.  You’re human. Your lives flash by faster than a blink to me.  Come now, be a dear and offer a lady a meal.”

Ethacali made a subtle motion for the orcs to flee.  They crept to the exit, seemingly unnoticed by Blogath.  Without a rune he was helpless.  Nothing in his power could bind her.  But he had one trick up his sleeve.  If he didn’t act now, he knew she would tear their throats out.  Everything she was doing to set him at ease just magnified his terror.  He shoved the orcs past the exit and then raised his staff.  A white sheen appeared over the passageway and he shouted a spell to seal it.  He could not bind her, but he could trap her in the chamber.  “I will return, Blogath, when I have another rune from the Necromancer. You will be bound for the upcoming war.”

She tested the barrier with her finger, and it flashed.  She pushed harder, but it would not budge.  She sighed as a parent would with a naughty child.  “No matter.  I am immortal and patient.  You are not. You will be back soon and we will both get what we want.  Now scurry along and prepare for your war.  If you see fit, please send me a meal.  I would see it as a personal favor.”

Ethacali felt like he could breathe again.  The spell had drained him, but the barrier would hold.  He turned to go, but all of their lanterns went dark.  He raised his staff, and a light glowed from the tip.  He looked back at Blogath to see her smiling.

“Just flexing my muscles,” she cooed.  “Remember what I said.”  Slowly, she floated back into the gloom until only red eyes could be seen.

Along with the shamans, the mage strode back down the hall, trying to put on his most confident walk, but he turned the corner and threw up.  Waves of fatigue and nausea flowed over him.  He had survived many trials, but he had never been tested like this.  He leaned back against the dank wall and gulped air.  “If we cannot bind her, we may have to make do with just the two Blood-Wights that we have. It will work.  It will work.  It has to work.”

Chapter End Notes

Dagar continues his character arc.  I want to write him as an effete young man, trying too hard to impress.

Ethacali should be complex and intelligent, always wanting to be in control.

I want to write Skrykalian and Blogath as terrifying in their mental powers, yet seemingly benign in personality.  

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Rhudaur, The Town of Thuin Boid, Nórui 21th, 1407

Dagar’s ride in the carriage had entertained a few stops along the way.  He simply had to sample the ales and lagers of Bree and a few days’ visit turned into two weeks of drinking and singing with the Heathertoe brothers and Jolly Jo Sandheaver, the most prominent hobbit in the region.  All the time, he tried to put his sick mother out of his mind as if not thinking about her would make her better.  It wasn’t until late in Norui would he arrive in Thuin Boid, his father’s buhr or town.

The carriage rolled over the hot dirt road towards the buhr, the stone beacon tower to the right of the gate growing larger by the hour.  Dagar could see the ten-foot-tall mound more clearly now with the wooden palisade that surrounded the top.  He could easily see the armed guards of the Vulseggi atop the tower, eyeing his carriage as it approached.  A thick wooden gate blocked the road into the buhr where colorful banners flew in the wind.  Dagar wrote down a description of the banners, blue and white with the symbol of a rearing horse.  “The banners of House Melossë!” he said in a voice full of youthful excitement.

The carriage came to a stop just outside of the Horse Gate and a guard came up to the window.  He had a steel conical helm under which a mop of blond hair flowed down over his chainmail armor.  He gave Dagar a big, friendly smile.  “Good afternoon, sir.  Your business here in Thuin Boid?”

Dagar was pleasantly surprised by the warm greeting.  “Good day sir.  I am Dagar, son of Culberth.  I’m here to see him and my mother.”

The guard looked back at the wooden gate.  “Open up!” he called to another guard.  He looked back at Dagar.  “Welcome home to our buhr.  My name is Romni.  Culberth is a good man.  Your mother is very sick, but she will be glad to see you.  If you need anything, please let us know.  Your father’s tavern is straight ahead and to the right.”  He extended his gloved hand through the window and Dagar shook it.  The carriage rolled forward, and the young man’s heart began pounding.  This was it.  He was home.  Now it was time to make up for his past and prove himself to his father.

Word of his arrival had already reached the tavern and Nasen and three stable hands were outside, waiting for him.  Nasen opened the carriage door and pulled the steps down. He was balding, middle-aged man dressed in a dark brown velvet robe with simple silver embroidery.  He was stocky and clean-shaven with a bit of a pot belly. “Welcome home, Master Dagar.  Your father is waiting inside.  Your mother has been asking about you.”

“Thank you, my good Nasen,” he blurted out and then ran into the tavern, searching for his father.  He laid eyes on a middle-aged man with a round face with warm, friendly features, ringed with a neatly trimmed beard and dark brown hair worn short. Relief, but also fear rushed into his heart.  He hadn’t seen his father in three years since he screwed up the accounting for the final time due to his carousing lifestyle and was banished to Tharbad to redeem himself.  The thought of seeing his father was welcome and terrifying at the same time.  “Hello Father,” he said, his voice quaking.

Culberth wore his typical blue flannel shirt with a leather apron over it, common of the working men of Thuin Boid.  He walked up to his son and opened his arms.  “Your mother is waiting for you.  She is the one who convinced me to bring you home, but it is good to have you back.”  He said it like he meant it and Dagar tried to stifle the hot, moist feeling in his eyes. Culberth motioned his son towards the back.  “She’s in the bedroom.  You remember the way.”

Dagar looked to his father to follow, but he did not. The young man knew that it meant he could spend some time alone with her.  He had always been closer to his mother.  He knew that she had coddled him as he grew up.  She always took some of Culberth’s hard earned money and splurged it on Dagar, buying him expensive trinkets from far off lands like Gondor or even Harad.  Dagar treasured these things as his mother read to him of exotic kingdoms and royal entourages. Though she was merely a Dorwinidan serving girl in the tavern, she always dreamed of visiting the courts of kings and princes and experiencing the cultures of Middle Earth.  It was something that she shared with her son, and she could deny him nothing.

Dagar rushed into the bedroom and was greeted with a sickly smell and the stifling heat of summer in spite of the open windows and a breeze.  When he laid eyes on her, he could tell that she had aged.  Some of her hair was now silver and she was gaunt and her eyes sunken. Still, she brightened the moment that she saw him, a big smile lighting up her face as she lay in her bed.

“My son.  My son Dagar. Is this a dream?”  She coughed and then stretched out her thin arms to embrace him.  He leaned down and wrapped his arms around her, shaking with joy and sorrow.

“I’m here mother.  I’m here.  I won’t leave you again.”

Maeve pushed him back slightly and looked into his eyes. “Let me look at you.  It is you.  I have waited so long for this.  Your father has been so kind to let you come home.  He has been reading to me the books that I read to you. Remember the one on the Kingdom of Arnor?”

He nodded his head and wiped his nose.  “Yes mother.  I love that one.  I loved hearing about Elendil the Tall and Isildur and Anarion.  And the ones about far Harad and even the far south.  I still dream about The Court of Ardor and the great elves.”  He looked over to the bookshelf where his worn-out books still sat.  One about lost Númenor lay on the nightstand next to the bed with a bookmark.  A chair was pushed up against the wall next to it where his father would sit to read. Dagar touched the book and then blew his nose into his handkerchief.  He remembered these book well and the dreams that his mother gave him about lost kingdoms and great lords.

She touched his cheek.  “This is all I have ever wanted.  We can be a family again.”

Dagar fought to keep his feelings down, but he erupted into tears.  “What can I do, mother?  What can I do?  How can I heal you?”  His whole body shook with regret.  Why couldn’t he have made her proud?  Why did he stray from his father’s wishes?  All of the carousing seemed so empty now.

She shook her head.  “No, Dagar, no.  It’s too expensive.  We’ve spent so much already.  I want you to help your father.  Autumn will be here soon along with the Tregtagan.  He will need to move the wheat and corn before then.”

He took a deep breath.  “Yes, the Troll Days.  I remember…when the trolls teach their young to hunt.  So, we have a couple of months to move the supplies to the watch towers.”

Another voice came from the door.  “Yes, it is soon time for the caravan to depart.”  It was Culberth with Nasen by his side.  “We have four months to hire the guards, outfit the wagons, make the trip to the Tirthon and return before the trolls make their way down the hills and the snows begin to fall.”

Dagar remembered his days growing up, listening to his father and Nasen plan the caravans, called waenhosh in Northron. Those times were full of rough looking mercenaries, called airund-shegan in Northron, who were loaded with weapons along with the debt slaves or wealli who shouldered the hardest burdens of the trip. He could envision his father counting the tall stacks of gold and silver coins and then giving some to his mother for groceries and trinkets for their son.  While Thuin Boid was considered a backwater in the Kingdom of Arnor, it was still the capitol of the Dor-onen-Egladil, known as the Angle.  It was also Dagar’s whole world as a child, and he lacked for nothing.

Nasen nodded.  “I’ve begun looking for suitable airund-shegan to staff the guard.  I’ve offered the usual one silver a day with bonuses at completion.  We can also use three of the wealli, Nig, Cisgid and Old Pad for the trip as well.”

Dagar’s eyes opened at the mention of Old Pad.  “Old Pad?  Why, I haven’t seen him in a few years since I left.  I would love to have him on this waenhosh.”

Maeve touched his hand.  “Old Pad has been waiting for you.  He was like a second father to you.”

Dagar turned back to his father.  “I would like to use my share to help purchase herbs for mother. Arlan leaf is nine silvers a piece and I know it’s been tight leading up to the waenhosh.”

Culberth smiled.  “You have my support.  I can see that you’ve grown and don’t only think of yourself first.  The Arlan leaf goes quickly, and we need all that we can get. Dagar,” he said gently with a twinkle in his eye, “you and Nasen will lead this waenhosh.  I think that this will be a good test for you to take over soon.”

“What?” asked Dagar, stunned.  “But I thought that Nasen…”

Culberth put his hand on his son’s shoulder.  “You are my son.  Nasen will receive a significant raise and will continue as your assistant. He has done such a wonderful job over the years.  And we will see to it that your mother gets the herbs that she needs and that she recovers fully.”

Nasen paused for a moment and a cloud seemed to pass over his face, but then he smiled and nodded.  “The past few years have been good, and I would love to help Dagar grow into the position.”

Dagar felt warm inside over the words.  This was something he longed to hear.  Only in his dreams did his father treat him like this and now, it seemed to be a reality.  “My good father, good Nasen, I am blessed by the Valar for your support. I won’t let you and mother down.” He reached down and took her hand. “I won’t let you down, mother.  I will be sure to secure the healing herbs that you need and then it will be I who reads to you.”

Culberth stood silent for a moment and then put his head down. “My family…together once more.  I have prayed for this,” he said, looking up. “And my prayers were answered.  Maeve, you convinced me to bring him home.  You don’t know how much that means to me.” He then looked at Nasen and Dagar. “Come, the tavern opens soon. There will be more than enough mercenaries to interview.  You and Nasen will handle that.  I’ll be here with your mother.  Old Pad should be cooking about now for the incoming crowd.”

Nasen gestured for Dagar to go to the main hall, a large dining room with a vaulted ceiling and a central fireplace.  The Northron wealli, Nig, was already stoking the fire as Cisgid lit the braziers around the room.  The two blond boys were hardy and strong from manual labor, muscles rippling under linen shirts.  Dagar could smell Old Pad’s cooking, and his mouth watered.  The aroma was like roasted pork ribs in gravy with meat pies along with cherry cobbler for dessert.  This is what home smelled like.  A serving girl unlocked the door, and a line of rough warriors marched in as if towards war.

Dagar felt very uncomfortable around these types, feeling much more at home in the company of the refined bards of the Nightsinger’s Guild in Tharbad.  He spied a big man with reddish brown hair, a deep tan and a thick, bushy beard.  A long bearded axe was at his hip and he wore wolf furs over his chainmail hauberk.  Truly a rugged character.

The man sat down and raised his hand.  “I need some ale here!  And a slab of that pork rib!”  Serving girls were already in motion like a hive of bees, carrying pitchers, mugs and platters.  This man looked like he knew how to fight and Dagar and Nasen sat down across from him. The young man tried his best to push down his anxiety.

“My good mercenary, I am Dagar and this is Nasen.  May we know your name, good sir?”

“I ain’t no ‘sir’.  And if you’re looking for company for the night, they have your type at the Yellow Dawn next door,” the man said in a thick Rhudauran accent.

“Oh, no no no, good s…I mean mister.  My father is looking to hire experienced guards to escort a waenhosh that will depart here soon.  You look like someone who can handle themselves.”

“Hrrrrrr.  Why didn’t you just say so?  Fine…I just finished one job so I’m free.  What are the rates?”  A serving girl put down a mug of ale and a platter of pork ribs and the mercenary downed the drink in one, long gulp.  He then used the back of his sleeve to wipe the froth from his beard.

Dagar pulled out a silver coin from his pocket and held it up.  “One silver a day and a bonus upon the return of the waenhosh to Thuin Boid.”

The mercenary took the coin and bit down on it.  “You never know.  One…employer gave me wooden coins that were painted silver, mixed in with real coins. I took the difference out of his skin. I know you wouldn’t do that to me.”

Dagar’s breath caught in his throat.  “Oh no, good si…mister.  We would never do that to you.”

The man nodded.  “Make it two a day and you have a deal.  I got a couple of friends who can hire on too.”

Nasen nodded and Dagar extended his hand.  “Welcome aboard.  Ummm, may we get your name?”

“Mercatur…and my friends are Gamrid from the north and Jaabran from Harad. They’ll be here shortly.”  He cut into the pork ribs and swirled the meat in the gravy.

“Harad?  That’s a long way!” exclaimed Dagar in excitement.  He practically squealed, for which he felt immediately embarrassed.

“You don’t say…”

Dagar then pointed at the furs around Mercatur’s shoulders.  “And those wolf skins?  Did you kill them yourself?”

Mercatur grinned broadly through his thick beard.  “Warg skins…twice as big as a wolf and three times as mean and yeah, it was all me.”

“Oh…”

Two other men came in and sat down.  One, a tall, broad-shouldered Northron with braided blond hair and the other, dark skinned, lean and stocky with his head wrapped in some cloth.  Mercatur looked at them and put his hands over his meal. “Don’t touch and you’re welcome. I just landed us our next job.”

Dagar smiled and bit his lower lip in excitement.  This was going far better than he had anticipated.

Chapter End Notes

Dagar is written as a grasping wastrel who will try his best to show his parents that he means something.  We introduce Mercatur, who is a main character in the Thieves of Tharbad.

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The Yfelwood, Nórui 25th, 1407

Ethacali thrummed his fingers on the dark tome, obsessing over every detail of the plan.  It was part of his nature to do so, and it was the part of his character that got him noticed by the Witch-King.  He fought any distractions and had to put the cameo of Ethanya away in a safe so that he wouldn’t keep looking at her.  He felt a presence behind him, and he looked back to see his orc acolyte, Urfase, the most loyal of the three, but the least competent.

“Are the Dunnish tribes ready for war?” Ethacali asked.

Urfase took his usual obsequious and fawning posture. “Yes, great mage.  The Macha Mur have already set forth to attack the town of Maig Tuira.  The Siol Nȗnaw are still gathering forces to march.”

The mage narrowed his eyes and stroked his graying beard.  “Tell Garon Monȗnaw to hurry up.  If he doesn’t leave soon, his tribe will not be to the Gondryn Towers in time as we had planned.  Are the Cultirith ready?” he asked, referring to the company of rangers known as the Bronze Guard, originally founded by King Eldacar of Arnor more than a millennium ago.

“Aye, my lord.  Hirgrim departed Dol Cultirith last week and they watch the Dunnish Track with their wolves as we speak,” Urfase answered.  “They will note anything that moves down from Thuin Boid to the Gondryn.”

Ethacali nodded.  “This is acceptable.  No plan is perfect.  What of our agents in the town?”

“The waenhosh will leave soon, my lord.  They have accepted your offer and are ready to serve you, my lord.  They will ensure that your plan comes to fruition.”

The mage blew out a long breath.  This had been years in the planning, and it was now all coming together.  He had planned for multiple contingencies and accounted for unexpected events.  By winter, all of Rhudaur would be under the fist of the Witch-King.  “Well done, Urfase.  Send that message to Garon to move along with what he has, and I will rouse Naranantur and Skrykalian.  Tell Grashur to meet me in their chamber.”

“What of Athrug, my lord?”

He thought for a moment and then shook his head.  Athrug had always been a problem and he had reason to doubt the orc’s loyalty.  Athrug was far too ambitious for one of his station and took delight in contradicting Ethacali.  “No. Tell Athrug to muster the orc host. Tell him that we leave in two days.”

“Yes, my lord.”  Urfase bowed and departed.

Ethacali stood slowly and took his staff, which was leaned up against a wall.  He closed his eyes for a moment and afforded himself the image of his family.  He knew that distractions were dangerous, especially when dealing with the Blood Wights.  Every encounter with them was draining, mentally and physically.  He knew that their power was something he feared, but he could not show that.  Not in front of the orcs.  The image of his grandchildren playing at his feet and the smile of his wife faded and he bit his lower lip.  “No.  I must focus.”

He took the dark tome and went down the hall to the chamber, feeling it grow colder with every step.  The light on the tip of this staff flickered and he knew that they sensed his presence.  Grashur came up behind him and bowed, his twisted, scarred face impassive.  “You are the most powerful of the three, Grashur. I will need your strength behind me as we awaken the two.  We march in two days.”

“Yes, mage.  I am here for that,” the orc said.  Grashur was not one to fawn, like Urfase, something that both pleased and annoyed the mage at the same time.

He led the way into the chamber where the light on his staff dimmed.  He could just see the outlines of Naranantur and Skrykalian in the gloom.  Both opened their eyes in unison.  “Welcome, Ethacali,” they both said as one.  “We have been waiting for you.  It is time to go, yes?”  The display made the mage’s skin crawl, and a cold feeling ran down his spine.

Ethacali stepped closer and raised his staff, pouring some of his energy into it to power the light, which now shined brighter.  He was taken aback by how much the two knew, but he had come to expect that from them now.  He quickly composed himself to take control of the situation.  “Yes, you are perceptive as always.  It is time for us to go to war.  The Witch-King offers you freedom if you carry out his will.”

Naranantur narrowed one eye.  “Freedom?  Surely the great Lord of Angmar would not let us roam free after we perform for you.”

“You would be given a place at his table.  A place of honor.  A place of power.”

Skrykalian smiled, a sultry, provocative smile.  “And you will return to your beloved,” she said in Ethanya’s voice.  “I can see the grandchildren playing at your feet, my love.  It has been too long.  Come home to me.”

“Stop it!” he yelled.  “You will not play games with me!”  His staff glowed orange and the Blood Wights winced.  He did not want to use any of his power in this encounter, but he should have known better.  “I will ease your restraints.  You will not resist me, nor will you try anything.  Am I understood?”

Skrykalian giggled like a young girl but nodded. “Yes, my lord,” she said, using Urfase’s voice, bowing her head and licking the back of her hand in a fawning manner like he does.  “We will come with you willingly,” she continued in her own voice.  “Besides, it’s ever so boring down here in the dark. I’m afraid.  Please let me see the sky again.”

“Afraid?  I doubt that. Now, I will relax your bindings, and you will go ahead of us to the surface.”  He pushed the tip of his staff towards the two.  “Lathana!”  Grashur raised his arms and his hands glowed.  Energy flowed from them to the Blood Wights, and they began to float forward. “That’s enough.  Now, go ahead of us.”

Naranantur took his massive black sword and nodded to the mage while Skrykalian merely floated ahead.  Ethacali and the orc shaman moved in behind them, cautious.  Images of his wife and family began to invade his mind.  He fought for a short time but found the visions pleasant and he allowed them to continue.  Skrykalian looked back at him for a moment and grinned.

The Tirthon, Nórui 30th, 1407

“Do what you will.  It matters not,” Marendil Rhudainor said to his lieutenant and sergeants. His fine, gold silk tunic was wrinkled, and his dark brown hair was unkempt.  It looked like he hadn’t changed or shaved in a day and dark bags hung under his eyes.

The senior lieutenant, Oswy Amrodan, narrowed his eyes, incredulous.  Though young, he had proven to be the ablest warrior for that title, tall and strong. “But my lord, our scouts indicate that the Macha Mur are on the march and the Cultirith have sortied from Dol Cultirith.  We may have an actual war on our hands.  We should send word to the other Gondryn.  Do I have your permission to do so?”

“Yes, yes, whatever,” Marendil said, waving his hand and not even making eye contact.  The lord was a sad sight indeed.

Oswy sighed heavily and then gestured for the tower’s staff to follow him.  He pushed his long, blond hair behind him and began to walk to the conference room.  He ushered the staff inside and then shut the door behind them as he straightened his red tunic and the chain around his neck that indicated that he was a knight of the realm.  He glanced at the large map of Rhudaur on the wall, noting the position of the five Gondryn that remained loyal to the Dúnedain.  Though he was mostly Northron, he swore an oath to House Rhudainor and he did not take that lightly.  He sat and then looked at the two sergeants and Wiglaf Harcarl, the Hallweard or steward of the tower.  He blew out a frustrated breath.  “I don’t understand what is happening to Lord Rhudainor.  I know he has been despondent since the death of his wife, but this is a whole other level.  I can barely get his attention now.”

Wiglaf nodded slowly.  He was a Northman with a shock of white hair that was braided down to his back and a thick white beard.  He wore a simple brown tunic of leather that had many pockets for the tools of his trade. “How long has this been going on, Oswy?”

Oswy thought for a moment.  “I think I noticed the change on the evening of the 27^th.  Until then, he at least acted as the commander.  He’s barely been out of his chambers since, and he barely eats.”

The chief sergeant, Aldhelm Demuret, nodded.  He was another old hand and close friend of Wiglaf’s.  His thinning white hair was more than made up for with a long, fiercely braided forked beard.  “Aye.  My wife says that she retrieves the plates at his door, barely touched.  The lances are worried.”

A younger man, Tonfall, the junior sergeant, shook his head.  “Lord Rhudainor will shake out of it soon.  I have faith in him.  He and Eitheriel took me in when I had nothing, and they allowed me to prove myself to this position.  I am grateful and he will always have my support.”  Tonfall had arrived at the tower two years ago from “somewhere out east” and he rose to become sergeant through hard work and skill. His thick, curly blond hair flowed down his face to a finely trimmed beard.

Oswy grunted.  He was one who could fight well but never knew what to say to comfort people.  He chose to just change the subject instead. “We know the Macha Mur are on the march and the Siol Nȗnaw are still in camp.  Wiglaf, what is the situation with our supplies?”

“We’re going to be short until the arrival of Culberth’s waenhosh.  They are already on the road from what they have signaled to us.  I think Nasen is in charge of this one.  Once Nasen arrives though, we’ll have enough to stand their pathetic Dunnish siege until winter when they slink back to their filthy huts,” the Hallweard said in a voice full of disdain.  The yearly rhythm of orcs and Dunnish tribes attacking the towers had become almost mundane. “Nasen should be here in under a month if the weather holds.  He'll stop in Maig Tuira to drop off supplies and hire more mercenaries and then continue on to us.”

“Good,” Oswy replied confidently.  “I’m not sure why, but I just have a feeling that this will be more than the endless ‘Little War’ that we are all so used to.  Send a messenger to Thuin Boid and let Vulfredda know that we may need assistance.”

Wiglaf nodded and took down some notes.  “I’ll get this out today.  If…no when the Cultirith and the tribes show up, if it’s before Nasen arrives, we’ll have a week of supplies.  More if we ration now.”

“Do it.  And send one squadron of lances out along the Dunnish Track.  Nasen may need an escort.  I don’t want to be left without supplies.”

The far door opened and a woman with dark brown hair entered with two servants. She was young, tall and statuesque with bright blue eyes and was dressed in a form-fitting green silk gown along with a chain around her neck with the sigil of House Amrodan, one of the lesser Dúnedain houses of Rhudaur.  Her high cheekbones and full lips set her apart from the other women of the Tirthon. She practically glided across the tiled floor, garnering the attention of the men.  Oswy bristled.

“It’s time for lunch, dear husband,” she said to Oswy in an aristocratic manner, her nose turned up with a finger held to her cheek as a woman of the Cardolan Royal House should.  “Surely, you strong, brave men are hungry.”  She and the servants laid platters of bread and meat down along with pitchers of ale and water.

“Thank you, Éanfled,” Oswy said in a cautious voice.  “You can leave us now.  We are in a conference.”

She giggled and then circled the table, touching each of the men on the head and then let her hand stroke Tonfall’s beard.  “Of course.  I wouldn’t want to interrupt your important conference,” she said mockingly.

He gritted his teeth.  “Enough, Éanfled.  I will see you this evening.”

Éanfled scoffed and then walked past Oswy, making a curtsy that was common in the Court of Cardolan.  “Things were so much more exciting in the Court of King Ostoher.  Rhudaur lacks the sophistication of such a magnificent royal household.  I do so miss the Princess Nirnadel.  So cultured and refined and so well read and educated is she.  I was once a lady of the Princess, you know.”

“Yes, yes, I know this well,” Oswy said, standing to escort the ladies from the conference room.  “It is something that I know you will always hold over me.”

“That you married into a noble house to achieve your title and holdings? I had forgotten.”  She gestured to the men at the table.  “I’m sure my husband has told you of how a Northron knight became a noble?  Perhaps if he were more powerful, we would still have Castle Amrodan rather than all of…this splendor,” she said with her nostrils flared and one side of her mouth turned up in a sneer as she gestured around the rather spartan room.

“I said enough, Éanfled!”  There was a hard edge to his voice as he lost his temper.  “Leave us.  We have business to attend to.”

Éanfled and the ladies left without another word.  For a moment, Oswy noticed Tonfall’s eyes follow his wife. He was about to say something when Aldhelm spoke.  “Oswy, you need to get her under control.  How long has this been going on?”

The knight put his hand on his chin.  “It’s been since…since the evening of the 27^th…just like Lord Rhudainor.  What’s going on?  Are there any other incidents of people behaving…oddly?”

Wiglaf shook his head.  “Not that I’ve noticed.  But I will admit that this is odd.  If you don’t mind my saying so, your wife has always been smugly superior, given her noble birth and Dúnedain heritage.”

“It’s something that she’s always held over me,” Oswy said sadly. “It was an arranged marriage, but we started off so well.  I know that the Tirthon isn’t what she expected of hoped for after her time in the Royal Court of Cardolan.  She would always talk about the Palace at Thalion, and the royal parties hosted by the King.  I can’t live up to that.”

Aldhelm grunted.  “Oswy, we are the defenders of the realm…what’s left of it anyway.  You cannot be worried about what your wife wants or her petty complaints.  We are Northmen.  You will get this under control, or it will not turn out well.”

The knight gave a sour expression but nodded.  Aldhelm was right.  This could spin out of control quickly at a critical time, but he was at a loss of how to fix it.  And he couldn’t shake the feeling that something more was at play.  Both the lord and his wife began to behave strangely on the night of the 27^th.  “Yes, you’re right, of course.  I will get this under control.  Alright. You have your orders.  We will meet again tomorrow.”  A heavy feeling hovered over him and it was like he was drowning.  The only cure for this was to grab a lance and tilt against the quintain.  He leaned out of one window and called to the stable hands.  “Ready my horse and clear the field!”

Chapter End Notes

The formatting is giving me headaches.  Ethacali knows that he's outmatched by the Blood-Wights so he plans everything down to the finest detail.  Sir Oswy Amrodan worries about the commander of the tower, Lord Marendil Rhudainor.  Something more than depression is haunting the commander.

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The Dunnish Track, Cerveth 4th, 1407

The waenhosh had travelled smoothly since they left Thuin Boid about a week ago. The long road through Rhudaur shimmered with summer heat that wafted up from the track through the scrubby countryside. Dagar sat atop on of the ox-drawn wagons, fanning himself and sopping up sweat with his handkerchief. The wagon creaked along as the two oxen pulled it forward, ever closer to the Tirthon. "It is terribly hot," he said to the mercenary, Mercatur, who sat next to him.

The man was leaned back with his arms crossed and his eyes half closed. "Ummmm," he replied in a sleepy voice.

"This is my first waenhosh," the young man said. "But I've helped my father organize many. And Old Pad, back there, has been on over thirty now." Part of him was just talking out of boredom and nervousness.

"Ummmm." Mercatur reached his hand back over the wagon seat and the other mercenary, Jaabran, handed him a flask of ale. Mercatur took several deep gulps, belched and then closed his eyes again.

Dagar looked back into the covered wagon rear and saw Jaabran, Gamrid and Old Pad snoozing on the bags of wheat, barley, corn and rye. Three barrels of ale and mead were packed in with the bags for use by the team. The two wealli, Nig and Cisgid, rode mules besides the lead wagon while Nasen's wagon and a third brought up the rear with Nasen's friend, Penda Oxkiller and his men. Dagar felt a little drowsy himself between the warm summer day and the steady rocking of the wagon over the dirt road. He blinked and then narrowed his eyes and saw a tower through the shimmering heat. A sense of excitement filled his heart. His first caravan was already successful. "I…I see the Tirthon! Hey, Nasen! I see the Tirthon! We've made it!"

"Look again, young master! That's just a mirage from the heat!" Nasen called back. "We've still just over two weeks to go. This is your first waenhosh, Master Dagar. Just listen to me and you'll be fine."

Dagar blinked hard and then held a hand over his eyes. It was just pillars of steam coming up from the road and…perhaps some water. "Yes! Yes! You're right Nasen. Thank you, good sir! We may have some water up ahead though."

"You may be right on that, Master Dagar! We should be close to the village of Maig Tuira by sunset. They'll have water and food, and we can do some trading there!"

Still reclined next to Dagar, Mercatur grunted. "Great. Now can we all be quiet for a little while?" He pulled an old, beat-up leather hat from his pack and placed it over his face. "Can't a guy get any sleep around here?"

Dagar snorted. He wasn't used to dealing with rough men like Mercatur and he had never met a Haradrim like Jaabran either. Random talking didn't seem like the way to win them over so he thought he should just be quiet and in his own thoughts for a while. He hoped that he could truly earn his father's trust and bring much needed medicine to his mother. All of those years that he wasted, pretending to be some kind of rich playboy, hoping to be noticed by nobles and royals so he could live their lifestyle. He longed for that, the rich fabrics, gilded palaces and crystal chandeliers. He thought for a moment about the time that he saw Princess Nirnadel in her silver carriage and how Haedorial would sing for the Royal House of Cardolan. Now, the memory was fading as was his hope for such an elegant life. Dust, wheat, corn, oxen and summer skies were his lot now. Maybe it wasn't so bad. If he could help to cure his mother, it would all be worth it.

As the day wore on, Dagar kept looking back at the shimmering pillar of heat that rose in the distance. There was something wrong with it. The shape. The color. It was something more than just a heat mirage. Trying not to wake Mercatur, he stood up on the seat while holding the reins to the oxen and squinted. It looked more like smoke. He pointed to Nig and Cisgid, the young debt servants. "You two. Can you see up ahead? What does that look like to you?"

They rose in the saddles of their mules and leaned forward. "It looks like smoke, Master Dagar," Nig said. They had been with Culberth only two seasons to work off a theft that they had committed against the victualler, and this trip should do it.

"Smoke, I knew it was smoke," exclaimed Dagar. "Good lads. Isn't that where Maig Tuira should be?"

Mercatur pulled the hat off of his face as he snorted awake. "Smoke? What's this about smoke?" He took another gulp of ale and then sat up, looking around.

Dagar pointed ahead. "Look there, my good man. We think that's smoke up there…where the village should be."

The mercenary rubbed his eyes and squinted. "Son of a bitch!" he called out. "The village is burning! Jaabran, Gamrid, get your asses up. Maig Tuira is burning," he shouted back as he pulled his crossbow from a sheath and cocked the string back to lay a bolt on the rail. "The Macha Mur have sortied out and I'll bet this has something to do with them. I'd love to rip Lumban's tongue out of his mouth and wear it on my cloak," he said, referring to the barbarian's love of wearing a cloak of his victim's ears.

Gamrid came forward with a crossbow of his own, a weapon more suited to defense of a caravan than a bow. "Damn, we have friends in Maig Tuira. This could be more than their usual raid for gold, food and slaves. Best we be prepared. Dagar, we need to pick up the pace."

A cold prickly feeling descended into Dagar's gut, and he nodded as he snapped the reins to the oxen, and they slogged along faster. "Warn Nasen and Penda," he called back to Old Pad, who was now awake with the rest. He fingered his trusty smallsword, perfect for mock duels among gentlemen in the salons of Tharbad.

Mercatur tilted his head at the weapon. "Boy, you're going to need more than that. We're in the wilds of Rhudaur. The Macha Mur are savages. That spiteful cunt Lumban collects ears, eyes, noses and…other things from his victims. Every year they attack one of the Gondryn and sometimes, they succeed. Then, in the spring, we kick their asses out and they scurry back to that pit they call a village. They're usually a bunch of disorganized rabble, but if they attacked a large village like Maig Tuira, they're up to something big. I can feel it."

Dagar's eyes grew large at the horrible image. He knew that Rhudaur was a wild place, but his parents had really shielded him from the savagery of the broken kingdom. "H…h…how do you know this?"

"I…ummm…fought for them before."

The young man narrowed his eyes and stared at Mercatur. "What? You fought for them?"

The mercenary shrugged. "Hey, I'm a mercenary. A sellsword. There were a couple of years that they paid better. But don't worry. You guys pay good so…"

This set Dagar's mind a little at ease. He knew that mercenaries were often difficult to deal with and that their loyalty might only extend as far as his coin purse was full. He nodded and then noticed Mercatur's cloak pin, which was a bronze wyvern. He had seen that sigil somewhere before, but he could not remember where and he was too nervous to ask.

As the wagons rolled on, the sun slowly set in the west, casting brilliant reds, oranges and purples across the sky. If there was one thing about the wilderness of Rhudaur it was that the colors of nature were far more apparent here than in the city of Tharbad. Then, Dagar noticed it. That acrid smell of smoke. He could see an orange glow now where the village was. His stomach tightened. Flames were dancing now in the growing dark. From what he could tell, Maig Tuira was no more.

Mercatur tugged on Dagar's sleeve. "Hold up here. We don't want to risk the wagons." He pointed to Gamrid and Jaabran. "We'll go check it out." He put his hand on the young man's shoulder and his expression turned serious. "Be ready to go if this turns bad. Just ride back the way we came. Don't worry about us. We've been through worse. We'll catch up."

Dagar handed the reins to Old Pad. "I'm coming with you," he said in a squeaky voice.

Mercatur pointed down at Dagar's smallsword. "Not with that tiny pig sticker you're not. That's just going to make Lumban laugh." He reached back into the wagon and pulled out a small crossbow. "Here, it's already loaded. Just point this at a barbarian's face and pull the trigger." The young man took it and looked it over as the mercenary leapt down from the wagon. The four men walked forward, off of the road, holding crossbows at the ready. A number of fires could now be seen clearly, licking into the darkening sky from smashed wooden and stone structures. "I'll bet they got the tavern. Dammit, I liked that tavern."

Dagar's hand began to shake, holding the crossbow, and he kept whispering to himself, "Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay calm."

Mercatur put a steady hand on the young man's back. "Boy, they can hear you shaking all the way in Tharbad. Just stay behind me. And don't shoot me in the back, you hear." He pointed to a ruined structure just to the left of the road. "There, that's the tavern, damn them. The ale was rancid, but it's the best thing shy of Thuin Boid." An orange glow could be seen through a smashed stone wall. He pointed to the small bridge across the ditch that surrounded the village. "Jaabran, Gamrid, check it out. Be careful. We may need to run back to the wagons so keep an eye open. Dagar, you're with me."

They moved cautiously towards the ruined tavern and Dagar peered in through a smashed window. Smoldering wood cast an orange glow throughout the dining room, where tables and chairs lay broken and smoking. "There! I saw something move!" he called out. They moved in through the shattered doorway and Dagar saw a young man roll over on his back with a groan. "You there! We're here to help!" He ran to the teen and saw that his rough tunic was soaked in blood and one of his ears was missing, blood flowing down his cheek. He reached down to touch the man, but the man screamed out incoherently and grabbed a piece of wood with a nail sticking out. The man was about to swing it at him, but Mercatur caught the wood and then tossed it aside. Dagar fell backwards into some rubble.

Mercatur forced the teen to sit. "We're not here to hurt you, boy. What happened?" he asked as Dagar stood back up.

The teen was hyperventilating, breathing in rapid gulps of breath. "The…the Macha Mur…they. They… everyone…burning."

Dagar gave him a flask of water and the teen drank it without stopping. "Where are they now? Who are you?"

"I…I am…am Baga Montúri. They said…they said…they…have to destroy the Gondryn. They…they have to destroy the waenhosh."

Dagar's blood ran cold. "They know about us? How do they know about us? Baga, how do they know about us?"

Baga was about to answer when his eyes rolled back, and he slumped to the floor. Dagar checked him and he was still breathing. "We have to get him back to the wagons. Old Pad knows some healing." He put a cloth over where Baga's ear had been cut off and then tied it around the teen's head. "This is savage. What should we do?" he asked the mercenary, feeling far out of his depth.

Mercatur pointed to the woods to the east of the village. "I'm going to carry Baga back to the wagons. He's too heavy for you. I'm going to have the waenhosh hole up by the woods for cover. You go get Gamrid and Jaabran and tell them to meet us there. You see any barbarians, you just cut and run, you hear?" He grabbed Dagar by the collar. "You hear me? Don't be a hero. That's what we're here for." He hefted Baga over his shoulder and started walking back to the waenhosh. "Be quick about it. I don't like this one bit."

Dagar suddenly felt all alone, and the air was now unusually cold for summer. He looked at where the bridge was and could see Jaabran looking at something on a pole. He ran over and could now see a man impaled with a stake that ran from his bottom and out of his mouth. Both of his ears were missing. Dagar choaked, feeling bile rise from his stomach. He doubled over and started gagging.

"Best you not look, Master Dagar," Jaabran said in a thick accent. "The Macha Mur do not treat their victims kindly. You either die or become a slave for their entertainment."

Dagar tried to look away, but he glanced over at the headman's house, just past the bridge, where the thatched roof had collapsed and fire smoldered inside. In the orange glow he could see two legs and two arms nailed to a wooden board along with a nose and eyes. "This is…this is…horrible. How…how?"

"Don't ask, young man," Jaabran answered. "This is the way of Rhudaur, don't you know?"

"I don't…no…I don't know." He felt a sudden chill as the wind picked up, fanning the flames in the village. He looked up. "What the…snow? Snow in summer? What's going on?" He looked back at the headman's house, unable to take his eyes off of the horror. In just under an hour, this easy waenhosh was now going to be a fight for their lives.

Chapter End Notes

The Dunnish tribes begin their conquest.  Dagar is far out of his element but he has the mercenaries to guide him.

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The Tirthon, Cerveth 5th, 1407

Marendil Rhudainor, Lord of House Rhudainor and Warden of the Dúnedain in Rhudaur, tossed about in his bed yet again.  It had been more than a week since he had a decent night’s sleep.  He tried to close his eyes again, but his sheets were soaked in sweat.  He began to fear the night and the thought of sleeping became terrifying.  He grunted in frustration and rolled over yet another time.  It would be dawn in just over an hour.  He put a pillow over his eyes, hoping that it would help.

Then, she reappeared in his mind.  His wife…Eitheriel.  She lay in their bed, beckoning to him.  He went to her.  Thank the Valar she was still alive and with their unborn child.  He sighed in relief.  Why did he keep thinking that she was dead?  How foolish of him.  He stood over her and smiled down.  It would be the start of their family.  How they had longed for this.  The next room had been transformed into a nursery, full of toys and paintings and a crib that once belonged to Elewen, the last true Queen of Rhudaur.  Marendil looked around the room with satisfaction. “I cannot tell you how proud I am, Eitheriel.  This is a dream come true.”

He reached down to touch her cheek, but the air around her shimmered and it was like pushing his hand through tar.  He forced his arm forward and when he touched her face, she was now a rotting corpse, blackened and bloated with empty eye sockets.  “No!  What sorcery is this?  No, this isn’t real!  This can’t be real!”

She sat up and pointed a skeletal finger at him and what was left of her lips twisted in hate.  “You!” she hissed.  “You did this!  You killed me and our baby!”

Marendil recoiled and fell backwards as Eitheriel rose from their bed, cradling a skeletal infant.  “Stay back!  Stay back!  What are you?” he called, scrambling to rise.

“Don’t you want to hold our baby?  Don’t you want to hold our son?” she asked, her blackened lips curled into a smile. She held the bones out, wrapped in swaddling clothes.  “Here, my husband.  Hold him. Get to know your son.”

His heart pounding, he swatted the bones away and they went clattering to the ground.  “No!  This isn’t real!  Stop it! Get away from me!”

Eitheriel didn’t flinch. “Such a shame.  You don’t love your son.  Perhaps we should make another one,” she said and slipped off her moldering nightgown.  As it fell to the floor, the rotting corpse was replaced by a beautiful, pale woman with long black hair.  Marendil blinked and he thought he saw white, feathered wings unfurled behind her, but when he tried to focus, the wings were gone.  Her pointed ears faded into rounded ones, and she stepped forward and drew his face to her bare breasts.  “There now love,” she said in a soothing voice.  “Rest your weary head.  You are safe now.  I will always be here for you.”

Marendil broke down into sobs. “I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.  I failed you, Eitheriel.  I couldn’t save you.  Why did you leave me?”  He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight, so afraid to lose her again.

“I’m back now, my love and we will be together forever.”

The Tirthon, Cerveth 5th, 1407

Éanfled Amrodan sat on a luxurious couch that had been a gift from her parents when she became a lady of the Cardolan Court.  It had a waterfall back with a number of quilted cushions in green and red fabrics, the colors of Cardolan.  It had been a source of comfort for her since she moved to the Tirthon, many months ago after marrying Oswy.  Like many Northron knights, he took her noble name and became the heir to the Amrodan family.   She looked out at the night sky, still unable to sleep.  The stars were so clear and full of hope, unlike what she had been feeling lately.  Then she pulled the delicate silver chain from around her neck and gazed at the Amrodan sigil, a wyvern rampant facing a stallion rampant.  House Amrodan was a created as a cadet house when a member of House Melossë married into House Rhudainor more than a century ago.

She thought about the excitement that she felt when her mother told her that she had been selected to be a lady in the Court of King Ostoher of Cardolan.  It was the dream of many a young noblewoman to serve such an honorable and prestigious king.  She was through the moon when she heard that Princess Nirnadel had chosen her to be a lady in waiting.  The young Princess was already known in the northern kingdoms as someone who was pious, educated and intelligent even though she was only 14.  “This could restore the family fortunes,” her mother would say.

Éanfled’s time in the court was more than she could have hoped for.  The King rewarded House Amrodan richly and promised an expedition to retake Castle Amrodan from the Rhudauran rebels some time in 1409.  And Nirnadel was as kind and gentle, as proud and beautiful as rumors made her out to be.  They became close friends and the older Éanfled often tempered the young princess, who could be willful and obstinate when she wanted to be.  Éanfled soon became used to wealth, power, influence and attention.  The young knights of the Royal and noble houses showered her with affection and courtly love.  If only it could last forever.

She looked over to her slumbering husband, unsure whether to feel disgust or adoration.  Her life…it had all changed so quickly.  When she received the messenger from Rhudaur, announcing her engagement to Sir Oswy, a knight of renown bravery and means, it was like another dream come true.  The letter from her mother included a drawing of Oswy in his plate armor, blond hair flowing down his head with a thick, masculine beard.  Again, she was over the moon.

All of those dreams and the hopes of a noble house had faded in the months since she arrived in this dreary, four level tower.  There was little to no art, culture or any level of sophistication.  Unlike the dulcet tones of Haedorial the bard, rough soldiers and mercenaries sang bawdy songs, some even directed at her.  Goats brayed and pigs rolled in the mud at the base of the tower.  The splendor of the Palace of Thalion and the Bar Aran in Tharbad was just a memory now.

There were times that she wrestled with herself.  She didn’t want to take her ire and disappointment out on Oswy, but she couldn’t help herself.  Sometimes, she just wanted to explode or even to throw herself from the tower, but her parents would have none of that.  “Do your duty for the family,” her father would say.

The Lady of the Tower, Eitheriel Rhudainor, brought her some hope.  Witty, charming and sophisticated, the lady took Éanfled under her wing and showered her with affection and friendship.  Lady Eitheriel was an Eldanar, from a House that could trace its roots back to Númenor and escaped with Elendil when the great island was drowned.  They, too, had lost their castle to Angmar and the lady’s sister, Aerin, had made her home in Arthedain, hoping to retake their land.  They had so much in common and Éanfled loved Lady Eitheriel with all of her heart.  When Eitheriel died in childbirth, Éanfled could not be consoled.  Everything had changed.

A gnawing, empty feeling filled Éanfled’s soul and she wanted to cry, but no tears would come out.  She wanted to tear at her skin out of boredom and pain, but she had to keep up appearances.  Maybe, after King Ostoher retook their castle, they could move there. Maybe, she could return to Thalion as a lady of Princess Nirnadel and Oswy could be part of the Royal Guard.  So many maybes.  Nothing seemed to satisfy her.

She closed her eyes and lay back like she had done for the past week.  She felt both overwhelming guilt and overwhelming hope at the same time. It would happen soon now.  Her mind became hazy, and she could see his image through mist and shadow.  He always came through her window with black, batlike wings and pointed ears like an elf. But when he stepped down from the windowsill, he was all man, rippling muscles, bulging biceps, a strong, square jaw and then she would look down.  She gasped.  A wicked smile flowed across his lips with one eye narrowed in a lascivious way. She wanted to turn away, but couldn’t. She put a hand between her legs and sighed.  He beckoned to her and she fell into his arms, feeling his warmth and his need.  He laid her down onto the couch and slid her nightgown from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.  Her fingers explored herself and then him.  She threw her head back as he moved on top of her.

“This is just a dream,” she cooed, “but it is my only dream now.”

Chapter End Notes

We look at why Marendil and Eanfled are acting so oddly as Ethacali's plan unfolds.

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The Dunnish Track, Cerveth 6th, 1407

The waenhosh spent a day in Maig Tuira, searching for survivors before deciding to continue on. Baga Montúri rolled around in the back of a wagon, semi-conscious and often delusional with fever as Old Pad did his best to attend to the boy’s wounds.  It seemed to be a losing battle.  Night was falling again and Nasen declared a halt, ordering Nig and Cisgid to make camp.  The mercenaries hopped off of the wagons with grunts and started to pitch their tents and build a fire.  The snow began just as the sun set, dusting the ground with white flakes.

In the morning, the ground was dusted with a fine coat of snow.  Nig and Cisgid covered the fires and threw the supplies back into the wagons to prepare to move.  Dagar drank a hot cup of coffee and fidgeted while discussing the plan with Nasen and Penda Oxkiller.  The young man was torn between turning around to get Baga to a healer and pressing forward to the Tirthon.  This was his test by his father, and he was terrified of the idea of letting him down. “I…need to think.  I need to think,” he said, more to himself than anyone. The pressure was immense and his head pounded under the strain.

Nasen crossed his arms and pursed his thick lips.  “There’s nothing to think about, Master Dagar.  We have to press on.  The Tirthon needs our supplies if they are to survive the winter.  House Rhudainor will reward you and your father richly, this I can assure you.”  He looked at Penda, a big Northron with arms and legs like tree trunks, clad in hardened leather and chainmail armor with a hand axe at his belt.  Blond, braided hair flowed down his back and around a long beard.  Penda nodded but remained silent.  That man scared Dagar half to death.

“Yes…yes, you’re right, good Nasen.  What was I thinking?”  Though still unsure, Dagar wanted to project confidence, something that he was sorely lacking.  This was becoming increasingly difficult.  He was an accountant and a mediocre bard, not an adventurer.  He had done his utmost to prepare and tried to think of every detail, but he was out of his element.  He thought for a moment about the luxurious drawing room of the House of the Nightsingers, paneled in crimson where Haedorial would compose music and rehearse his singing.  He would listen as he sipped on brandy from a crystal glass, blown by Meneldir Calimiri, the finest glassblower in the North.  Calimiri’s crystal was prized in the civilized world and decorated tables as far off as Minas Anor and Minas Ithil.  Such comfort and finery were all that he wanted from life, but reality placed him on this dusty road in the middle of nowhere with rough men that he had no common ground with.  “Yes, we’ll continue on,” he said in resignation.  “Old Pad will do his best for poor Baga.  It’ll be fine.”

Nasen smiled.  “I knew we would see eye to eye.  Your father will be proud of you, this I know.”  He motioned back to the wagons.  “I know that there is a healer in the Tirthon…Lady Éanfled.  You know…she was a lady to the Princess of Cardolan, so I hear.  I think you would enjoy speaking with her.”

Dagar’s heart skipped a beat and his eyes widened.  “The Princess Nirnadel?  She knows her?  By the Valar, I wish to speak to her.  Oh, I do so miss Cardolan.”

Nasen began walking back to his wagon as Penda went back to his.  “Excellent.  It’s settled then.  Maig Tuira was a terrible tragedy, and we will honor them when we get home.  Besides, the Tirthon should be made aware of this.”

Dagar climbed atop his wagon and looked back into the covered bed.  Baga slept soundly, his face and arms wrapped in linen bandages that showed some bloodstain.  “How’s he doing, Old Pad?”

The old servant shifted his thinning white hair from his eyes and nodded.  “Poor boy…he gets better slowly, but still a while take.  I do my best, young Dagar.”  Old Pad was never the sharpest knife in the drawer, but his loyalty was never in doubt.  He would do his best for Culberth and Dagar even if it killed him.  “I change bandage soon too.”

Mercatur was reclined on the seat next to him with his leather hat over his face.  “All the talking done?  We ready to go?”

“Yes, we are, good Mercatur. We will be pressing on to the Tirthon.”

He pulled the hat off of his face and sat up as the wagon began moving.  “Good.  I have some other business there.”

Genuinely curious, Dagar asked, “And what would that be?”

“Family.  You might not understand,” the mercenary grunted sourly.

Dagar wanted to find some common ground with these men.  After all, when he inherited his father’s business, he would need to learn how to deal with them.  “I might surprise you, good Mercatur.  Just a few months ago I was a pariah in my house, plying my trade, tending to accounts in a house of bards in Tharbad.”

“Hmmm, fine…The Lord of the Tirthon…Marendil Rhudainor…he’s my cousin,” he said slowly as if thinking on every word.  “He owes me some money and I’m going to collect.  I’d have better odds collecting from his sister, Silmarien, but she’s studying magic in Tharbad.”  He pinched his nose.  “Hrmph…magic,” he said derisively.

“Cousin to Lord Rhudainor? I’m impressed.  Would you share how you ended up here?”

Mercatur waved his hand dismissively.  “Eh, enough for now.  I’ll talk more once I’ve had another ale in me.”

“Of course.  Of course.  On your own good time.”  Dagar looked up at the lightly falling snow that was beginning to coat the ground.  “And this snow?  What is going on?  This is the middle of summer.”

The mercenary caught a couple of flakes in his hand, which melted immediately.  “I don’t know, but I don’t like it.  This ain’t natural, I can tell you that.”  He pointed back at Gamrid and Jaabran.  “Us three have been working this track off and on for ten years and I ain’t never seen anything like this.  Best you keep your eyes open, you hear?”

“I hear you, good Mercatur.”

“And next stop, I’m going to show you how to use that crossbow.”

The Dunnish Camp, Cerveth 7^th, 1407

A rowdy ruckus sounded from the huts of the Macha Mur tribe.  Warriors herded shrieking captives into a stockade with spears and then slammed a spiked wooden door closed on them.  The Macha Mur warriors cheered as their chief, Lumban, pinned more bloody ears on his brown cloak.  His face was leathery from years in the sun and he wore his brown hair in a messy bowl cut. He pointed into the stockade.  “Another great victory, lads!” he called out to more cheers.  “Bring me three more ears and one of the women!”

“Stop!  Enough!” someone yelled.  Cagh Monȗnaw, stomped up to Lumban, towering over the shorter man.  His hardened leather breastplate bore the symbol of a crow in flight.  His face was twisted into a scowl beneath wavy brown hair down to his neck.  He was the son of the chief of the Siol Nȗnaw and was the leader of his tribe’s expedition as Garon Monȗnaw was now too old. His two lieutenants stood behind him, hands on hips, glowering in displeasure.  Cagh waved his hands in anger.  “We are not savages, Lumban.  You will not harm any of the prisoners.”

Lumban poked his finger in Cagh’s armored chest.  “You were late.  You didn’t show up for the battle.  You have no say in how we treat our slaves.”

“Battle?  Against villagers?  Hrmph.  I have the larger army, Lumban.  You need me for the coming battle.  The real battle.”

Lumban thought for a moment. He was savage, but he was no fool. “Fine.  Just stay out of my way when we attack the Tirthon.  Watch the real warriors fight.  And I will do what I want when we sack it.  Gold, treasure, women.  I say how they get used.”

Cagh snorted and turned away, swinging his green cloak behind his gilded leather armor.  For a moment, he feared that Lumban would attack him from behind, but he realized that such a dishonorable move would incite a war between the tribes.  If he had to fight, he would do it on his terms, with honor and abiding by the rules of war.  Anyone surrendering would be treated with respect and no prisoners would be abused. He looked into the stockade and saw the prisoners huddled together, sobbing and pleading.  Eight villagers lay wounded, cared for by the rest.  He looked at his two lieutenants.  “Colt, Dennan, get the healers to the stockade and give them some treatment.  Things have gone well so far.  We have sustained no losses.  Remember what my father said.  We slow walk this and fight only when necessary and we fight with honor.  Our tribe will survive.”  These two young men were like brothers to him.  They were raised in his house, and they became men together.  Each man would die for the others.

Colt, a lean Dunnish man with short brown hair, nodded.  “I’ll take care of it, Cagh.  And we understand.”

Dennan pointed to the huts of the Macha Mur.  “They won’t admit it, but they took more losses than they let on.  And against villagers, no less.” 

Cagh snorted a laugh.  “They’re not quite the warriors they’d like us to think they are.  If they spend themselves attacking the Tirthon, so much the better.”

“What about the waenhosh coming up the road?” asked Colt.  “Scouts report that they’ll pass here along the Dunnish Track in a few days.  You know that they will have supplies for the tower.”

“Our orders from the Cultirith are to harass only,” Cagh answered with a sigh.  “We’re to put on a good show, but not stop them.  When we do this, no losses, am I understood?  I don’t want anyone dying for this farce.” He looked back as another cheer came up from the Macha Mur camp and shook his head in disgust.

Dennan, a short, stocky man, put his hand on Cagh’s shoulder.  “Understood, Cagh.  I know your father would want to be here, but we’re glad you’re in charge.  But why don’t we just take the waenhosh?  It doesn’t make any sense.”

Cagh shrugged.  “I don’t pretend to understand the Witch-King or his servant, Hirgrim.  I hear that he has an agent in the waenhosh along with some secret weapons from a bygone era that the mage dug up.  So, we just do our duty and not lose anyone.  The tribe will come out of this, I promise you that.”  He looked up as snow began to fall and coat the ground. “This is unnatural.  I don’t trust all of this sorcery.  No good can come of it.”

Chapter End Notes

Mercatur reveals that his is part of a noble house.  Dagar tries to find his way in leading the waenhosh.  We see that the Dunnish tribes are not so united in their cause.  And what sorcery is causing snow to fall in summer?

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The Dunnish Track, Cerveth 10th, 1407

The Dunnish Track turned north and the waenhosh drove on towards the Tirthon.  The Bruinen River ran along the track to the east and its waters could be heard as the wagons moved along.  Dagar could see a forest of tall pines up ahead on the left side of the track and he enjoyed the sight of deer loping along the grasslands of Rhudaur.  There were things that he liked about his homeland: the animals and the cool weather, but he did miss the excitement of Tharbad. He let his mind wander to the wonderful nightlife of the great city, bards, food kiosks, jugglers and minstrels. And he missed women.  He missed their voices, their manners and their smell. His life had been nothing but these odorous mercenaries who bathed only occasionally.  He realized that he probably didn’t smell to good either by this point of the journey.  He pointed up ahead towards the forest.  “Good Mercatur, what do you think of that forest up ahead?”

“I’ve been eyeing it all morning.  Those blasted Dunnish tribes sometimes make their haunt there.  It’s a few hours ahead.  I think we should scout it out.”  The mercenary gestured up the Dunnish Track to where the forest began.  “Perfect place for an ambush if you ask me.”

“Oh dear.  Do you think that we’re in any danger?”

“I’m going to bet on it. I say that we pull to the side in an hour and me and the boys will scout out ahead.  You cover the wagons and hunker down and lay low.  I want to make sure that there’s nothing in those woods that’ll leap out at us.”  He took a sniff on the air.  “My nose is telling me that there’s something up ahead.”

Dagar shook his head. “Oh no, I’m coming with you.  I’ll have Nasen do as you ask.”

Mercatur curled his lip up for a moment but then nodded.  “Fine, but you do as I say.  And we’re going to need to dirty you up a little.”

Dagar leaned back and narrowed his eyes.  “What do you mean, dirty me up?”

The mercenary sighed. “Boy, you look like a fop from Tharbad. I can’t have a city boy wandering around.  You have to look like a tribesman out here.  If we run into any Dunnish tribes I want to be able to hide or talk our way out.”

Dagar nodded slowly.  “I understand.  How do you know so much about the tribes out here?”

Mercatur rummaged through his pack and pulled out a wool shirt with a blue and red plaid pattern. “Here, wear this.  I think I have some pants that may fit you if you pull them tight.  Take this too,” he said and handed Dagar a string with lump of copper tied to it.  “It’s an Ail Leagan, a totem of their spirits. And I’m going to teach you a few words in Dunael.  You won’t be able to fool them long, but we won’t need long, you hear?”

Dagar threw the Dunnish clothing over his own.  The wool collar made his neck itch, and he adjusted it around until it was comfortable. So, this was how the tribes lived. “Does this work, good mercenary?”

“Yeah, it’ll do.  If anything happens, let me do the talking. You just nod in agreement.  If we have to fight, you know how to use that crossbow now.  That little pig sticker you have won’t do shit in a real fight so take cover and shoot them.  And, to answer your question, I’ve been up and down this road for near on ten years and you have to get to know the tribes if you want to survive Rhudaur.  I just hope we don’t run into that freak, Lumban.”

“I understand.”  Dagar looked back into the wagon.  “Old Pad, how’s Baga doing?”

The old man looked up and nodded.  “Baga, he get better.  He awake for an hour this morning.  No infection sir.”

“Good.  Tell Nig to let Nasen know that we’ll pull over ahead.  I’m going to scout the forest with Mercatur.”

“Very good sir.  We tell Nasen.  You stay safe.”

After an hour, they pulled to the side of the track and the two wealli began covering the wagons with brush.  Nasen, Penda and his three men unloaded some food and began to eat some of the waybread while drinking the ale from the barrels.  Mercatur motioned for his friends and Dagar to follow, and they made their way to the woods.  Birds flitted about the edge of the woods and deer dashed away from them.  Gamrid pointed at one stag.  “That one’s got a fine rack.  It’ll be good eating.  Shall I?”

Mercatur shook his head. “I’d love to, but we have bigger fish to fry.  We need to make sure that Lumban and his freak show aren’t camping in the woods.  I have no wish to lose my ears or anything else.  Everyone stay sharp from this point on.  And Dagar, stay behind me and don’t get lost.”  He patted Gamrid on the back.  “We’ll get one on the way back, but you’re carrying it.”

Gamrid snorted out a chuckle. “Isn’t that always the case. What?  Do you have an allergy to honest work?”

Mercatur faked a sneeze. “Yup, they ain’t paying me to carry deer.  Smash heads, yes.  Carry, no.”

Dagar’s heart began to pound as they entered the woods.  “I…I have allergies.  Pollen…peanuts…some fish.”  He stepped in behind the mercenary, careful not to let him get out of sight.

Mercatur didn’t even bother to look back.  “Figures. If you have so sneeze, do it quietly.”

The young man tried to emulate the three warriors in how they moved silently through the forest, taking careful steps and avoiding any dry branches.  After a few minutes, he thought he was getting the hang of it.  He even stifled a sneeze in the crook of his elbow, barely making a sound.  Mercatur looked back and nodded, making him feel good.  About thirty minutes in, Mercatur took a knee and held up a closed fist.

“Smell that,” he said quietly. “Camp fire.”

A distant cheer sounded, and Dagar’s blood ran cold.  “What was that?”

Mercatur looked back and gritted his teeth.  “Dammit, it’s that freak, Lumban and his thugs.”  He rose to a crouch and moved forward.  “Quietly now, quietly.”  Gamrid moved to the left, cradling his crossbow while Jaabran moved right, holding a scimitar.

Dagar practically hugged Mercatur from behind as they advanced.  A lump formed in his throat that he could not swallow down.  They came upon a clearing where some pits were dug, but no one seemed to be around.  Mercatur pointed to the right.  They were to hug the edge of the forest around the clearing.  Dagar’s hand shook holding his crossbow and all he could see were insects crawling out of his way.

“Don’t you shoot me in the back, boy,” Mercatur said softly with a grunt.

“N…n…no, good Mercatur, I…I definitely won’t.”  He continued following, telling himself, “Breathe…breathe.”  Shortly, Dagar could see a campfire through the trees.  “M…M…Mercatur, do you…do you,” he stuttered.

“I see it.  Stay down a moment.”  The mercenary began to scan ahead.  “It’s their camp, alright.  I see those damn Macha Mur banners, a freaking bloody ear.  I have two guards by the fire.”  He signaled to Gamrid and Jaabran, holding up two fingers.  The Haradrim drew his finger across his neck and then pointed at the guards as if questioning and Mercatur shook his head. He pointed to the left where a stockade was and turned back to Dagar.  “Looks like the prisoners from Maig Tuira.  Let’s take a closer look.”

Dagar stayed close in behind. His heart was beating so hard, he was sure that the Macha Mur could hear it.  He could see the stockade clearly now and there were people within, maybe forty in total.

Mercatur was scanning around, counting as many tribesmen as he could.  “I see about twenty of those rat bastards, but I’ll bet at least another forty to sixty are around.  You see those big huts over there past the stockade?  They’re going to be partying up in those soon, celebrating their great victory over old men and women.  We’re going to sit tight for a bit and see what unfolds.  I want to know what we’re facing.”

“Are…are you…you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. This isn’t my first waenhosh.  So, just get comfortable and get something to eat. You’re going to need it.  If you gotta crap, do it over there.”

Dagar steadied his breathing, focusing on every inhale and exhale like Haedorial had taught him.  He was so thankful that he had recruited these mercenaries.  He literally had no idea how he would do without them.  Mercatur was rough around the edges, but he genuinely seemed to care about his well-being.  He pulled out a loaf of waybread and cracked it down the middle.  It was actually like a large biscuit, packed with fruit and nuts, baked by his father’s cooks.  He took a couple of bites and found it to be quite tasty.  He sat and leaned up against a tree, breathing slowly to calm his heart.  Soon, his eyelids became heavy, and he struggled to stay awake.

Mercatur tapped him on the shoulder, and he started awake.  “What? What happened,” he said, forcing himself to speak softly.  It looked like the sun was slowly setting and the shadows of the trees grew long over the clearing of the Dunnish camp.  Birds sang overhead, ushering in the evening.  

The mercenary put his finger over his lips and then brought two fingers up to his eyes and then pointed to the stockade.  Dagar craned his neck to get a look, and he could see an older man with dark skin approach the stockade gate with three orcs in trail.  Dagar had never seen an orc in person and his heart began to pound again.  They looked vicious with snaggly teeth and twisted gray faces.  But they seemed to be dressed as priests, similar to what he’d seen in the temples of the Valar in Tharbad.  Behind them a short, stocky Dunman staggered as if drunk.  He held a mug of some drink and his cloak was coated with severed ears.

“That’s that freak, Lumban,” Mercatur whispered.

“I…I see…he’s…he’s very,” Dagar stammered.

“Yeah…yeah, he is.” Mercatur looked back and forth to make eye contact with Jaabran and Gamrid.  He pushed the palm of his hand down to tell everyone to keep low and stay put. “Let’s see what this guy does.”

The man had white hair in short, tight curls with a white spade beard that ringed his jaw and chin without any hair above his lip.  He wore a brown robe with hints of cinnamon and carried a staff that was topped with a gilded skull that vomited sickly vines from its mouth.  Though older, he walked with confidence and purpose as did one orc.  Another orc practically crawled on all fours, occasionally licking the back of his hand.

Mercatur pointed to the older man.  “I don’t know who that is.  Looks like a mage to me, dammit.  I hate mages. But I do know that the Dunnish tribes that have allied with Angmar work with orcs and other trash.”

The mage opened the gate to the stockade and the orcs went in and grabbed one of the wounded men and hauled him out while the villagers shrieked and protested.  Lumban drew a knife and reached for the side of the man’s head, but the mage waved him off with a stern look.  Lumban backed away, taking a submissive posture.  Mercatur looked surprised.  “Can’t say I’d ever seen Lumban slink back like that.  That mage must be something.”

Dagar crept in beside the mercenary.  “How do you know this?  You did work with that guy, right?”

“Yeah.  One year.  But I’ll never work with that freak show again.  That crazy bastard tried to pay me in ears, noses and eyes.  I had to draw my axe before he showed me gold.”  The orcs dragged the wounded man towards one of the larger huts.  At the door they were greeted by what appeared to be two elves, one male and one female, tall and lean with black hair.  The most striking thing about them was that they were both nude and seemingly unashamed.

Dagar could see Lumban leering at the woman who dwarfed him by at least a foot.  Young Dagar also couldn’t help himself as she was perfect in his eyes.  Were they prisoners too?  They seemed subservient to the mage but otherwise proud and noble.  They took hold of the wounded man and brought him into the hut.  “What is that all about?” he asked, and then horrific screaming tore the air from the hut. In a couple of seconds, the pitiful wail was cut short.  Dagar’s blood ran cold, and a sour sweat formed on his brow.  The mage smiled and then walked into the hut with the others. The young man wanted nothing more than to flee into the darkness, but he dug his fingernails into his leg to remain calm.  “I’m scared but…but we…we have to…to rescue those people.  Those poor people.  We can’t leave them.”

Mercatur blew out a long breath.  “I would normally charge you a bag of coin to do this, but you’re right.  I don’t know what this is, but it ain’t natural.  And I think we need to know what we’re up against. Yeah…yeah, let’s get them out. We’ll give it until nightfall when the Macha Mur are all drunker than a dwarf at a party.”

As the last shadows of dusk faded into darkness, they could see blazing campfires light up throughout the area, casting weird shadows of their own.  The hut where the mage and the elves went in seemed quiet with just some lights coming through the windows.  Dagar leaned towards Mercatur.  “What do we do?”

The mercenary reached down and grabbed a handful of mud with his hand and then rubbed it on his face and arms.  Dagar followed suit.  Mercatur grabbed him by the shoulder.  “Remember what I said.  We’re going to dig under the stockade wall and get them out.  Then, we make back through the forest to the wagons, but we have to go west first then south to throw off the trail.  They have rangers and they’re pretty good, and if the damn Cultirith are there, we have some real problems.  They have some of the best trackers in Rhudaur.”  They began to move forward towards the stockade wall and Jaabran and Gamrid closed in from the flanks, Gamrid with his crossbow ready.  Otherwise, all weapons were sheathed.  “No noise, nothing shiny, nothing banging around,” Mercatur whispered.

Mercatur and Jaabran moved up to the stockade wall and waved to the prisoners and then held up fingers over their lips.  Dagar and Gamrid covered them with crossbows as they began to dig.  The ground was fairly soft, and they made good time, tunneling a hole under the wooden walls.  Mercatur held up two fingers, pointed at the prisoners and then motioned them over.  One old man and a woman slinked over to the wall.  Jaabran handed them a hand shovel and they began digging from the other side.

“Stay calm.  Stay calm.  Stay calm,” Dagar whispered to himself as he knelt in the grass.  He looked at Gamrid, who was the picture of poise, steely eyed and ready.  The northman looked at him and nodded in reassurance.

It looked like the hole was wide enough now and the woman crawled under the wall.  She might have been in her early 30s and was now covered in dirt.  She quickly ran to Dagar and Gamrid and the northman signaled her to stay low.  Then a trickle of boys and girls followed, all under 16.  One boy, about 12, looked at Dagar, his eyes wide with fear and Dagar forced a smile as scared as he was.  He felt good about this.  It was the right thing to do.  It was like something out of the bardic tales that Haedorial sang about.  Maybe there would be a song about this.  Still, he felt like he would puke his guts out at any moment.

Twelve adult women followed, all between 16 and 40ish.  Then came the wounded men who could still walk, about four in total.  They now had quite the crowd gathered in the tall grass. It might attract attention.  Dagar motioned for one of the men to lead the others into the forest and wait.  He felt good being able to contribute.  As the prisoners reached the tree line, Gamrid motioned for Dagar to get down as he did the same.  Dagar dropped onto his belly, gripping his crossbow as if his life depended on it.  He could hear the crunch of grass and two men talking in Dunael.  His heart froze.  He could just make out Gamrid’s eyes through the grass and the northman signaled him to lie still.  The tribesmen continued to move closer, and Dagar could tell that they were drunk, slurring their words and staggering.  Gamrid drew a finger across his throat and motioned to his own dagger. The young man’s eyes opened wide, and his jaw fell slack.  He was going to have to kill someone.  What could be more horrifying?  He swallowed hard and nodded.

Gamrid slowly pulled his dagger from its sheath, a narrow baselard blade with a sharp tip and a bone handle. Dagar slowly pulled his smallsword, being careful not to make a sound.  This would not be play dueling with friends in the parks of Tharbad or training under a master at a school.  This was the woods of Rhudaur where your next decision could be your last. The tribesmen were just feet away now, drunkenly laughing.  Gamrid held up three fingers and then began a countdown.  Three.  Two. One.  The northman sprang up and held his hand over the tribesman’s mouth and then pushed his dagger up under the man’s jaw.  It was over in a second.             

Dagar closed his eyes for a moment and then leapt up and drove the tip of his smallsword through the man’s neck.  The tribesman’s face registered shock for a second and then his hands came up to his neck as blood poured through his fingers.  He tried to talk but coughed up more blood and then collapsed backwards. Dagar froze, unable to take his eyes off of the man as he breathed his last.

A hand was on his shoulder. “Dagar…Dagar…you did good.  I’ll hide these bodies.  Go signal Mercatur.  We need to on our way real soon.  I think we’ve outstayed our welcome.”

It was like he came out of a spell, and he looked Gamrid in eyes.  “Yes…yes.  I…yes,” he stammered and then moved quietly towards the stockade.  There seemed to be some delay getting the villagers out as he came up to Mercatur and Jaabran.  His mouth was dry, and he licked his lips.  “We…we killed two tribesmen back there.  Gamrid says we need to go soon.”  He looked through the gaps in the wall of the stockade and saw an old man and woman, both crying.  “Hurry, we need to go.”

The old man shook his head. “No, we’re too old.  We’ll only slow you down,” he said as he pointed back to a half dozen old villagers.  “We lived good lives.  We are at peace.  You take care of our children and grandchildren.  You get them to safety, please.”

Dagar now shook his head. “There’s still time.  Come on.  We can make it.”

The old man reached through the gap and handed him some kind of doll with copper wire wrapped around its head like a crown.  “Give this to my daughter, Mirthi.  She’s with you now.  She’ll give it to our granddaughter, Cicrid.  This is Darli, my wife of fifty years.  I’m Manodoc. Remember us.”

Dagar took the doll and then held Manodoc’s hand for a moment.  He nodded to Manodoc, a silent agreement that he would get the villagers to safety.  Then, Mercatur grabbed him by the shoulder.  “We have to go.  They’re going to come looking for the dead tribesmen.  We have to go.”

Dagar couldn’t take his eyes off of Manodoc and Darli until the mercenary pulled him away.  They scurried to the woods just as Gamrid had covered the bodies in brush.  “We need to be far from here by morning.  I’m not having my ears become part of Lumban’s cloak,” the northman said.  They motioned to the villagers and pointed off to the west and they began to move.

Mercatur counted the villagers as they walked.  “Keep moving west.  We need to throw them off.  We’ll turn south at the creek about a mile ahead and cover our tracks.  Those freaks have wolves that can sniff us out, and the water will hide our scent.”   He looked at the young waenhosh leader.  “You did good, boy.  You did good. I guess that little pigsticker did the job.  I’ll make a mercenary out of you yet,” he said with a wry grin.  “Honestly, I thought you’d lose your shit.”

Dagar nodded mechanically and then looked down at the doll in his hand.  He couldn’t get the image of Manodoc and Darli out of his head.  It was like he could still feel the old man’s hand in his.  The desperation and resignation on their faces broke his heart.  He looked around at the villagers.  “Is there someone named Mirthi here?”

A woman in her 20s looked over.  “I am Mirthi. Where are my parents?  Did you get them out?  Where are they?”

The young man choked down a sob as tears flowed from his eyes.  “I…I’m sorry.  They gave me this…for Cicrid,” he said as he held the doll out.  “They’re sorry.  I promised them we’d keep you safe.”

Mirthi shook for a moment and covered her face.  “I had a feeling.  I had a feeling.”  She took the doll and held it out to girl about 8.  Then, Mirthi turned back and buried her head into the crook of Dagar’s neck. He could feel her hot tears on his skin and his own fell onto her hair.  

Mercatur looked back and, at first, a stern expression came over him, but it softened.  “If I get the chance, that freak Lumban’s gonna pay. And that mage and those elves.  This is a freak show beyond my experience now. Come on now.  We’re not out of the woods yet…literally.”

Dagar smiled back at him. The mercenary was far more than he let on.  He came from a noble house and was more educated than he wanted others to know. 

Chapter End Notes

Dagar is learning slowly as Mercatur reveals more about himself.  We see the horrors of the war and the savagery of one of the Dunnish tribes.  

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The Dunnish Camp, Cerveth 11th, 1407

The baying of the tracker wolves filled Ethacali’s ears as they rushed through the forest in pursuit of the escaped prisoners.  Only the moon through the pine trees and the light of torches illuminated the way forward. How did this happen right under his nose?  The prisoners were all accounted for as Naranantur and Skrykalian tore the one wounded man apart, devouring him and drinking his blood.  Every life that they took made them more powerful and he knew not to let them become too strong.  He could barely handle Skrykalian, and she was the weakest of the Blood-Wights.  But in some ways, her manipulations made her the most dangerous.

Lumban and the Macha Mur were out ahead, crashing through the brush, their torches lighting up the night forest.  Deer bounded away and birds took flight at their approach.  Ethacali thought the barbarian leader was a drunken fool, but he had his uses.  That cloak of ears was downright vile.  At least he could deal with Cagh, though he expected that his father, Garon, would be in the lead.  Cagh had a level of culture and sophistication that impressed him.  He was intelligent and reasonable, which could be a double-edged sword in the service of the Witch-King.

Earlier, when a guard reported that most of the prisoners had escaped, his heart skipped a beat.  He had planned everything out to the smallest detail and most of it had gone according to plan.  But now, only a handful of old villagers and wounded men, unable to walk, were left.  They would be dealt with later.

The mage was beginning to dislike the cold and the primeval forests of Rhudaur.  What a wild and untamed land this was.  He missed the warm, open plains and cities of Logath even more now as his old body ached from the chill and the fast pace of the pursuit. The three orc shamans bounded ahead of him, snarling and gnashing their teeth in anticipation of blood.  Way ahead, Lumban called out, “The tracks keep going west.  They’re trying to escape to Cardolan!”  Ethacali was breathing hard now, and he bent over, putting a hand on his knee to get some air.

He felt a tender hand on his shoulder and turned to see Skrykalian, an almost sympathetic look on her face, that now had a more human color.  Her cheeks were positively rosy after she had fed.  “Tired, Ethacali?  You should rest.  You humans age so quickly, and then you tire and fade away.  It’s the gift of Illuvatar…if you could call it a gift,” she said sarcastically, baiting him.  “I could fly ahead and see where they are, if you wish,” she said in a voice that seemed genuinely helpful, but the mage knew otherwise.

He took a couple of gasps and then shook his head.  She cold easily get beyond the range in which he could control her.  “No…no, stay with me.  We will…we will catch them.”

She made a mock sad face. “You still don’t trust me.  But you’re so tired.  Look at those old skin and bones,” she said, pinching the flesh on his arm.  “I can give you some of my energy.  You’ll like it, trust me.”

He started to raise his hand to wave her off, but he began coughing and Lumban kept getting further ahead. The baying of the wolves was more distant, and he knew he couldn’t keep up.  Still coughing, he nodded, knowing that he would regret it.  It would just be this one time though.

Skrykalian motioned Naranantur to go on ahead and she pulled Ethacali back up to stand straight.  He knew that the other Blood-Wight might move beyond his ability to control, but he was too tired to fight it.  She gently took hold of his face, and he gasped, his lungs feeling clear again.  He felt an unseen force envelop him and he tried to fight, but his fatigue made him weak. He couldn’t help but look down at her body and he felt his face and body flush.  She smiled warmly as she leaned in and kissed him passionately.  Sparks flew as some sort of electrical field surrounded them and he could taste the blood in her mouth.  Strength flowed back into his limbs and his mind seemed awake and alive. Skrykalian stepped back, her fanged teeth showing through her red lips.  Ethacali felt positively euphoric.

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” she cooed as she nuzzled his neck, smelling his skin.

The mage felt giddy, like a schoolboy on his first date in Logath.  “It was…it was wonderful.”  He tried to push her away, but he couldn’t.  He wanted more.  He wanted her.

She play bit his neck, letting her fangs tickle him.  “Yes, and there’s more.  Much more.” Then, she pushed back, and he felt like a child, whose toy was taken.  “But enough for now.  We are, after all, falling behind.  We best catch up,” she said as if to a child.

“Yes…yes, thank you. Thank you.  We need to catch up,” he said, almost mechanically.

She took his hand and put it on her breast.  “I’m so glad you’ve come around, my dear.  Come, we must hurry.”  She released his hand and leapt ahead, giggling like an adolescent.  She looked back over her shoulder and grinned broadly, now showing normal teeth.

Ethacali watched her body as she skipped along, humming a long-forgotten tune.  Then, he shook his head, shaking out the cobwebs and began to run after her, feeling like he was a boy again, free from pain and fatigue.  They soon came upon Lumban and the Macha Mur warriors at a swift creek.  Cagh and the Siol Nȗnaw were on their northern flank, waving at them to let them know where they were.  Cagh was reliable as ever.

The orc shaman, Urfase, bowed and licked the back of his hand.  “Master Ethacali, the snaga crossed here and are escaping to Cardolan. We will run them down and make them pay.”

“Where are the tracks?” the mage asked, scanning around the creek and Lumban pointed to a mass of footprints in the mud up to the stream and on the other side.  Ethacali nodded.  “Very good.  Lumban take your warriors across and continue to pursue.”

One of the other orc shamans, Athrug, shook his head.  “Are we sending all of us across and west?  That’s just foolish, Ethacali.  We need to split up.  I don’t trust this, mage.  They could have gone north, south or doubled back and we would be beating around the woods like idiots.  These are only villagers.  Any of us could kill the lot of them.”

Ethacali curled his lip up in irritation.  Athrug had been far too contrary lately and it seemed that he just wanted to get under the mage’s skin sometimes.  And the way that Athrug and Skrykalian would look at each other now made him jealous. But there was some wisdom in what the orc said.  “Hmmm, very well.”  He pointed at Lumban.  “Take your tribe across and pursue.  I’ll head south.  They may want to head to Thuin Boid.”  He waved over to Cagh and yelled, “Take your tribe back towards the camp in case they doubled back!”  There. That should address nearly all of the contingencies.  Contingency plans were what made Ethacali great back in Logath.  Few there could outthink him, much less try to stay up with him.

Lumban, three dozen warriors and the wolves forded the creek and continued to follow the tracks while Cagh led his two dozen back east.  Ethacali gestured south along the creek and he, the orcs and the Blood-Wights stepped into the water and began walking swiftly.  They would have to pay for disrupting his plans and he could not risk word getting out about the Blood-Wights and coming conquest of Rhudaur.

The Dunnish Track, Cerveth 11^th, 1407

Just before dawn, Dagar could see the waenhosh in the gathering light as hues of purple and orange appeared on the eastern horizon.  He was exhausted, but there was a sense of pride mixed with sadness.  He could still see Manodoc and Darli in his mind, weeping for what they knew would come for them.  But part way to the waenhosh, Mirthi held his hand, and he carried Cicrid on his back.  He was not a strong man, but he would not let them down.  He would carry the girl to Tharbad if he needed to.  Nasen and Old Pad could see them now as they jogged up.

“Nasen!  We rescued the prisoners from Maig Tuira!  Prepare to leave!  We need to leave quickly!  We threw the tribes off of our trail, but they’re still looking for us!”

Nig and Cisgid sprang into action, burying the campfire and throwing supplies back into the wagon as Old Pad helped. Even Baga was sitting up in the lead wagon, helping to store boxes.  Dagar nodded. “Good job, Old Pad, and welcome back, my good Baga.  Hurry, we must hurry.”

Mercatur, Gamrid and Jaabran yoked the oxen and tethered them to the “falling tongue” as Penda and his men did the same with the other wagons.  Dagar pulled down the back door of his wagon and motioned to some of the villagers.  “Quickly, women and children in.  Anyone having trouble walking, get in.  We will find room.  I’m sorry, some of you will have to walk,” he said with confidence and authority.  He lifted Cicrid into the back and then helped Mirthi in.

In just about five minutes the waenhosh was ready, and Dagar snapped the reins, getting the four oxen to move forward.  The mercenaries and many of the villagers were still on the road, walking swiftly alongside.  He looked over at Mercatur and felt bad, pausing a moment in thought.  “Old Pad, come up here.  You’re driving us!”  Once the old man had taken the reins, he jumped down and began walking with the mercenaries, looking around to make sure the villagers were alright.  Gamrid and Jaabran slapped him on the back while Mercatur gave him a solemn nod.  Dagar’s bones and muscles ached, but he was not going to be weak, and he would be damned if he didn’t share in the pain of those he had hired.

The waenhosh made good progress as the sun rose.  Dagar raised his hand and called out, “Any villager feeling fatigued, please trade with someone in a wagon.  We need to keep everyone fresh and moving.”  By about Eight in the morning, they had covered half the length of the forest.

Mercatur pointed north with his axe.  “The East Road is just a couple of hours ahead.”

Walking with them, Nasen nodded.  “And the Tirthon is an hour past that.  We are very close now, Master Dagar.  I think we’re going to get through this.  You’ve led your first waenhosh.”

This made the young man feel wonderful inside.  He had been a failure for too many years, a wastrel as his father once said to him. Now, not only was he nearing success, but he had played a key role in saving so many people.  But then, his attention was brought to loud shouts at the rear of the waenhosh.

“Alarm!  We have enemies to the rear!” shouted Penda Oxkiller.

Dagar looked back and could see about two dozen Dunnish warriors in the distance, running towards them. “Keep going!” he yelled to Old Pad. “Nasen, keep them going!”  He saw Mercatur draw his crossbow and signal the other mercenaries.  They moved to the rear as the wagons drove on.  He took a look back and made eye contact with Mirthi and her face was full of fear.  She held Cicrid close and then Dagar turned to follow the mercenaries.  They were joined by Penda and his men, who now wore chainmail shirts and conical helms, holding round shields in front of them. Mercatur pointed to the ground. “Form a line here!  Crossbows behind!  We stay between them and the wagons!”  He gestured towards the Dunmen.  “That’s the banner of the Siol Nȗnaw, thank the stars.  If we lose, they’ll at least treat us with respect, but we’re not losing.  Not if I can help it.”  He put his steel bascinet helm on and raised the visor.

“You know them too?” asked Dagar.

Mercatur nodded.  “I worked for their chief, Garon, one year. He’s a decent sort.  He doesn’t abuse prisoners, and he doesn’t keep slaves like Lumban does.  Fight hard and we stand a good chance of coming out of this.”

The tribesman slowed when just out of bow range and began to deploy into a line of battle.  “They’re disciplined,” Mercatur began.  “They fight like Dúnedain.  In some ways, I’d rather scrap with Lumban and his freaks. There’s more of them, but they’re just a damn horde.”  Dunnish archers moved to the flanks of the formation, and they began to advance.  “Our crossbows outrange them, but we fire slower,” he told Dagar.  He raised a hand.  “Shields up!” he commanded and Penda’s men along with Jaabran raised shields.

Dagar had recently seen a lot of firsts in a short time.  He saw his first orc, killed his first enemy, rescued his first prisoners and would shortly fight his first battle.  That old pit blossomed in his stomach, and he felt hot despite the chill in the air.  The leader of the Siol Nȗnaw raised his hand and shouted, “Thangail!” and the tribesman raised shields and interlocked them together in a shield wall.  Dagar’s hands began to shake again, but he recognized that the chief was speaking in Sindarin.

“Crossbows up!” shouted Mercatur.  “Fire!” Dagar raised his weapon, pressed the trigger and his bolt hissed through the air and thunked into a wooden shield along with two others.  “Reload!”

“Tȗgul!” the Dunnish chief ordered, and the tribesmen stopped and drew their shields even closer, showing no exposed flesh.  It looked much like a tortoise.  Another volley shot into the shield wall, but the Dunmen did not move or waver.  Mercatur growled.  “The line will retire towards the wagons in good order!” he shouted, and they began to move slowly backward.

Dagar peered around the taller mercenary’s shoulder and could see that the Dunmen were not following. Soon, they were well out of bowshot and the tribal warriors recovered from the tortoise formation and began to retreat back towards the forest.  The young man felt ecstatic, and his fear faded.  They had won another victory.  “Look at that, my good Mercatur.  We’ve won again.”

“Don’t count this as a win yet.  They let us get away.  The Siol Nȗnaw aren’t as reckless as Lumban’s freaks, but they’re brave and disciplined. They had us outnumbered three to one and they didn’t take advantage of it.  This isn’t what we think it is, kiddo and I don’t know why.”

Dagar nodded, listening to his words.  He had learned so much in so short a time and he realized the value of watching and listening.  They began to move more quickly now back to the waenhosh, and he could see a copper reflection to the north.  “I think I see it!  I think I see the Tirthon!”

Mercatur put his hand above his eyes and peered in that direction.  “Yup, I see it.  Just past the north road.  Just a couple of hours to go.”  He gripped Dagar’s shoulder.  “Now keep your guard up.  I swear, this is the most dangerous part of the trip.  Something is going on that I can’t explain.”

As they closed with the waenhosh, Dagar could see five mounted soldiers trotting towards the wagons from the north.  They were all blonde and clad in chainmail with conical helmets that had a nosepiece. Their spears glistened in the sunlight, sharp and deadly.  They wore surcoats with the image of a red rose flanked by a white stallion, rampant, rearing up with hooves extended and a bronze wyvern, segreant, wings unfurled and claws extended.  Dagar moved to grab his crossbow, but Mercatur stayed his hand.  “It’s the Vulseggi guard of the Tirthon,” said the mercenary.  “They owe loyalty to Vulfredda, the Lady of House Melossë and to Marendil of House Rhudainor…my cousin.  They’re on patrol and probably know to expect us.”

Jaabran chuckled.  “Eh, remember that scrap we had with them when we fought for the Siol Nȗnaw?  I’m not anxious to repeat that.  Those riders cannot be beaten on open ground.”

Mercatur nodded with a smirk. “I remember that the money was lousy, but the women and ale were…” he started but then began to laugh.

Jaabran and Gamrid joined in the laughter.  “We were going to say, also lousy.”

Mercatur shook his head, still laughing.  “Yeah, yeah, but Garon was a good host and his son, Cagh, was a pretty decent guy.” He waved to the riders, showing his empty hand and they waved back.

Arriving at the waenhosh, Nasen was already talking to their leader, a young Northron.  The leader looked at the approaching team and dismounted. “Mercatur, you dog.  I thought I’d find you on the road at some point.  I’m never sure if I should stick you in the face with my spear or hug you.  Damned  mercenaries. And you too, Jaabran…Gamrid.  What happened to Folgar?  He still soiling his pants at every battle?”

Mercatur shook his head. “Nah, he bought it on last year’s waenhosh to the Sirtathar, the River Willow or what have you in elven.  It’s smelled better ever since.  Dagar, this is Ecegar, one of the lead lances of the Tirthon.  He’s a dumb, young buck, but you’ll find no finer lancer in Rhudaur.  And this is Dagar, Culberth’s son.  He’ll be taking over eventually.  So, Lassar and Vilhelm with you?”

“Nah, Lassar’s making love with his horse and Vilhelm and Leofwaena are fighting again.  So, it’s me here to save your hide.”

Mercatur snorted.  “Hah, nothing ever changes around here.  Best you idiots prepare.  We saw the Dunnish camp in those woods yonder.  That freak, Lumban, has about forty and the Siol Nȗnaw have maybe thirty.”

Ecegar shook Dagar’s hand while assessing the waenhosh.  “Awww, that’s nothing.  They’ll surround us, fling some arrows, throw some rocks and be gone by the Tregtagan.”

Mercatur shook his head. “No, listen.  This is more than that.  Yeah, they have the usual wolves, but we saw this mage there.  Looks like he comes from out east.  And snow in summer?  What’s going on with that?”

Dagar chimed in.  “We also saw three orcs dressed as priests and two elves…who were naked.”

Ecegar cocked his head and narrowed one eye as if skeptical.  “Let me get this straight.  An Easterling mage, a few religious orcs and a couple of naked elves. Are they going to walk into a bar? Because it sounds like a joke is coming.”

“No, the kid is right,” said Mercatur.  “Something more is going on this year.  And we fought the Nȗnaw an hour ago on the Track.  We shot some bolts at them, and they just stopped.  I was expecting a brawl, but nothing happened.  They turtled up and nobody got hurt on either side.”

Ecegar thought for a moment and then nodded.  “That is weird for them to not even make a play for the supplies.  Well, let’s get you up to Ynarri’s Drift and you can clean up and rest.  I’ll let Tonfall know you’re here and he can run it up to Oswy.”

Mercatur wrinkled his nose. “Ynarri’s Drift?  Not that I mind some ale, but why not let us up to the tower? We’d like to unload these supplies and be on our way.”

Ecegar shrugged.  “Lord Rhudainor’s orders.  All visitors spend one night at the Drift.  Besides, you know Ynarri’s a good guy and he could use the business.  He doesn’t get a lot of customers other than the garrison.”

Mercatur climbed up on the wagon and pulled Dagar up behind him.  “Yeah, yeah, fine.  We all could use a bath and some grub.  Thanks for coming, by the way.”  He looked at Dagar.  “You’ll like Ynarri.  Like you, he can talk your ear off.  Poor guy went lame after one fight, years ago.  Now, his mouth is his best weapon.”

The waenhosh rolled up the Dunnish Track until it branched off towards the Tirthon.  A river, known as the Caru Run, ran parallel to the Track. Dagar could see a high, wooden wall surrounding the Tirthon and some barns along with a small tavern a few hundred yards south along the road.  The end of his journey was in sight.  One more day and they could deliver their goods and return home.  He would have enough to buy the medication that his mother needed and she would be healed.  Then…what would happen then?  Did he really want to be the chief victualler for Thuin Boid and make this run every year? He felt proud of what he had accomplished, but did he want this for his life?  He thought about telling Nasen that he didn’t want the job.

As they pulled up to Ynarri’s Drift, a stocky, middle-aged man, in almost clownish yellow clothing and a comical red cap, hobbled out with a cane.  “Welcome!  Welcome my friends,” he called to Dagar and Nasen.  “I am Ynarri, your host!  Come, come! Bring your oxen into the barn this way. Oh, we have a lot of guests, oh my!” he said, pointing to the survivors of Maig Tuira.  “We’re going to have to put people in the yard, but that’s fine. I knew to expect you, so we have food a plenty for now.  Your supplies will really help out so thank you!”  Ynarri and his servant, Olbaddol, helped Nig and Cisgid untether the oxen and guided them into the barn.

Dagar helped Baga down and the boy wobbled a bit.  “We have a wounded man here, Ecegar, can we get him some healing?”

The lancer nodded.  “I don’t see a problem with it.  Lady Éanfled can look at him.  She’s been a…little moody lately, but I’ll see to it that she treats him.”  He pulled the boy up on his horse.  “I’ll see you all tomorrow.  Have a nice night at the inn,” he said and then trotted off with the riders.

Ynarri gestured for the waenhosh members to follow.  “Come, come in.  Beywyn will start setting the tables.  Olbaddol! Get back up here, you lazy oaf!  Get the smoked meat out of the pen and don’t anger the pig!  It’s bad for her complexion!”

The young, Dunnish man rushed out and ran across the yard to a smoke house, where beef, pork and mutton were curing.  Dagar could smell it from here and his mouth watered.  He went back to the wagon and helped Mirthi down and then turned around to let Cicrid climb on his back.  He looked at Mirthi.  She was a pretty, Dunnish woman, a little older than him with brown hair and eyes. Dirt with streaked dry tears coated her face from their captivity.  She might not be Princess Nirnadel, but she was here, and he had rescued her.  He took her hand.  “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry about your parents.  I wish I could have saved them.”

Mirthi lowered her head. “They had me when they were older. All three of my brothers died fighting the Macha Mur.  My father was a great warrior once.  I know that he will die as one,” she said with conviction, and then wiped her eyes.  She looked him in the eye.  “You were brave.  We have you and your friends to thank for our rescue.  You four dared to defy the tribes.  This is something that we would sing about.  We will make a song about your courage.”

Dagar was taken aback, and his jaw fell open.  If only Haedorial could see him now.  He would be sure to write a letter at his earliest opportunity.  He smiled at her and made a bow and flourish, fit for the Court of King Ostoher.  “I am…I am honored, good Mirthi.”

A loud squeal came from the smoke house and Olbaddol sprinted back like a Nazgȗl was behind him.  “Damn pig!  Damn pig!” he screamed, over and over.

Ynarri shook his head and growled.  “I told you not to anger the pig!  How many times do I have to tell you not to anger the pig!”  He turned towards Dagar.  “Mehitable is my prize pig.  Probably the finest pig in the north, if you ask me.  She’s won the grand pig faire in Thuin Boid, three years running now.”

Dagar followed him into the dining room where two teenaged girls set the tables with metal plates and mugs as Olbaddol put the smoked meats on a tray and began cutting.  He was mumbling angrily as he sliced cuts of smoked ham and pork from a bone.  “Why do we have to have the damn pig in the same pen as the smoked meat?”

“Because she likes it in there!” yelled Ynarri.  “Now shut up and do your job!”

Dagar and Mirthi couldn’t help but laugh at the exchange.  It seemed like Ynarri and Olbaddol had been doing this routine for a while now.  It felt good to laugh.  The sense of relief that they were now safe was overwhelming and he didn’t know whether to keep laughing or cry.  He looked Mirthi in the eye and felt himself blushing, so he looked away.  They sat down at a table with the mercenaries and some of the villagers as Nasen, Penda and the others sat nearby.

Ynarri walked by and poured a round of drinks.  “Drink up! Drink up, my friends.  You have come just in time to restock our winter stores. Another two weeks and I would have to ration food for my prized pig.  That would make her very angry, and we don’t want that,” he said and then raised his voice, “would we, Olbaddol!”

“No sir!  Happy pig, happy Ynarri!”

The meal was the best thing Dagar had eaten since he left Thuin Boid.  Fine cuts of roast beef and smoked sausages, a vegetable broth that was thick and tasty, a sweet rice pudding and some homemade apple pie.  All fresh.  Before he knew it, he was stuffed.

With more than a few ales in him, Mercatur was bellowing out stories and singing badly.   With a full mug, he gestured at Jaabran and Gamrid, sloshing ale on them.  “These two!  These two men…I’ve fought besides them, up and down the Track for the last ten years.  I trust no one more than them!”  He put his hand on Jaabran’s shoulder.  “I…I got kicked out of House Rhudainor ten years ago…for a minor indiscretion, mind you, and these guys.  These guys took me in and made me the mercenary I am today!”  He downed another mug and started slurring his words again. “And I’m here to collect from my cousin some things that they owe me!”

He moved around the table and tousled Dagar’s dirty hair.  “And this guy!  This guy! I thought he was gonna lose his shit back there, but he came through!  I never saw anyone that scared, but he came through!  I’d work for him any day!” he shouted, and a cheer went up.

Gamrid raised his mug. “You mean like the first time you travelled in our company, Mercatur?  I distinctly remember the smell of piss coming from you at our first battle!” he yelled, eliciting laughter.

“Nonsense! Nonsense…well, maybe just a little…uh, maybe a lot!  But the point of this is that this man, Dagar, has a lot of potential!  Here’s to our boss!”

Dagar blushed furiously, unused to the attention and praise.  He raised his mug and took a few gulps before he began to cough.  The crowd cheered again.  He glanced around the room to see happy faces.  They had come through for the Tirthon.  His eyes settled on Mirthi, and she smiled up at him as did Cicrid.  He thought that this was the best night of his life.

Eventually, the party wound down and Olbaddol and the serving girls began to clean the tables.  Many of the villagers were already sleeping on the ground and a few had wandered off to the bedrooms.  Mercatur was already slumped down on the table, snoring as were Jaabran and Gamrid.  He was feeling very tired and more than a little drunk by now and settled on the ground with Mirthi and Cicrid and drifted off to a pleasant dream.

It seemed like just a few minutes since he fell asleep when he was shaken awake.  “Get up!  Get up! We’re under attack!”  He focused his eyes, and it was Mercatur.  The mercenary peeked out of the dining room window and an arrow flew by his head.  “It’s those damn Cultirith rangers!  Dagar, get everyone ready to move!”

Chapter End Notes

More of Mercatur's backstory and a showcase of his leadership skills.  Dagar learns more about Rhudaur and the culture and politics.  Ethacali makes his move on the Tirthon.  From the RPG module and some research I learned a lot about Rhudaur and the Dunnish.

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Beleriand, Hrívë, Year of the Sun 455

Their lives had been idyllic for so many years.  The region of Dorthonion in the land of Beleriand was made up of forested highlands, ringed by hills and mountains, the Echoriath and the Ered Gorgoroth to the south. To the east lay the plains of Ladros and the March of Maedhros where sat the great fortress of Himring and the Sons of Fëanor.  To the west lay the Sirion River, Mithrim and the lands of Fingolfin and Fingon.  To the north, beautiful Ard Galen, a land of lush green grass that inspired many a song.  Beyond that, darkness.

Standing atop a tower that sat atop a tall hill, a young Noldorin woman looked up into the night sky, admiring the blaze of stars in the heavens.  She drew her finger along the various constellations, naming each one in turn, “Anarríma, the Sun Border; Menelmacar, the Swordsman; Remmirath, the Net; Soronúmë, the Eagle; Telumendil, the Dome of Heaven; Wilwarin, the Butterfly; and Valacirca, the Scythe of the Valar,” she said quietly, her breath streaming in the winter cold.  She was tall and lean, dressed in thick silk robes of pure white with a red leather belt and a silver cloak, lined with fur.  The images of swans and reeds were embroidered into the fabric in intricate detail.  A golden circlet sat on her forehead beneath her raven black hair and the sigil of a swan was shown on its front.  She had a soft, heart-shaped face with gentle features and high cheekbones.  Her eyes were light gray, almost silver in hue.

She felt a presence behind her.  “Come to gaze at the stars with me, Finculion?” she asked in Quenya without taking her eyes off of the sky.  “Please join me.  It’s so peaceful up here.”  She took a deep breath, feeling the cold air in her lungs.

“I think I shall, Alquanessë,” the man said and then stood beside her.  He was dressed in a red leather doublet with white slashes in the sleeves and wore a simple circlet of mithril with the sigil of an eagle around his head.  He was also tall and lean with wiry muscles.  He had a square jaw and a prominent forehead above intense, gray eyes.  “What do you see, sister?”

She held her hands over her heart.  “I see the glory of the Valar.  I see the hope in our ultimate victory over darkness,” she said in a voice full of wonder and joy.

Finculion grasped his sister by the arm in a gentle, comforting way.  “I have no doubt.  As one of Fingon’s riders we have contained everything that the dark enemy has thrown at us.  It was before our time, but they drove off a dragon on the plains of Ard Galen centuries ago.”

Alquanessë punched him on the arm playfully.  “You do love to use that lance, don’t you?  What’s your team called…the Misë?”

He nodded proudly. “Yes, we’re the Green Squadron.  We are the best team under Prince Fingon, and we lead the charge with our lances.  The Morna, or Black Squadron are in reserve to exploit any openings and the Telepta, or Silver Squadron are the horse archers.”

She tapped him on his crotch. “I meant this lance, brother,” she said with a giggle.  You must be keeping Ectelissë very happy.”

“Is that all you think about, sister?”

“It’s all I think about, brother.”  They both laughed.  “I mean, I love the eternal peace that we have, but my Noldor blood often longs for more, longs for excitement and adventure.  We’re only two hundred years old, but nothing happens.  I sing, I dance, I sculpt, I paint, I gaze at the stars and then I do it again the next day.  I am grateful for what we have, but I long for more.”  She sighed.  “And you have Ectel and I have no one.  How is she, by the way?”

Finculion gave a wry grin. “She’s very happy.  Mother will have a grandchild soon.”

Alquanessë’s face showed surprise and then joy.  “This is…is wonderful, my brother,” she said and then hugged him tightly.  She turned back to wave at three other elves, standing on the balcony that faced north.  “Mother!  Sercë! Tindómeno!  Come over here.  My brother has an announcement!”  She was practically bouncing on her feet with excitement.

The three came over, all smiling.  One was male, tall and broad shouldered with a thick neck, built like a warrior.  His face was like chiseled stone, angular and hard. His black hair flowed down over a mithril circlet with the sigil of an eagle.  Another was female, taller still with lean, defined muscles born of training with her bow and sword.  She wore a silk crimson robe with the images of birds embroidered into the fabric.  Her face was thin with a tapering jawline and a mischievous smile.  The last was a woman of average height and gentle demeanor, but her face was the definition of refined beauty.  She wore robes of green and gold, embroidered with silver and golden leaves.  Her mithril circlet had the sigil of an eight-pointed star that radiated in hues of red, gold and silver.  The House of Fingolfin.

Alquanessë curtseyed while Finculion bowed to the shorter woman.  “Mother, Finculion has an announcement.”

He blushed as he smiled. “Mother…Ectelissë is with child.  You will be a grandmother.”

The older elf put her hands over her mouth.  “By the Valar…this is wonderful news.  Sercë, Tindómeno, congratulate your brother!” she commanded, and the four siblings embraced. “I must send word to my brother, Fingolfin and to my nephew, Fingon.  This is a joyous day.  I always doubted my decision to follow the Noldor into exile,” she said, “but this tells me that I made the right decision.”  She looked up into the sky at the stars.  “I wonder how my sister, Findis, is…and my brother, Finarfin.”

Alquanessë was proud of her lineage.  Her mother, Irimë, was the younger sister of High King Fingolfin, the older sister of Finarfin, who remained in Valinor, and the aunt of Prince Fingon.  After the Kinslaying of Alqualondë, she almost turned back when Findis and Finarfin refused to go forward.  Irimë was also bold and was closer to Fingolfin and she decided to cross the Grinding Ice with him.  In the centuries since the rising of the sun, she bore four children, her pride and joy.  

Sercë, the oldest sibling, was fiery and bold.  It seemed that she inherited some of the blood of Fëanor, her half uncle.  There never was any doubt that she was in charge when the siblings were together.  She rode with Fingon’s horse archers, the Telepta Company.  Tindómeno was her closest sibling.  Physically powerful and fleet of foot, he never contradicted his older sister.  He and Finculion were lieutenants in Fingon’s lancer company.  And then there was sweet Alquanessë, most like her mother in beauty and talent.  Her quiet demeanor spoke of introspection and a love of nature and the arts.  The dances and paintings that she and her mother would make were the talk of the Noldor.  For hundreds of years now, song, art, dance and wonder were the culture of Beleriand.

Alquanessë pushed back and made a pouting face.  “You all have someone.  I have no one.  It’s not fair.”

Irimë stroked her daughter’s hair.  “Come now, child.  Life isn’t fair.  There is someone out there for you.  You just have to be patient.”  She held Alquanessë’s cheeks.  “All of my children have their talents and strengths and yours is compassion, empathy and beauty.”  She pressed her face to her daughter’s, and it was easy to see just how much alike they looked.

Alquanessë felt a change in the air as if it got warmer suddenly.  She looked north and, in the distance, she could see an orange glow in the darkness. “What is that?  It looks like…”

“Fire,” Tindómeno said with an edge of urgency.  “Thangorodrim has erupted.”  He pointed at Finculion.  “Come brother.  We must ride to the company.  Sercë,” he said to his sister, “bid the Silvers greetings for us.  We’ll see you on the field.”

Alquanessë felt a pang of fear.  Nothing like this had ever happened in her lifetime.  She tried to be hopeful.  “It’s…it’s probably nothing.  I’m sure we’ll be playing Coron Mittarion again soon.  Mother will join us, of course.”

“Of course, I will, my dears. Alquanessë will remain here with me. We’ll play cards while you make things safe.”

The four siblings put their hands together, one atop the other.  “Until we meet again,” said Sercë and they broke ranks, the three eldest heading to the stables.

Alquanessë’s expression changed to that of worry, her jaw tight and her eyes narrowed.  “What if this is something more, mother?  I cannot bear the thought of us being separated.”

“I understand, my dear. It is still so hard to be away from Findis and Finarfin.  We are as you…two sisters and two brothers, one family, one heart.  I can only say that it is not easy and that I will do all that I can to keep us together.  We will always be a family.”

Alquanessë tried to lighten the mood as she saw her three siblings riding off as if to battle.  “Mother, I always laugh at how humans think that we’re twin sisters.”

“Well, young lady, we don’t age.  Physically, I’m as old as you are.  And, with the light of the Two Trees in me, I’m probably younger than you,” Irimë said with a lighthearted edge.

Alquanessë sighed.  “Ah, the Two Trees.  Such a wonderous sight.  I would so love to have seen it.”  She gazed back north and could see the orange glow growing quickly.  This was going to be more than they thought.

Tirith Aeluin

In the two weeks since Thangorodrim erupted, it was complete chaos.  News of the disaster only came through refugees in the form of rumors.  Word was that Maglor’s company was nearly wiped out on the Plains of Lothlann by the sudden flame of molten magma that poured from the Iron Mountains.  Maglor’s Gap may have been overrun with orcs pouring south into Beleriand with the Sons of Fëanor in full retreat.  Rumors abounded that Angrod and Aegnor, sons of Finarfin, were slain in battle and that Dorthonion would be next.

Amid streams of refugees, Irimë wept at the news of the death of her nephews.  Not knowing the fate of her family was even harder.  She hugged Alquanessë tightly.  “I need to know, Alquanessë, I need to know.  Where are the rest of my children?”

Alquanessë felt helpless. She was woefully unprepared for this. Song, dance, art and poetry would not stop the hordes of orcs that were on their way, along with dragons, wolves, balrogs and other horrors.  This could be the end.  She had learned enough of the sword and bow to stand her ground, but she was by no means an expert like Finculion or Tindómeno or a leader like Sercë.  The world was changing and dreamers like her would have no place.

The commander of the guard yelled, “To the walls!  Here they come.  Prepare to defend!”

Wiping tears from her eyes, Alquanessë rose and awkwardly strapped on a silver breastplate and helm. She picked up her sword and bow and rushed to the wall.  There was a sea of dark creatures surging up the hill and seeing them made her feel nauseous.  She wanted to scream and run, but the commander pointed down and yelled, “Fire!” A stream of gull-feathered arrows flew, each one finding a mark given the skill of the Noldor.  Alquanessë lost count of how many she had fired until her quiver was empty.  The shrieking and screams around her were unnerving, but she shut it out of her mind and began to sing.  Her voice lifted up above the din of battle and filled the ears of the soldiers on the wall with her.  The defense was holding.  Every wave was beaten back with arrows, rocks and spells.  But they were tiring and running low on everything.

Then, a ladder crashed into the wall and an orc climbed over the parapet, howling and swinging a jagged scimitar.  Alquanessë fell backwards and tried to draw her sword as the orc stood over her.  She covered her eyes and screamed, but a spear shot through its throat, and it collapsed backwards.  “Get up daughter!  We must fall back!”  Her mother’s hands pulled her up as more orcs clambered over the parapet, bellowing and slashing.

Alquanessë rose and slashed an orc across the neck, and they turned to run.  Suddenly, the air grew cold, and a distant shriek sounded above them.  She looked up and, with her elven eyes saw something like a giant bat, black wings and iron claws, but with the face of a woman, her expression twisted, and her mouth open inhumanly wide with rows of razor-sharp fangs.  “Get down, mother!” 

The bat swept several soldiers away and then buried her fangs into the neck of one guard.  Gouts of blood sprayed into the air, turning into a mist that seemed to float, suspended in space.  The guard collapsed to the ground, shriveled and desiccated. Alquanessë gasped as the creature looked at her.  The bat kicked the body aside and advanced on the two women.

Alquanessë cut at it with her sword, but the bat caught the blade with her iron claws and cast the weapon away.  Irimë stepped between them.  “You will not touch my daughter!  Away with you, foul beast!”  A light appeared from her eyes and seared the bat, its flesh sizzling in the beams.  It shrieked, but slashed Irimë down the chest and blood soaked her robes.

Alquanessë drew a dagger and stabbed at the bat, but it caught her hand and drew her close.  It was almost as if she could see through the bat’s translucent skin.  “Who are you? What are you?” the young woman cried, snarling and struggling.  

The bat laughed.  “I am the beloved of Sauron.  I am Thuringwethil, she of the darkness.  Ah, I see that I disturbed family time.  How touching.  I’ve always wanted a family.  I think that I will take you both.”

Alquanessë tried to wrench free, but Thuringwethil’s grip was too strong.  The bat reached down with her leg and her claw seized Irimë by the arm. In a moment, they were airborne, screaming into the night sky.

Tol-In-Gaurhoth, Tuilë, Year of the Sun 456

Alquanessë and Irimë wept in the dank cell on the Isle of Werewolves.  Unearthly howls sounded at all times through the night, the beasts of Sauron ever hungry and savage.  This was once an island of light and beauty under the rule of Orodreth, the brother of Finrod Felagund, but now it was part of the growing darkness.  Alquanessë struggled against the chains that bound her arms and legs.  Her body ached and she was so hungry.  Her once silky hair hung matted over her bare chest.  “Mother…” she said weakly.  “Mother…I’m so sorry.”

The iron door burst open and the vampire, Thuringwethil floated in.  She leapt at Alquanessë and seized her by the throat.  “Do not call her mother.  She is not your mother.  I will be your new mother.”

“You will never be anything to me, monster!”  She struggled impotently against Thuringwethil’s grip, her legs immobilized, and her arms chained behind her.  The bat lifted her off of the ground and she began choking.  She tried to buck and kick her legs, but it was of no use.  As her vision faded, she looked down and saw the bat’s hideous face changing.  In a moment, Thuringwethil became a beautiful elven woman with black hair and pale skin.

“You will be my daughter, and I will love you,” Thuringwethil said as she lowered the girl, who started coughing and stopped thrashing.  The bat tossed her to the ground and then ran a finger down her chest to her stomach and then down between her legs.

Alquanessë bucked and rolled over.  “No! No!  Never!”

Irimë shrieked, “Don’t you touch her you fiend!  Don’t you hurt my daughter!”  Then, she began to sob and rock back and forth.

“This is so much better when I have people who love each other.  It’s much more entertaining.”  Thuringwethil rolled the girl over so that she was on her back.  “Look at me.  Look at me!” she commanded, grasping Alquanessë’s face and forcing her to look.  “There. Much better.  See how easy that was?  Now, where are your brothers and sister?  I want the whole family together.”

“Die beast!  I’ll kill you myself when I get free!  I’ll never tell you!”  She thrashed about again, but the bat’s grip tightened, and she thought her jaw would shatter so she lay still, her eyes full of tears and snot running down her face.

“Tsk tsk.  I asked nicely.  It looks like I’ll have to use more…invasive methods.”  She lifted Alquanessë’s head and leaned over her.

The girl thrashed again. “No!  Stop!  No!”  Then, fangs plunged into her veins and arteries. She felt blood in her mouth and her mind began to fade.  This was the end.  She would perish in this horrid cell and rot away here.  “Mother…mother,” she whispered weakly.  “I don’t want to die.”

She could hear her mother screaming, “No!  Take me! Take me!  Please!  No!”

Alquanessë could no longer move.  She was drained.  She could feel her pulse quicken with the loss of blood and her breathing slowed. She tried to focus her eyes, but everything was blurry.  She would be in the Halls of Mandos soon.

Thuringwethil leaned back, a bloody smile on her lips.  “Rest, daughter.  Rest. You will not die.  You will live.”  She put her wrist into her own mouth and bit down, ripping flesh.  She put her wrist just above Alquanessë’s mouth, letting blood drip down onto her lips.  “Drink, my daughter, drink,” she said.

Alquanessë felt a thirst that she had never known.  She licked her lips and then swallowed, the taste of Thuringwethil’s blood, sweeter than wine.  The drops of blood became a flow, and the girl gulped it down greedily.  The bat caressed her body as she drank, letting her fingers explore.  Alquanessë bucked her hips up to meet the bat’s hand and waves of pleasure cascaded over her.

“Good.  Good, my daughter.  You are now of my blood.  We are now family.”  She pointed to Irimë.  “Who is that?”

Alquanessë wanted to tell the truth, but her tongue would not let her.  “Some woman.  A prisoner.”

Thuringwethil nodded and turned the girl’s face back towards her.  “And who am I?”

She fought.  She fought hard.  The mere thought of disobeying the vampire brought immense pain. “My…my…no!  You’re m m my mother.”

Thuringwethil’s smile lit up the room.  “Yes, my darling daughter.  And I name you, Skrykalian.  You are now my little swan.  You will fly upon the air, and we will feast together.”  She laid the sweat soaked girl down and caressed her cheek and stroked her hair.  “And now you will tell me where your siblings are so that I may complete our loving family.”  

Chapter End Notes

I want to show how ancient the Blood-Wights are by the Third Age and how Alquanesse became corrupted to become Skrykalian.  This was not part of the RGP module at all but I thought it would be interesting to see where they came from and why Ethacali would be so afraid of them.  Based on the way Skrykalian was made into a Blood-Wight, there will be a fair amount of sensuality.

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Tol-in-Gaurhoth, Lairë, Year of the Sun 465

Watching her mother fade, year after year, was heartbreaking.  After three years, Irimë began to mutter to herself with occasional screaming outbursts.  The woman who raised Alquanessë was barely recognizable, sitting in filth, scratching at crawling insects.  The elf, now known as Skrykalian, could only look away now.

There were times that she fought to free herself but the will and power of Thuringwethil was too much. Her own psyche was pounded by waves of hate and anger from the vampire.  That, along with lust, desire and the hunger for blood.  What was worse was her siblings being brought to the cell, one by one.  Finculion now lay against a wall, chained by his arms.  He had been turned into a vampire years ago now and was renamed, Naranantur.  Like Skrykalian, he fought and put on a brave face at first, but when his wife, Ectelissë and their toddler son were drained of blood before him, he was broken.  He lay in a heap, sobbing with his mother and sister as Thuringwethil transformed him.  He had not spoken in a year now.  The vampire made it a point to let Irimë know that her brother, Fingolfin, was crushed into mud by the great lord Morgoth, king of the earth and that she would lose her family one day soon.

Tindómeno was stronger and lasted nearly a year, fighting and cursing the vampire.  But it was only a matter of time.  Watching his mother devolve into madness and Skrykalian tear other prisoners apart to drink their blood shattered his spirit and he willingly bared his neck to the vampire.  He became Balisimur.

Skrykalian found it more and more difficult to cry.  She started to crave time and attention from Thuringwethil.  The vampire cradled her head as she lay in her chains.  “If you continue to behave, my sweet, I’ll let you fly one day.  You will soar above the night clouds with me.  Our family will soon be complete, my daughter, and we will be whole.”

“Yes, mother.”

Thuringwethil grasped her face.  “Thank you, Alquanessë.”

She looked at the vampire curiously, cocking her head.  “Who…who is Alquanessë?”

The vampire smiled broadly, showing fangs in her bat face.  “She’s nobody, my dear Skrykalian.  Nobody.”  Thuringwethil turned and pointed to the iron cell door.  She walked to the other prisoners and touched their faces.  “I have a gift for everyone.  Come, let us open your present.”  The door opened and wolves that stood on two legs pushed Sercë to the ground.  The elf was bound in chains with a sack over her head.  Thuringwethil pulled the sack off and held her head up, showing the room whom she had captured.  Irimë continued crying, biting her knee hard to ease her mental anguish.  Skrykalian trembled for a moment and stifled a tear before becoming still again.

Sercë looked around, seeing the others.  “Mother! Look at me!  Are you alright?  Alquanessë? Talk to me!  What’s happening?”

Thuringwethil did a pirouette in the middle of the cell, giggling like a little girl.  “There, my family is complete.  I will leave you to get reacquainted for this joyous reunion.” She walked over to Irimë and yanked her head up by her filthy hair.  “And once my children are completely loyal to me, they will devour you and all trace and memory of you will be gone.  Once drained, I will give your rotting corpse to our wolves.”

The vampire stood and glided back to Skrykalian.  She ran a clawed finger down the girl’s bare body and the girl tilted her head back and sighed.  The werewolves chained Sercë to the wall and they departed, the iron door slamming shut.

Sercë flopped around like a boned fish, trying to stand, but she kept falling over.  “Mother!  Alquanessë! Talk to me!  What happened to you?”

Irimë just continued to weep, rocking back and forth.  Skrykalian looked at the newcomer.  “There is no one here by that name,” she said in a bland monotone.

“Alquanessë!  It’s me!  It’s your sister!  What is wrong with you?”

“There is no one here by that name.”

Tol-in-Gaurhoth, Quellë, Year of the Sun 465

Thuringwethil leaned down over Sercë and cradled her head.  The elf’s open eyes were blank, and she hung limp in the vampire’s arms. “It’s time to make our family whole,” she said as she stroked the elf’s black hair.

Skrykalian watched impassively as Thuringwethil plunged her fangs into her sister’s neck.  Irimë screamed weakly, beating her head against the wall.  “Take me. Take me,” she groaned.  “Leave my family.  Take me.”

As before, Thuringwethil tore the flesh on her own wrist with her fangs and let her blood drip into Sercë’s mouth.  The elf drank thirstily, and the vampire turned the drips into a steady flow of blood. “I name you Blogath, the greatest of my children.”  She looked at Irimë, her bat features twisted into a satisfied grin.  “She will turn soon and then your family will no longer exist. Then it will be time to erase you. You will feed my children.”

Watching the blood flow and hearing that they will soon feed on Irimë made Skrykalian’s mouth water. She could smell the blood and could practically taste it.  Thuringwethil would bring her a prisoner from time to time, but it was never enough to satisfy her.  Thuringwethil moved over to her and took a nearby bucket of water and a sponge.  The vampire soaked the sponge and began washing Skrykalian’s hair, cleaning off the years of filth and dirt.  Still chained, the elf could not resist even if she wanted to. The vampire rinsed the sponge, turning the water brown.  She then washed Skrykalian’s face, cleaning off mud and dried tears.

“Oh, there is someone under all of that,” the vampire cooed.  “I was beginning to think you were just a pile of mud.”  She ran the tip of her finger along Skrykalian’s lips. “Just as beautiful now as when I found you, the fairest of my children.”  Thuringwethil worked her way down the neck, chest and back, her movements loving and gentle.  Rivulets of muddy water dripped down the elf’s body onto the stone floor and down a drain.  Next, were her legs and feet and the sponge then moved up the inside of her thigh.  Skrykalian tried to resist, to close her legs, but she could not fight against her mother.  She closed her eyes and let it happen.  She wanted it now.  And she wanted the blood.

She lay back, panting, spent after Thuringwethil’s playtime.  The vampire smiled down at her.  “I love making you sing and dance, my child.  I know that you are a magnificent singer and dancer.  I have seen it in your mind.  Your talent belongs to me now.  You are mine in body, mind and soul.”  The vampire touched the chains on Skrykalian’s legs, and they fell off.  “A token of my trust, dear daughter.”  Then, she was rolled over onto her stomach and the chains binding her arms behind her fell off.  “There, nice and clean.  You will never be dirty again with me.  You will never be cold or hungry again.”  She embraced Skrykalian’s head and held her tight against her chest.

“Thank you, mother.  You are most kind.”

The vampire stroked her hair lovingly and hummed some soft tune.  “I have business with my beloved Sauron.  We have an elf bitch and her dog to deal with.  All of our wolves will come with me as this is of the utmost importance.  I trust you, my daughter, so I leave you in charge.  You will watch your siblings for me until I return.  Make sure Blogath turns nicely.  Then, we will feast on that woman there.”

Skrykalian massaged her wrists and ankles and nodded obediently.  “Yes, mother.  I look forward to it.”

“And you will love this, dear,” the vampire said.  “Focus on your back.”

The elf concentrated and it felt like something was growing out of her shoulder blades.  White, feathered wings like those of a swan, sprouted and unfurled and she shook them out.  “Amazing.  I love it, mother.”

“Excellent, my little swan,” the vampire cooed and then caressed her face.  “It only enhances your beauty.  I will return soon with more meat for you and your siblings.  Be patient now.”  She twirled and then became a swarm of bats that flew out of the window.  The howl of wolves followed.

Skrykalian stood there, immobile for a few minutes and then slumped to the ground and started to weep.  Hearing the quiet sobs of her mother, she looked over and then ran to her.  She looked out of the window and could see Thuringwethil far away now with a dozen werewolves running after her.  She shook the crying woman.  “Mother! It’s me!  Alquanessë!  Mother! Listen to me!  I’m getting you all out of here.”

Irimë’s eyes were glassy and unfocused.  “Kill me, monster.  Kill me. Put me out of my misery.”

“No, mother, it’s me!  Look at me!  I’m going to save you.”  With vampiric strength, she ripped the chains out of the wall and then did the same for her siblings.  She carried her mother down the stairs to a stable, followed by the others.  The tower was empty as the werewolves had gone to fight for Sauron.  She put her mother on a horse and opened the gate.  Irimë weakly grasped her daughter’s face.  “Alquanessë, it is you.  I always knew it was you.  You’re still my child.  Come with me. All of you.”

Skrykalian’s gut roiled, and tears mixed with blood ran down her face.  Pain, sorrow, regret and shame tore through her mind but also hope.  She shook her head.  “We cannot, mother.  We are not who we were.  We are of the darkness now.  No one will welcome us.  Save yourself.  We will see you in our dreams and we will be a family again one day in the Halls of Mandos.”

Irimë reached out and touched each of her children.  “We will meet again.  I know it. Sercë, the leader.  Tindómeno, the strong.  Finculion, the brave and Alquanessë, my little swan.  I shall wait for you to return to me unto the breaking of the world.”

Skrykalian bit her lip hard, tasting blood.  “Mother, go southwest to Brithombar or Eglarest.  Do not stop.  Morgoth will not cease his war until we are all slain or turned into monsters.  Be well.  Be healed and remember us.  Now go, save yourself.”  She slapped the horse on its hindquarters, and it sped off into the sunrise.  She began to tremble as she watched the horse fade into the distance.  Then, Skrykalian’s strength left her, and she sagged to her knees and beat her fists on the ground, letting out a shriek that tore the morning air, fading to a pitiful wail. She felt three hands on her shoulder and knew that she was now safe.  After a time, she raised her head towards the sun and stood, feeling the warmth on her face.  It had been ten years since she had seen its light.  “My brothers and sister.  We are free. Come, let us be away from here.”

They formed a circle and put their hands together in the middle like they had done growing up.  Here they were again, the proud grandchildren of Finwë.  Then, each of them unfurled wings from their backs and they leapt into the air to take flight.

Eregion, Gwaron, The Second Age 1500

The years turned into decades, which turned into centuries, which became millennia.  About seventeen hundred years had passed since the siblings escaped Tol-in-Gaurhoth and found their freedom.  They flew east to hide from the forces of Morgoth and inevitable wrath of Thuringwethil, who thought her control so complete that she couldn’t envision her victims having free will.  They resumed using their old names in defiance of the evil that had changed them.

Sercë felt it first that Thuringwethil had perished, apparently slain by a hound, her skin torn off to form a disguise for the elf maiden, Luthien.  The siblings embraced, shedding tears of joy.  They were now truly free.  Together, they made a pact to always be a family, to only feed on the creatures of darkness and to live their lives in seclusion, away from events that would shape Middle Earth.  From the night sky, they hunted orcs and evil men to sate their thirst.  They watched from afar as their cousin, Fingon, fell in battle, as Nargothrond and Gondolin fell and as Beleriand was flooded in the War of Wrath.

They watched as the race of men rose from an island kingdom across the sea and as those men built cities along the coast.  They watched as the Noldor created a new land with a new High King, Gil-Galad, the son of Fingon and also their nephew.  A great city arose, Ost-in-Edhil, the jewel of the Noldor.  They looked down from the clouds, proud of the achievements of their people.  Through this time, they were always wondering what had become of their mother but knowing in their hearts that she was alive and waiting for them.  Maybe there was a cure for the siblings, and they could all be reunited.  Still, they were together, and they were content.  That is, until the shadow grew again.

In the caverns that they had hollowed out to make their home, music, song and dance had reentered their lives. Alquanessë’s talents entertained the siblings, and a sense of joy seeped into their new home.  But the untold years wore on them and there was always a desire for more and the hunger for blood never went away.

One day, Sercë received a visitor, a man in a mask with a dark cloak.  When the man had departed, she called a council of the siblings.  They gathered in a chamber with polished walls and luxurious furniture, an oak table and plush chairs with red padded seats.  Clad in a simple white robe, Sercë waved her hand and lights glowed in glass receptacles, illuminating the room.  The oldest sibling smiled.  “I think I have good news,” she said cheerfully.  “I just met with a messenger from the Lord of Gifts. He offers us a cure.”

Finculion looked at her sideways, his lips pursed.  “Sister, no disrespect, but how did this messenger find us?  No one has bothered us in over a thousand years.”

“I’ve been putting out feelers about a cure.  I sent messages to the Gwaith-i-Mírdain and their masters of lore and they brought it to the attention of Annatar, the Lord of Gifts.”

Alquanessë narrowed her eyes. “You did this without consulting the family?”

Sercë splayed her hands out and flared her nostrils as if irritated.  “Yes.  I am the leader of this family, and I would like to know if there is a cure for us.”

The younger sister sighed. “I would like to know too, but we should have all known what you had planned.”  A cure?  It was something that passed through her mind, but she never held out any hope.  She could barely remember being “only” an elf. And the strength, speed and ability to fly was addictive…as was the blood.

Tindómeno waved his hands to get their attention.  “Listen to our older sister.  She actually has a plan.  It’s better than sitting here in this cave for centuries.”

Finculion shook his head. “Didn’t we make a pact to remain secluded from the world?”

Sercë put her palms on the table and leaned forward.  “But we already trade with the elves and the dwarves.  Look at the fine things that we have.  Are you not ready to enjoy life again after so long?  Have we not earned a place back with our people?  Are you not lonely?”

Finculion put his head down and trembled for a moment.  “Yes. I miss my family.  The one Thuringwethil destroyed.”

Alquanessë put her hand on her brother’s shoulder.  She understood.  A deep loneliness ate away at her heart and she longed to feel someone’s touch other than her own.  It was a hunger that Thuringwethil had planted within her.  She nodded.  “Yes, I am lonely.  I would like to search for mother.  I know that she is alive somewhere and did not go into the West.  I would like to have a family of my own someday.”

Sercë smiled again. “While we can pass as normal elves for a short time, anyone with any insight will know that we are vampires.  And if we are as we are now, would our people not kill us?  Would we kill our own mother?  That monster, Thuringwethil, implanted that thought in our minds.”  She pointed at each of the siblings, her face full of confidence.  “I propose a new pact.  We find the cure.  We find our mother.  Annatar, the Lord of Gifts, offers this to us.  He has access to ancient lore from the time of Morgoth.  It was Morgoth’s creature that did this to us.  It will be Morgoth’s knowledge that sets us free.”

Alquanessë liked what she was hearing and nodded her consent.  “As always, you are our leader, my sister.  I will follow you.”

“Wonderful!  I have already invited Annatar to meet with us here. He works tirelessly within the halls of the Mírdaithrond, teaching the Noldor his craft.  He plans to forge rings of power for the betterment of all people.”

“Uhh, so when is this meeting?” asked Finculion.

Sercë gave an embarrassed expression, one eye narrowed and her lip curled up.  “Umm, now.  He’s on his way here already.”

Finculion blew out a long breath and shook his head.  There was still an air of skepticism around him.  “Just who is this…this Lord of Gifts?  Do we know anything about Annatar?”

“According to my contacts in the Mírdaithrond, Annatar is a Maia who studied under Aulë.  He now brings his knowledge and his gifts to the world. You have to trust me on this one. He will bring us everything that we want.”

Alquanessë found a rare bit a fight against her sister.  “This sounds too good to be true.”  Then, she put her head down as the sibling hierarchy took hold again.  “But I trust you, sister.  We will see what Annatar offers us.”

Sercë lifted her nose and sniffed the air.  “Good, because he’s here now.  We need to be together on this and I need your support,” she said with a sense of finality.  They went to the entrance of the caverns and Sercë waved her hand to move the stone doorway into the wall.  As the doorway opened, they could see a tall man in black robes with a staff that was topped in a golden crescent moon with an orb in the center.  He had long blond hair that was so light it was almost silver. His face was narrow, almost boyish with near perfect features.  He was truly godlike with an aura of power and strength.

Annatar bowed low with a warm smile.  “I thank you for the invitation and the welcome.  I know that we will do great things together.”

The siblings stepped aside to let him in, and they walked to the conference room where they all sat.  Annatar laid a pouch on the table and pushed it across to Sercë.  “A token of my friendship.  Call it a gift,” he said.

The oldest sibling opened the pouch and removed four vials of liquid.  “What is this?”

“It is…the answer to your question.  But I warn you…it is only temporary.  I discovered this during my research for you, but it is only part of the solution.  The rest of the cure remains to be found.  For a short time, you will be as you were but retain your strength and speed.”

Alquanessë cocked her head and narrowed her eyes.  “So, you know what we are?”

“Yes.  When your sister made contact with the Mírdaithrond I began some research.  I found reference to a Thuringwethil, a messenger of Sauron.  The lore is now obscure after so long, but it pointed me in the direction of a cure.  With the limited information, I was able to concoct this.  Please,” he said, splaying his hands out as an invitation.

Sercë handed out the vials and Alquanessë uncorked hers.  “Why are you helping us?” the younger sister asked, genuinely curious.  “And whatever became of Sauron?”

Annatar chuckled. “Excellent questions, my dear.  Your sister told our emissary of the affliction that you have.  I have been sent to this Middle-Earth as a representative of the Valar.  My mission is to help the free peoples, and to heal those whom Morgoth’s evil has harmed.  As to your second question, Sauron…he has…Sauron is no more.”

“Was he destroyed in the cataclysm of Beleriand?”

The Lord of Gifts nodded. “I believe that he was, along with all of Morgoth’s beasts…yourselves not included.”

Sercë uncorked her vial. “Say no more.  Brothers, sister, let us try this and see for ourselves.” She poured the liquid into her mouth and swallowed as did the others.

At first, Alquanessë felt nothing.  She began to frown with disappointment, but then her body felt light as if she were floating.  It was like the bath that Thuringwethil gave her when she was covered in years of filth. The dark, dirty feeling of her affliction fell away and the hunger for blood evaporated.  She felt normal…whole.  She took a deep breath, and it was like her first time breathing air again.  “I…I feel…I can’t describe it but it’s wonderful.”

Annatar rose and came over to put his hands gently on her shoulders.  He began to massage them, his hands warm and comforting.  “Yes, yes it is, my dear.  I am so sorry that it will fade shortly.  With the limited knowledge that I have this is the best that I can do. I am so sorry.  But together, we will find what you seek.”

True to his word, the feeling of being clean and pure began to fade and the familiar hunger returned and that dark place in her heart grew again.  She would do anything to feel clean once more.  A vision flashed in her head of a husband, children, happy squeals and warm embraces.  Did this come from him?  Was he showing her what she wanted to see?  She sighed as a tear rolled down her cheek to her lips.  They tasted like blood again.

Sercë smacked the palm of her hand down on the table.  “We are convinced.  How must we proceed?”

Annatar moved around the table, shaking everyone’s hand.  “I am glad for our friendship, and you will find my friendship fruitful.  But I will need something in return.  The vials that I prepared were not inexpensive and I poured much of my energy into them for you.”  He stopped at Alquanessë and grasped her hands.  “Ah, the fairest of Irimë’s children.  Are you ready for what comes next, my little swan?”

Sercë nodded.  “We understand and we are prepared to do what you need of us to make this happen.”  The siblings formed a circle and put their hands together in the middle. “To hope and to our new friendship with the Lord of Gifts.”

Chapter End Notes

I want to show why Skrykalian is so seductive in her approach and the tragedy behind the Blood-Wights.  We'll take a look at Eregion of the Second Age in the next chapters and see the tie in with The Court of Ardor.  Again, warning as it will be pretty dark.

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Ost-in-Edhil, Ivanneth, The Second Age 1550

The Fortress of the Eldar was nothing less than magnificent.  Built on a buff of granite, it sat on a swell of the Glanduin River, near a lake called Estelin by the Noldor, that fed into two other swift rivers called the Sir Lantalaith, the Tumbling Laughter, and the Sirannon. As Annatar led the siblings to the city, they could hear the river flowing, the sound of it like the laughter of children.  They were dressed in simple traveling clothes, loose beige pants and shirts with brown cloaks.  The journey west was easy and pleasant along the well paved road.

“Look there,” said Annatar in a voice full of excitement.  “There is the great Mírdaithrond, the home of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, the Guild of Smiths in this wondrous city.  It is a strange marvel of architecture, designed by Celebrimbor himself, whom you’ll meet soon.”  Three large triangular structures formed the heart of the Mírdaithrond with a tall belltower anchored on the north.  Its walls seemed to glow white, with hints of red and pink, in the morning sun.

Alquanessë drank in the view of such a city and the rivers that ran by it.  The air was fresh and cool, and she relished the chance to be away from the dark cavern that they had called home for so long.  Still, something had not sat right with her for some years now.  “Lord of Gifts,” she said politely, “how is our cure coming?  We have been doing favors for you for some time, and it feels like we haven’t made much progress.”

Sercë turned on her.  “Watch your tongue, little sister!  Do you know who you are speaking to?  Have you no gratitude?  Mind your place.”

The younger sister felt stung. Tension had been growing among the siblings, but never something like this.  “I was just-”

“Enough!” the older sister said with an air of finality and a chop of her hand.  She turned back to Annatar.  “I apologize for my sister’s rudeness.  She does not understand how important this is, how much you have given us. I, however, can assure you that we are your friends.”  She glared back at her sister.  “I’ll make sure of it.”

Annatar pursed his lips and then nodded.  “Say no more. All is forgiven.  You, Sercë, have been a rock for me.  I trust that you will keep your siblings motivated for this. I do this all for you.”  He turned back to Alquanessë and grasped her hand. “Please be patient, little swan.  Your mother would want you to be patient.”

Alquanessë smiled weakly, but the outburst by her sister was disturbing.  There was something about Sercë’s fawning adoration that just didn’t seem right.  They walked past tall, twin obelisks along the road that bore inscriptions in Ithildin that read, Here is the Fortress of the Eldar.  May the Valar watch over your journey,” in Quenya, Sindarin and Khuzdul.  In smaller letters, it read, “The Brotherhood of Smiths bids welcome to our kindred.”

The high marble walls that ringed the city made it look like a ship, slicing through the river and holly trees lined the road with vineyards between the Mírdaithrond and the city.  Alquanessë was delighted by the little red berries that grew on the holly trees and the birds that flitted about, picking some of them. Then, she saw a family of swans swimming along the river to the lake.  She held her hands over her heart with excitement and joy.  Annatar pointed to them.  “There is your namesake, little swan.”  He motioned towards the walls.  “You notice how the Noldor love triangular patterns and ship designs.  Your people are always innovative and intelligent. It’s what I love about you.”

They passed by the expansive stables and through the triangular shaped gatehouse into the city where the sibling’s jaws dropped.  Houses and shops of many colors lined the road, with beautiful clay tiled roofs and windows of stained glass that depicted life in the city.  There were fountains and running water along every avenue and park. Annatar gestured to the homes and people.  “This is the Galadharm, the residential area.  We will be going to Celebrimbor’s house to meet him.  We have created great rings of power for the men and dwarves already, wondrous gifts that will bring lasting prosperity and peace to those peoples.”  Sindarin and Silvan elves passed by them, smiling and waving.

They turned south and crossed over a delicate bridge made of marble that led to a small island where sat a palatial villa constructed of blue-gray azurite, trimmed at the railings and framed with purple porphyry.  The bridge met the villa on the fourth floor with the other levels beneath it.  The roof was made of tiles that were painted and glazed in matching colors.  A tall, lean elf with blond hair stood at the doorway to greet them.  He was dressed in silk robes of silver and blue.  “Welcome back to Osteledan, Master Annatar. The Smith awaits you in the library. Are these your guests?” the elf asked in a most polite voice.

“Thank you, Danil.  Yes, these are the siblings I told him about. They are the children of Irimë.” He looked back to the four.  “My friends, this is Danil, Celebrimbor’s chief assistant.  He is of the House of Fingolfin.  Perhaps you may know each other?”

Danil’s face lit up.  “Well met, my friends.  Well met.  I was a smith for our High King in Hithlum.  My armor clad the riders of Fingon.  Now I work for the great smith Celebrimbor.”

Three of the siblings gasped. “We were riders of Fingon’s.  We probably wore your armor,” Sercë said with a smile as she grasped Danil’s hand.

Danil gestured into the villa through double doors of tinted laen or volcanic glass, cold forged for exceptional strength.  The mosaic on the doors formed an image of Nargothrond and Gondolin.  They strode across a steel-gray carpet to a spiral stairway down. As they descended, Alquanessë could smell freshly baked bread along with chocolate and it took her mind off of the hunger for blood.  Despite the thirst for blood, they still enjoyed civilized food.

“Ah,” said Annatar as he led them down the staircase.  “That would be the magical work of Ragnor, the finest baker in Eregion.”  On the landing, Annatar turned towards a guest room. “Come, we must change to meet the great smith.”  He held out his hand and Danil placed a bag in it.  “I had these especially made for you by the finest clothiers in the city. You will love them.  Consider it a gift.”

They entered the room and Annatar opened the bag and brought out exquisite clothing of silk and exotic fabrics as Danil closed the door and remained outside.  The Lord of Gifts held out a set of robes and gowns for each of them. To Sercë, he gave a gown of gold and white that was adorned with feathers like a falcon.  “Go on,” he said, and she disrobed for him without hesitation. He helped her put on the gown, running his hand along her form as he tied the strips of cloth that held it together. He then placed a silk collar around her neck that held a large ruby, trilliant cut, in a golden setting.  He spun her around and gazed upon her.  “Ah, perfect for my bird of prey.”

He then turned to Alquanessë. “Your turn, my dear.”  He handed her a gossamer white gown with gold and black accents and then pointed at her baggy clothes.  Her face flushed red, but she did as she was told and removed those traveling garments.  She moved to cover herself at first, but he held her hands.  “Why so shy, little swan?  You’re magnificent.”  He held the gown down at her feet for her to step into and then he slid it up her body to tie the straps over her shoulder.  It had a plunging neckline, and the gauzy material left nothing to the imagination.

She started to speak, “It’s a little-”

“Nonsense, my dear. Celebrimbor will love it.  I certainly do,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.  “My, you all look splendid, simply splendid.”  He then placed a platinum and sky-blue silk collar around her neck that held a black sapphire in a platinum setting.  He ran his hand through her hair and her straight locks curled into gentle waves.

Alquanessë looked down at the sapphire that was expertly cut like a heart.  It was truly magnificent, and she found that she couldn’t take her eyes off of it until she had a strange feeling and looked up to see Sercë glaring at her and she looked away.  The tension between them was palpable.  Why did it seem as if Annatar was playing them against each other?  If Sercë wanted to be with him, she would give her blessings. Annatar raised his staff, and his clothes instantly changed into black and gold robes with a high collar and stiff shoulder boards that flared upwards, giving him a regal look.  Tindómeno and Finculion were similarly dressed, but in far less elaborate clothing, but with accents of an eagle and a raven.

Danil then led them down the staircase again into the library on the second floor.  It was filled with dark wooden bookshelves packed with tomes, some of which came from the dawn of ages.  Alquanessë could see books on smithing, alchemy, history, poetry and gems.  The knowledge here was priceless. Standing next to large, crystalline orb was the great smith, Celebrimbor.  He stood taller than the siblings and nearly as tall as Annatar with shoulder length dark brown hair.  He wore sky blue and silver robes with a circlet of mithril and adamant that held the sigil of the House of Fëanor, a blazing silver and red star with eight beams of light.  He turned to see the group and a bright grin covered his lips.  “Annatar!  My friend. Welcome to you and your guests.  I have been working on your ideas for ithilnaur and eog.  Brilliant, simply brilliant.  The dwarves…yes, the dwarves have been hounding me about the composition of eog, but we don’t share our secrets so readily, do we?”

Annatar shook his head. “Of course not, my friend.  Have you perfected the cold forging like I told you?”

“Oh yes, yes.  The cold forging is the key, just like you said.” Celebrimbor then turned to the siblings. “Oh, forgive me.  I just get caught up in the process and I forget my manners sometimes.  I am Celebrimbor, the head smith of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, a proud organization, dedicated to the advancement of knowledge.”

The siblings bowed and introduced themselves.  The master smith then gestured to a door.  “Come, come.  I wish to show you these marvels.  Let us go to the forge below.”  He opened the door into a small chamber that was made entirely of glass.  They stepped in and it descended to the first floor where they stepped out into menagerie of smelters, forges and tools.  They could hear the sizzle of hot metal in water and hammers on anvils.  The orange glow of the forge cast an eerie light around the room.  Celebrimbor made a grand gesture towards the apprentice smiths. “This is my personal forge.  It lacks the sophistication of the halls of the Mírdaithrond, but it’s perfect for my pet projects.”

He guided them to a part of the room where it became very cold.  Celebrimbor put on a thick fur coat, but Annatar and the siblings were not bothered by it.  Frost covered the walls and ceiling while a woman worked on a piece of black metal, bending it with tongs.  She had on a thick leather apron and face shield.  “This is the cold forge, my friends.  Annatar, your techniques have worked wonders with the eog.  The amount of titanium that you suggested was just perfect.”

Annatar looked over the woman’s shoulder.  “And what of the Galvorn and the Mithrarian?”

“I think I have perfected the Galvorn,” he said with excitement, handing Annatar a small piece of shiny black metal.  “Malleable, but unbreakable.”  The Lord of Gifts tried to twist it with his hands, but it only bent a little and he nodded his approval.  “A suit of armor of this would be impenetrable.  But Mithrarian, my friend, I am at a loss.  I have fused it with eog, but the celebur…no one can handle it without getting burned.  I might have to ask for your help with that.”  The master smith looked over at the woman at the forge.  “No, no, no, Morelen, not like that.  Here…like this,” he said, guiding her hands.  “Yes, there.  Much better.”

Sercë cocked her head. “Morelen?  Of Telepta Company?”

The woman set down the metal and pulled off her face shield, letting locks of raven hair cascade down around her face.  The woman was ethereally beautiful, almost beyond what an elf should be.  “Sercë?  By the Valar, it’s you!  I…I thought you died in the Bragollach!”  She moved to embrace Sercë but stopped.  “I don’t want to get soot on your fine gown,” she said and then grasped her hands.  “Where have…what happened…I have so many questions?”

“It’s a long and sad story, but we are here.  What about you?”

Morelen sighed and looked down.  “I…yes, I can say the same.”  She seemed ready to change the subject and pointed to Tindómeno and Finculion.  “And your brothers from the lancers!  And this must be your sister, Alquanessë?”  Then, she narrowed her eyes as if thinking.  “I thought nothing of it at the time, but I saw your mother in the south.  She was helping the Guild of Elements with a task.”

Alquanessë rushed forward. “What?  When?  Where?”

Morelen pondered for a moment. “It was a long time ago…maybe five hundred years?  She was in Laurre Menelrana’s mansion.  I did not have time to say hello, but I’m sure it was Irimë.  As soon as I have the chance, I’ll send word to the Guild asking about her.”

“That would be most appreciated.”

Sercë nodded.  “It is so good to see you.  How is your father?  Fëatur, right?”

A dark cloud came over Morelen’s face.  “He is…not my father.”  Her tone told everyone that was the end of that line of questioning.

Celebrimbor seemed a little put off that he was not the center of attention, and he stepped between them. “For an apprentice smith, Morelen has extraordinary talent.  There is nothing that I have taught her that she cannot learn.  I understand that she is an expert rider and archer and quite the singer and dancer.  She has the capacity for learning of a Vala, I must say.  Now, let us finish for the day.  I simply must suggest the Fountain Baths in the Ardhlarem, the High City. You will find it most relaxing after a long day.  Morelen, you show them.  I’ll finish up here.  And Annatar, my friend, thank you for bringing these fine people to meet me. I’ll have Ragnor take meals to the baths for you.”

Annatar raised his hand to stop everyone.  “Most excellent, my friend, but please tell me of your progress with…with the rings,” he said, his hand trembling.  “I do so wish to know that they are coming along.”

Celebrimbor smiled. “They are coming along just fine. The Elven Rings are something that I must do on my own.  You understand, right?”

The Lord of Gifts flared his nostrils and pursed his lips for a brief moment before his face became friendly once again.  “Of course, my friend.  I absolutely understand.”  Without another word, he wheeled about and walked to the exit with Sercë right beside him. As they got far ahead of the group, they were whispering something together and Morelen tilted her head as if listening.  It was a distance impossible to hear without magic or exceptional hearing.

She leaned over to Alquanessë. “He called your sister Blogath. Who is Blogath?”

The blood drained from Alquanessë’s face, and a dark pit formed in her stomach.

The Fountain Baths of Ost-in-Edhil

Elven attendants greeted them at the entrance, which was held up by pillars of white marble, polished to a sheen.  One woman bowed to the Lord of Gifts.  “Welcome back, my Lord Annatar and we welcome your guests.”  She was dressed in white robes that offset her dark brown hair.

He handed her a bag of coins. “Thank you, my dear Lúnë.  Please see to it that we are well attended.”  He gestured for the siblings to enter. “This is my gift to you.  Only the finest for my friends.”

Sercë raised herself up on her toes and kissed Annatar on the cheek.  “Thank you.  You truly are the Lord of Gifts.”

Lúnë guided them to a room with wooden benches, where Alquanessë’s nose was filled with the refreshing scent of cedar.  The attendant held out her hand.  “The Lord Celebrimbor sends his regrets that he cannot join you as he must continue his special project.  He did, however, request a private room for you and the chef has already brought your meals.  No expense is spared for your relaxation this evening.  Now, I will take your clothes and store them for you.  The baths are just beyond.”

They handed Lúnë their garments and she bowed and withdrew.  Morelen wiped soot from her face.  “You don’t know how good this is going to feel.  I feel like I’ve been in the cold forge for a week.  I studied a little under Celebrimbor in Nargothrond before…before…you know.  He was kind enough to take me in and bring me into the Mírdaithrond.”

Annatar led the way into a large room with marble walls where water trickled down over tile mosaics of images of Valinor.  Around the room were fountains and sculptures of elven maidens in poses of singing and dancing.  “This is truly one of my favorite destinations.  Very convenient as my home is just a block away.  And you are most welcome to stay there with me.”  He slid into the steaming pool of water and closed his eyes.  “Ahhh, come in.  The temperature is perfect.”  The steam filled everyone’s nostrils with the scent of lavender and a hint of jasmine. One by one, the others glided into the pool.

Alquanessë dipped her head below the water, enjoying the feeling of it on her face.  She opened her eyes for a moment and saw all of Annatar and she felt her cheeks flush.  She closed her eyes quickly and resurfaced.  She felt an old tingle along her skin and swallowed hard to suppress it. The Lord of Gifts had a magnetism that could not be denied.  Sercë sat next to him, engrossed in conversation with him, hanging on his every word.  He seemed to be disinterested and made eye contact with the younger sister.  “It’s fine to look,” he said, letting her know that she had been caught.  “After all, I, like you elves, am not ashamed.”  He left Sercë’s side and slid over to Alquanessë.  He put his arm around her and smiled, his face so close to hers that she began to tremble.  She could feel his skin on hers.  “Would you sing for me, little swan?  The first time I heard your voice, I was enchanted.  And you too, Morelen.  I understand that your voice is like the roar of the ocean and the trickle of a brook all at once.”

Morelen took Alquanessë’s hand.  “Do you know the Lirë i Thaliona?  The Song of Radiant Magic?”

She shook her head. “No, but how about the Gil Aenn Menel, the Song of Endless Stars?”

Morelen nodded and they began, their voices clear as crystal in perfect harmony,

“Sil en menel, Luith aenor.

Aur i thil amain, Fal o menel.”

Alquanessë glanced up to her sister to see that her face was filled with rage, teeth clenched and eyes shooting daggers.  She paused for a moment to take a breath and Sercë crashed through the water and grabbed her by the throat.  “How dare you!” the older sister hissed.  Everyone in the pool went quiet.  Alquanessë scrambled out of her grasp and climbed out of the pool, covering herself with a towel. Sercë took her place at Annatar’s side, and her face became calm again.  It was as if she were on some narcotic.  The younger sister’s eyes were huge and her face full of fear.  What was going on here?  What was happening to their family? 

Annatar’s face became sad with a deep frown.  “I did not mean for this to happen.  My sincerest apologies.  My gifts and my love are for all of you.  Come friends, let us forget this…minor upset.  Let us dine and then retire to my home for the night.”  He clapped his hands and Lúnë returned with trays of fresh fruit and freshly baked bread, pies and muffins.  She laid it by the side of the pool and departed.  Annatar held his hand out, palm up and pulled his fingers back. “Come back, little swan.  The water calls for you.  I am so sorry for this misunderstanding.  Sercë, please apologize to your sister.”

The older sister’s teeth were still clenched, but she nodded.  “I am sorry, little sister.”

Annatar smiled.  “There.  All is forgiven.  Come back, little swan.  I would feel terrible if you didn’t.”

Alquanessë narrowed her eyes but removed the towel and slid back into the water, keeping close to Morelen and Finculion.  Annatar pushed one of the floating trays to them and gestured at the food.  They ate cautiously, soaking in the pool until it was time to retire.  They dressed in silence and then walked the block to Annatar’s home.  The design of the home stood out from the rest of the city, blocky, severe and harshly symmetrical in comparison to the architecture all around.  The walls were of black stone with gold veins, giving it the feel of a mausoleum. He led them inside where six silvan elves greeted him with courteous bows and took his staff.  They went up a spiral staircase and passed a massive rotunda with a dome of silvery pearl.  At the apex of the dome was the image of a golden ring with the phrase, “One Ring,” written in the Tengwar. 

Alquanessë pointed at it. “What does that mean?”

“It is my hope for unity,” the Lord of Gifts said proudly.  “That is my dream where we all live as one in harmony.  I pray that I may play some small part in making that happen.”

Sercë smiled.  “A noble goal, my lord.”

He then pointed to several doors along the balcony of the rotunda.  “Here are the guest rooms.  Please make yourselves at home.  My servants will bring you anything you need.”

The brothers made their way to one room as Alquanessë and Morelen went to another.  As they turned to go, Sercë grabbed her sister by the arm, none too gently.  “Stay away from him,” she hissed in a low voice, fangs growing in her mouth.  “I won’t say it again.”  She let her sister go and walked away to rejoin Annatar.

The two women were stunned. Morelen made a horrified face and turned her palms up with a shrug of her shoulders.  “What the…”

At first, Alquanessë felt a burning sensation in her cheeks and her eyes misted but that feeling was overtaken by anger.  “I’ve wept too much in my life.  That stops now.  Come, let us rest,” she said, her nostrils flared, and her jaw clenched.  “I grow weary of this.”

They went into the guest room and Morelen turned on her.  “What is going on?  What was with the fangs?”  They sat down near a fireplace that burst into flame as they approached.  “Is there something that I should know about you four?”

Alquanessë sighed and looked down, feeling deep shame.  “Yes, yes there is.  I am…we are…we are vampires.  We were turned by Thuringwethil long ago.  Once we escaped, we hid near here for…for a long time.  I’m sorry…sorry that we deceived you.”  She bit her lower lip.  Morelen smiled, something that she did not expect.  “What?” Alquanessë asked.  “Why are you smiling?  Why are you not horrified and trying to kill me?”

“I wondered about what happened to Sercë for a long time.  Now I know.  But I have a secret too,” the other woman said.  “I have also escaped.  I am…I am the daughter of Morgoth.  I am a monstrosity beyond reason.  You have not told me anything that would horrify me.  No one knows…  Well, now, only you.”

Alquanessë’s heart ached, but relief also flooded into her.  She wiped her nose.  “Thank you for trusting me with that.  It means a lot to me.  Here, let us lie down now.  I’m suddenly very tired.”  She reclined onto a soft fur rug and drifted off into meditation, feeling the warmth of the fire on her face.

She was suddenly woken up by Annatar and Sercë.  As she focused on their faces she could see their excitement.  “We have great news, little sister,” Sercë said.  “The Lord of Gifts has had an epiphany about our cure. It is now within our grasp.  We just have to do two things for him.”  The older sister’s earlier fury was gone, seemingly long forgotten.  She had a glow about her.

“What?  What do we have to do?”

Annatar leaned over her and stroked her black hair.  “Ah, my little swan, the fairest of Irimë’s children.  We must convince Celebrimbor to share the secret of his rings with us. These rings are for the elves, for all of us.”

She nodded slowly.  “And what is the other thing?”

“There are…friends of mine, who have turned away from me.  Humans. I need your help to bring them back. It is a simple matter.  They hold part of the cure, and we need them.”

She felt a flush of excitement in hearing that the cure was closer.  It just might become a reality.  She nodded.  “Of course. Whatever we need to do.”

He leaned in and put his mouth next to her ear.  “I am so glad to hear that…Skrykalian.”

Eregion, The Second Age 1555

Wanting to please her sister and mend the tension between them, Alquanessë acceded to all of their requests, no matter how it made her feel.  Over the years, Celebrimbor was difficult to crack, always being secretive about the Three Elven Rings.  He once spoke about Nenya but gave no context.  She enlisted the help of Morelen, who had become her fast friend. They shared a dark history that scarred each of them and it bonded them like sisters.  Still, Alquanessë missed her true sister and the family that bound them together.  Even with help though, no amount of coaxing, pleading or even attempts at seduction moved Celebrimbor much, to Annatar’s disappointment.  He seemed consumed by the secret of the Elven Rings.

But Annatar’s “friends” were a different story.  They were men of tribes that lived in the northern part of Eregion at the foothills of the Hithaeglir or Misty Mountains.  Soon after the visit to Ost-in-Edhil, the Lord of Gifts offered them gold, trinkets and enchantments, but his greatest gift offered was Alquanessë herself. Before the chief of the tribes, he held her and whispered into her ear, “Be strong for your sister, for your family. Do this for them and the cure will be yours.  They will honor your courage.”  To her surprise, he tore off her robes and beckoned to the chief.  “She is yours, this beautiful elf maiden.”  She tried to cover herself, but he held her arms behind her. She struggled against his grip, and he shushed her.  “Do this for your family, little swan.  Please him and then bring the people that he offered to me as tribute.  We will bring them to the caverns.  It is essential for the cure,” he whispered, and she calmed down.

Her breath caught in her throat, terrified of what was to follow but she nodded.  “It is for the cure, right?”

“I would never lie to you. This is essential for the cure.  I will make sure that your family knows how you contributed to it.”

She smiled at the chief as a tear rolled down her cheek.  The bearded man took her by the arm.  “I accept, Lord of Gifts,” he said.  “And I will be happy to fulfill our deal.”  He pulled her towards a small wooden building and shoved her inside.  He pointed to a dirty mattress, and she began to shake. She wanted to run, she wanted to tear his throat out and drink his blood, but her family was relying on her.  She wanted to repair the damage between she and Sercë.  She lay down and let her mind drift as an elf can, seeing her mother smile, a song that she learned as a girl, a dance that she did for the High King Fingolfin.

When it was done, she whispered into the chief’s ear.  “I will take your tribute now.”

He grunted and pointed to a servant, who brought six men in chains.  “Thank the Lord of Gifts,” he said with an evil grin.  “And I will see you again soon.”

Annatar smiled seeing her again.  “You did so well, my little swan.  We are closer now to what you want.  Come, let us return to your siblings.”  He handed her the torn robe which she quickly put on, full of shame.

Alquanessë tried to say something, but she leaned over and threw up.  They took the prisoners back to the caverns and to the chamber that was once a music room.  It somehow became a temple, devoted to Annatar.  Why were they supposed to worship him?  Wasn’t he a friend?  “What are we going to do with them?” she asked.

He gestured towards an altar in the temple.  “I need their energy to synthesize the cure.  You must do this for me,” he said as the siblings entered the chamber, dressed in black robes with golden sashes.  He whispered into her ear again.  “Don’t you feel hungry?  You have not fed on blood in some time.  Don’t you smell it?  Can’t you taste it?”  Sercë brought one of the captives over to them and forced his head down on the altar. “You hunger for it,” he continued. “You desire it.  How do you feel after the chief used you?”

Her breath came in shuddering gulps now and her heart pounded in her chest.  “I felt…I felt sick.  I felt enraged.  I wanted to hide.  I wanted to tear his throat out and feast.”

Sercë drew a black dagger, forged of eog.  “Now is your chance, little sister.  It is time for you to repay the Lord of Gifts for his kindness,” she said and then made a small cut on the man’s neck.

Alquanessë could smell the blood, and her mouth watered.  She held her ground but began to tremble at the sight of the red liquid trickling down the man’s skin.  He tried to squirm, but Sercë’s vampiric strength was too great.  Annatar, dipped his finger into the blood and held it up to her nose and then smeared it on her lips.  Then, he removed her torn robe, and she began to see red.  “There,” he said.  “Feel their energy and know that it is your cure.  You will be strong.  You will be fast.  You will be mine, Skrykalian.  Feast.”

She barely heard his words as she seized the man’s head and plunged her fangs into his neck.  The man screamed at first, his voice fading to a gurgle as she devoured his life’s energy.  He fell to the ground, a shriveled husk.  She turned on the other five, blood dripping down her chin and coating her bare chest.  Screams echoed down the corridors as Skrykalian fed and was reborn.

Chapter End Notes

I want to show how Annatar manipulates and sows distrust and doubt.  This ties in with The Court of Ardor with a bit of a spoiler, looking at Morelen in the Second Age.  We see Alquanesse, manipulated and abused and why she is who she is in the Third Age.

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The Yfelwood, Ivanneth, Urui, The Second Age 1590

In the ensuing years, blood and screams filled the temple of the Lord of Gifts.  The vale surrounding the home of the siblings became known as the Yfelwood by the men of the clans of the hills.  Tribute and riches flowed to Annatar and the siblings, making them rich beyond measure.  Ever dutiful, Skrykalian fed for her lord and gave him the power of their blood.  She tore the throats that he told her to tear, she bedded the chiefs that he told her to please and she gave him the energy that he told her to give.  At all times, he would watch her, ensuring that she did exactly as she was instructed. Anger and hate grew in her soul, and she felt ever dirty.  She became known among the clans as a succubus, a corrupter of men and a demon of the night.  Still, she did whatever was asked of her for her family…for the hope of cure…to see her mother again one day.  She did everything, but one of the main tasks that she was given remained unfulfilled.

Annatar pounded his fist against the stone wall in the temple of The Lord of Gifts.  “I trusted you all, but you have failed me.  I offered you a cure to your affliction, but you break my faith in you.”  He turned on Skrykalian sharply.  “I asked you to help me discover the secret of the Elven Rings.  This was a big part of how I am to heal you, to make you whole, to keep your family together.  Now, it may come to pass that you will never see your mother again!”

She felt ashamed at how she had let them all down and endured the glares of her older sister and brother. Only Finculion stood by her.  She put her hands together and pleaded, “I…I tried, Annatar.  Celebrimbor has never budged more than a little.  Even with Morelen’s help…”

Annatar swept his hand across his body, silencing her.   “It was a simple task for a simple mind.  Blogath, show her the error of her ways.”

Her older sister moved across the room with lightning speed, seeming to warp time and space.  She seized Skrykalian by the throat.  “You failed the Lord of Gifts and now you will pay the price!”  She dunked her sister’s head into a vat of blood at the foot of the altar.  Skrykalian was in a panic, unable to breath.  She beat on her sister’s arms, but Blogath was too strong.  Her struggles became weaker and weaker, but then she was yanked back out and thrown to the stone floor with a crash, blood flying everywhere.

Finculion rushed to her, cradling her head while she coughed, her eyes wide in fear.  He wiped the blood from her face as she licked some of it from her lips.  Blogath seized him by the scruff of his neck and hurled him into a nearby wall, cracking the stone.  “Do not help her, Naranantur!  She does not deserve our help!”  She walked to the vat of blood, dipped a silver chalice into it and drank.  Naranantur tried to stand but collapsed with a groan.

Skrykalian prostrated herself on the ground.  “No! Don’t hurt him!  I’ll do anything you say!  Please!”  A feeling of helplessness overwhelmed her.

Annatar leaned down over her, a sneer on his face.  “The Elven Rings are complete, and we have no idea as to how they were made.  We cannot use that knowledge to cure you and your family. It is too late to correct that, but I expect you to keep bringing my tribute…and your siblings must feast too.” He gestured to the door.  “Balisimur, bring in the next group.”  The elf went to the door and opened it, letting guards shove more people into the temple.  Guards and acolytes had become part of life in the vale now as they expanded their influence in the region.  The Lord of Gifts pulled her up by her hair and she winced, weakly trying to fight. “Now, do your job and help me to cure you.”

She looked at the group and her mouth fell open.  “No! Don’t make me do this!  They are women and children!  We promised!  We promised, only the creatures of evil!  No!  I refuse!”  The captives wept and begged for mercy.

He twisted her arm behind her, making her cry out in pain.  “Blood is blood, no matter who it comes from.  Their lives power me!  Their lives give me the strength to cure you, since you failed to get me the secrets to the rings.”  He spun her around and gripped her jaw so hard she thought it would shatter.  Then, he relaxed, and his face softened to become the man that she once admired again.  “Why do you make me do this?” he said quietly, gently, with the care of a parent.  “This hurts me more than it hurts you.  Always stubborn.  Always willful.  You caused this.”  He ran a finger along her face, coating it with blood.  He then pushed his fingers into her mouth, and she began sucking.

The blood made her see red and she could feel power coursing through her veins.  The desire to feed was overwhelming as was the rage and madness. He turned her to face the group of people who were on their knees, begging and crying.  Blogath whispered into her ear.  “Feed, my sister.  Make us strong.  These people are nothing.  Feed.”

Annatar was in the other ear. “Listen to her, little swan.  Feed for me.  You are all my children now.  Let their lives be your cure.”

Skrykalian let out a horrific cry that shook the halls and she felt her wings sprout from her back.  She could feel her teeth turn into fangs and she dashed into the group of humans where all she knew was the taste was blood.  It was as if she were not in her own body, watching herself as flesh was torn to shreds.  When it was done, she looked around at severed limbs and a floor covered in blood.  “What have I done?” she asked herself quietly, stunned at her own evil.  “What have I done?”  A low moan began in her throat, growing to a terrifying, inhuman shriek. Her bare body was covered in blood. She would never be clean again.

Annatar lifted her up gently from the floor.  “There, you did well, my daughter.  Come here.” He embraced her and then held her by the face.  He planted his lips on hers and it felt as if he were sucking the life out of her.  All of the power and energy that she devoured from her victims was gone, given to the Lord of Gifts.  He released her and she collapsed back on the ground, beating her fist weakly on the stone.

She turned and glared at Blogath.  “Is this what you want?  To make me a monster?  Is this the pact that we made to be a family?  Is the cure worth this?”  She looked up at Annatar, who now seemed larger than life, an aura of power surrounding him.  He held up his staff and it crackled with energy.  The siblings, the guards and the acolytes all bowed down to him and began chanting.

Annatar whispered into her ear again.  “Your mother, my beloved Thuringwethil, sends her regards from beyond the void.  She bids me to take her place as your parent. I will care for you as she once did.” He rose and spoke in a clear voice, one that seemed to resonate in the temple beyond what was humanly possible. “The power that you bring to me is your power!” he said to the gathering.  “They, out there, the ones who would do evil, are out to destroy you!  Only I stand in their way!  Only I can stop them!  I bring you this gift as I am the Lord of Gifts!  I will return to my homeland soon to complete my special project.  It will be the greatest of all creations and I will become the Lord of the Rings.”

As Skrykalian lay on the ground, sobbing, Annatar and the gathered acolytes chanted the poem that he had made to commemorate this moment:

           “Ash nazg durbatulûk

           ash nazg gimbatul,

           ash nazg thrakatulûk

           agh burzum-ishi krimpatul”

Ost-in-Edhil, Hithui, The Second Age 1697

The crash of stones on the walls of the great city were deafening in their rhythm of destruction. Part of the defenses had already collapsed, and the vaunted City Guardians were trying to plug the gaps. Fires raged in the residential quarters, casting an evil orange glow into the night sky.  The Jewel of the Noldor, the city that put all cities to shame, was lost.  Orcs and evil men poured in over the walls and through the smashed defenses.  Elves were falling back everywhere, and civilians fled or hid, hoping to escape the massacre.

In the aftermath of the revelation of the One Ring, Celebrimbor had the foresight to hide the Three Elven Rings and to have escape tunnels dug under the city in the event of a siege like this.  Still, he would not abandon his great city and thought that they could weather the storm.

Celebrimbor and a few remaining guardians stood outside of the metal gates of the Mírdaithrond.  He wore a coat of mithril chainmail with a solid silver breastplate and held his sword, Sûlhelka, the Icy Wind, a blade of blue laen with razor edges forged of eog.  With them stood Morelen, the apprentice smith, with her blue recurved bow, Luinë.  She was clad in silver plate armor with the sigil of the House of Fingon on her helm, a silver star with eight beams.  The master smith took her by the arm.  “You must go! I will not have you die here. Go!  Save yourself!”

She wrenched her arm from his grasp and scowled.  “I will not! All that we worked for is here!  I will fight to the last!”

He handed her a satchel of books and items.  “Take these and save them.  They contain the knowledge of the Noldor…nearly everything that I have worked on. You must survive to tell of what happened here.”  He pointed at two guardians.  “Take her! There are horses waiting for you to the north.  Escape to Lindon!  Let Gil-Galad know that…that I was wrong…that I was foolish.  Our people must continue.  Go!  Go!”

Guardians in gold and green armor, fashioned to appear as leaves, took Morelen and dragged her away. She struggled against them at first but submitted and they vanished into a grove of trees.  Once they were out of sight, the master smith drew his bow of white wood and waited.  Orcs soon massed at the edge of the clearing.  They paused for a moment to let someone through, a massive figure in black armor, wielding an impossibly large mace with a golden ring on his finger. Sauron.

High above, Skrykalian’s swan wings flapped, allowing her to hover over the battlefield.  “I must save them,” she said to herself.  “I must save them.”  She began to descend but then stopped.  “You can do it, you can do it.  You have to save them.”  But terror gripped her throat, and she remained hovering.

She saw Morelen and the two guardians reach their horses where a squadron of cavalry awaited them. There was some discussion and then they rode off to the west at full speed.

“Thank you, thank you!” Skrykalian said, holding her hands over her chest.  “I wish you well, my friend.  You were like a true sister to me, unlike the other one.”  Then her attention was drawn back to the Mírdaithrond. There was still time to save Celebrimbor.  If she could only…

Sauron advanced on the remaining guardians with orcs at his flanks.  The elves leveled spears outwards and took a knee in perfect discipline. Arrows flew over their heads to fell the orcs in heaps.  Shafts buried deep into Sauron, but he barely flinched.  Orcs rushed ahead and were stuck with the spears, crashing into the guardian’s shields.  Heedless of his own forces, Sauron swung his great mace, throwing both orc and elf into the air.

“There’s still time. There’s still time.  There’s still time,” the vampire said, willing her wings to dive but she did not move.  Her hands shook and a cold sweat dripped down her brow onto her chest.

Sauron continued to hew about him with his flanged mace, casting anyone in his way aside. Celebrimbor darted forward past the few guardians left and sliced Sauron down the chest.  Sûlhelka clove a path through the black armor and Sauron howled in pain.  “So, you can be hurt!” the elf cried out as he sliced two orcs down.  “Foul creature!  Liar!  Deceiver! You will never learn where the rings are!  Never!” He thrust his blade through the throat of an orc and then cut down another.  He spun and sliced Sauron across the thigh and the Maia howled again.

In a blaze of speed, Sauron slammed into the master smith, throwing him back against the silver gates. Celebrimbor clove five more orcs before he realized that he was now alone.  Sauron held one dying elf warrior up by his hair and then threw him down and crushed his head with a step of his foot.  The Maia waved his orcs back and continued to advance, holding his mace out aggressively. “For the friendship that we had, tell me where the rings are, and I will spare your life.  You betrayed me, but I am willing to forgive.  I freely offer you a position as my master smith.  I offer you Alquanessë as your wife.  And even Morelen if you wish.  They are both beautiful and will please you, I will make sure of it.  I beg of you, don’t let the line of Fëanor end here.  Lay down your sword, my friend, and let us talk as we once did.”

Still orbiting above, Skrykalian shook her head.  “Don’t fall for it, Celebrimbor.  Don’t trust him.”

The master smith snarled, baring his teeth.  “Betrayed? It is you who betrays…friend,” he said and spat on the ground.  “This is what I think of our friendship, Lord of Lies.”  He charged forward and cut at Sauron, but the Maia deflected the blow with his mace, which spun and came down at the smith. Celebrimbor dodged out of the way and the mace shattered the tile walkway to the Mírdaithrond.  Dodge and parry, cut and thrust ensued as the two battled for the fate of the Guild of Smiths.  Skrykalian was reminded of the fight between Morgoth and Fingolfin in the battle where Thuringwethil changed her life forever.  As did Fingolfin, Celebrimbor began to tire as Sauron began to toy with him.

After a missed cut, Celebrimbor tripped, and Sauron seized him by the throat and drove him back into the silver gates.  The Maia signaled his orcs and they piled on top of the smith and pummeled him into oblivion.  Sauron ripped the gates off of their hinges and cast them aside.  “Take him within.  I will pry the information from his mind or I will rip it out of his body.  Bring my banner.  He will talk or he will become my standard.”

Skrykalian cursed her own cowardice, but it was too late now.  All she could do was fly back home in shame.

The Yfelwood, Narwain, The Second Age 1701

It took a few years, but retribution had arrived.  An army of elves, allied with a massive army from Númenor, landed and marched upon Eregion. Sauron mustered all of his remaining forces to meet them on the field.  He continued to use Skrykalian to raise troops from the clans and to remove any dissent.  Her will broken, she complied with his every whim, bringing him blood and lives to help fuel his power.  After the fall of Ost-in-Edhil, he told her, “You are the cause of your mother’s death. Thuringwethil died trying to protect you.  I am trying to be a parent to you, but you continue to defy me.  Don’t think I didn’t see you, flying above the battle, thinking about saving that pathetic smith.  But you were such a coward.  I tore the secret of the rings of men and dwarves from him, but he would not yield the Elven Rings so I made an example of him.”  He dragged her out of the caverns by her hair and threw her to the ground.  “Look what you made me do,” he said with a sneer and pointed to his banner, the rotting body of Celebrimbor nailed to it, filled with arrows.

She looked back at the cavern entrance and could see Naranantur standing there, his head hung in shame.  She knew he would try to rescue her, and she shook her head at him.  He yanked her face up.  “Look at him!  That is your doing!  I would have spared him if you had just done what I asked.  Soon, I will go and destroy the armies of the elves and of those weakling men.  But first, since you caused your mother’s death, you will take her place as my beloved. When I return, you will please me.”

“Anything for you, Lord of the Rings,” she said in a dead monotone.  Nothing he could do to her would change her heart now.  She began to wish for death, but she was still to afraid to challenge him for now.

He cast her to the side, and she fell on the ground.  In a small act of defiance, she glared up at him as he turned away.  Naranantur ran to her side.  “I’m sorry, my sister.  I never meant for this to happen.  I am ashamed at my weakness.  What has become of us?”

She flared her nostrils and shook, but this time it was with rage.  “I pray that he is destroyed and devoured by the earth itself.  Let there be no trace of his foul stench and stain.” She turned to look at her brother. “Finculion, please.  I need your help.  I cannot do this alone.”

“Whatever you need, Alquanessë.”

They scouted the positions of the armies of Sauron, marking them and taking care to remain at a distance, lest the Maia discover them.  For all he knew, they were still recruiting among the clans of men, loyal followers to the cause. Even if she were caught, she didn’t care.  Her death would be welcome but she would not cause harm to her brother.  Stealing clothing from the camps of the elves, they passed as scouts, relaying the information that Gil-Galad would need for the campaign.  Flying above, they could see the devastation that Sauron’s armies had done to all of Eriador and they could see a small contingent of elves, carrying the banner of Elrond, under siege in a lush valley.  They could see the banners of Númenor, under Prince Ciryatur, moving swiftly up from the coast.

Elven messengers sent the information to Ciryatur who defeated Sauron and drove him back to Sarn Ford, where they routed him again.  Skrykalian and Naranantur continued to feed intelligence to the armies as they closed in on Sauron at the Gwathló River.  A second Númenórean army landed nearby, hundreds of ships anchoring at Lond Daer. Sauron was trapped.

Ranks of Númenórean heavy infantry lowered pikes and drove the orcs into the Noldorin cavalry, some led by Morelen, and a massacre ensued.  Flying high above, the two vampires embraced, weeping happy tears.  Watching Sauron flee for his life was icing on the cake. As the Maia’s army withered and was ground into dust the two flew home, feeling that they were now safe.  They would hide what they had done from their siblings and maybe things would return to the way that they were.  Maybe they could be a family again.  But could Skrykalian ever forgive her sister?  She thought that she would be a fool if she did.

“We can be free, Alquanessë,” her brother said hopefully.  “We can go anywhere we want.  With caution, we can pass for elves.  We have learned much in the centuries.  We could live among our people again.”

She smiled.  A real smile now.  “Yes, I would like that.  But as vile as they have been, we owe it to our siblings to let them know.  You and I are a team, Finculion.  Let us return to the caverns and we will tell them that we are leaving.”  She did a twirl in the air as if it were one of her dances.  “Where shall we go?  We could go south and find mother.  Maybe Morelen would help?” she laughed, a carefree laugh as she felt the wind in her hair.  Over the vale, she tucked in her wings and began a nose dive straight for the ground. “Race you, older brother.”  A thought flashed through her mind of not pulling out.  Her misery would be over.  He tucked in his raven wings and dove after her.

The air rushed past her, and it was exhilarating.  Freedom. She had sacrificed so much for it. Ten feet from the ground she extended her wings and pulled up, feeling gravitational forces sweep over her body. Blood rushed from her head, and she felt positively giddy.  Her feet touched the ground with barely a puff of dust kicked up.  Her brother landed next to her, and she put her hand on his cheek.  “I can survive if I know that you are with me.”

As they entered the caverns, her earlier hope and mirth began to fade as she saw the bloodstains on the walls and floors.  No amount of cleaning by the acolytes could remove that.  The humans bowed as they passed, giving reverence to the creatures that Sauron recreated.  The horror born of Thuringwethil had come full circle.  In the temple to Sauron, Blogath and Balisimur led the faithful in the chant, waving their arms as if in ecstasy.  Skrykalian trembled but her brother held her hand and she found strength.

“Sister!” she shouted above the chanting.  “Sercë! Hear me!”  The chant went silent.  “Finculion and I are free!  We are yours no longer!  We came to let you know so that you may live your lives as you wish, but you have no say on ours any longer.”

The older sister turned slowly, a look of rage growing on her face.  Her form fluttered between that of a woman and that of a falcon.  She pointed her taloned finger at the two siblings. “How dare you, Skrykalian!  We gave you everything, Annatar and I!  We made you!”

“I am Alquanessë, daughter of Irimë!  I am a lady of Noldor of the House of Fingolfin.”  She pointed to her wings and then the fangs in her mouth.  “This!  This is false.  This is a lie!  And what did you give me?  You made me a whore for a false lord.  The men of the hills call me a succubus, a corrupter of men and a demon of the night. This was not the pact.  We are done.  I gave you the courtesy of a farewell for the family that you once were.” She glared at her older sister, shaking with fury.

“We shall see, you ungrateful bitch.  When our lord returns, triumphant, we will teach you a lesson that you will not soon forget.  He will give you to every man in the clan and then I will be his bride.  You were always so smug in your beauty, the fairest of Irimë’s children,” she said snidely and then spat on the ground.

“You can have him!” Alquanessë said with a slash of her hand.  “Thinking that I wanted him was all in your mind!  He played us.”  She was tempted to leave at this point, but she wanted to twist the dagger.  “But you should know that he told me that I would be his when he returns.  Not you. Me.”

“Liar!”  Fangs sprouted in the older sister’s mouth.  “I will send for the lord now and we will put you in your place.”

Alquanessë laughed sarcastically.  “Good luck with that.  Last I saw, he was fleeing for all he was worth with a handful of orcs in tow…ring and all.  The Númenóreans and the elves crushed him like an empty eggshell.  And you know what?  We helped them.  While we were gone, we gave them information on his position, strengths and weaknesses. We helped to humble the Lord of the Rings, and he didn’t even know it.”

Blogath leapt at them, snarling like an animal, talons stretched out but Alquanessë and Finculion caught her and held her by the throat.  As a falcon, the older sister tried to slash with claws and snapped with her beak, but the two kept her at bay.  Balisimur began to change into an eagle when a horn blew outside the caverns. “What is that?” Blogath asked, changing back into a woman.

Alquanessë smiled. “That, dear sister, is retribution. Our kin and their allies are here to finish their task.  I had hoped to escape and start a new life, but we are resigned to our fate.  We will all die here and all trace of us will be wiped away…as it should be.”  She looked at Finculion and he nodded.

Fighting could be heard at the cavern entrance, the clash of steel and the shrieks of the dying.  It came closer and closer, a sign that their guards were losing…and losing badly.  The end was near.  One of the guards near the temple entrance turned to face the vampires.  “We’re not dying for you!” he shouted and then all the guards turned on them.

Blogath shrieked and tore the throat out of one guard, blood spraying on the ground.  Their own acolytes turned and began plunging sacrificial daggers into Balisimur.  His eagle claws shredded two of them and he let out a cry of a wounded bird.  More daggers buried into his body, and he stumbled, falling backwards.  Blogath leapt to his aid, rending more men to get to her brother.  A sword and then a spear found their mark, plunging into Blogath’s chest.  She staggered and then tore another throat, trying to drink the blood for strength.  A guard smote her across the head with a mace, knocking her to the ground.  She tried to crawl away, blood pouring down her face, but men fell upon her, daggers rising and falling.

Alquanessë took a deep breath. She reached out and took her brother’s hand.  “I am ready. I will see you in the Halls of Mandos where we will stand judgment.  But with any mercy, we will await our mother.”  She stretched out her arms and wings, inviting the inevitable.  There was a smile on her lips as daggers plunged into her chest.

The Yfelwood, Narwain, The Second Age 1701

As the elves entered the temple, the guards threw down their weapons and fell to the ground, surrendering. The elven commander looked down at the slaughter, bodies and blood covering the ground.  He wore golden armor, highlighted in blue along with a crested helmet that he removed to survey the horror.  Amid the slain guards lay four elves, two women and two men.  They appeared to all be siblings.  The commander pointed at one guard.  “Are these the monstrosities who feed on blood?”

“They are, my lord.  We rose against them.”

The commander looked at one of his lieutenants.  “Oronon, they look like our kin…except for these two who have feathers and claws,” he said, pointing to Blogath and Balisimur.  “Shape changers?”

“That would be very likely, my Lord Elrond.”

Elrond pointed at the other two, lying bare with daggers sticking out of their chests, smeared with blood.  “And what of them?  The woman…she seems almost happy,” he said, indicating her serene smile.  He reached down and pulled a silver circlet from her brow that had the sigil of a swan on it.  “This was made by the Noldor…of Beleriand.”

Oronon held out his hand and Elrond handed it to him.  “My lord…if I may…I know this woman.  She was a scout who brought us information about Sauron’s movements.  She may have saved many of our brethren.”

“What was she doing here? Why is she among these monsters?”

The guard raised his hand. “My lord, she and her brother rebelled against Sauron and their siblings here.  They said that they helped you and their sister attacked them.  Then, you came.”

Elrond put his head down for a moment as if thinking.  “Then, we shall honor them in death.  Leave now and go back to your homes.  Live in peace and do not return to evil.  I will put a ward on this place of darkness and seal them for all time.  They were our kin once and we wish them peace in the Halls of Mandos.  Whatever they have done they will stand in judgment for.”

They withdrew, carrying the bodies of Finculion and Alquanessë.  They placed them in a nearby chamber, washing their bodies and crossing their arms on their chests.  Alquanessë’s smile never went away as elves piled stones over the doorway.  Elrond placed runes over the entrances, designed to keep anyone away.

All was darkness for the siblings through untold years.  Númenor drowned and new kingdoms arose.  Sauron was cast down and the Ring was lost.  A new power arose in the North and the darkness spread again.  Skrykalian dreamed of friends, songs and dances. Her crystal voice rose up to the delight of her family.  Her mother smiled at her.  Then, she felt an orc touch her face.  She was so hungry.  She opened her eyes and her body was translucent, ghostlike.  She could smell blood and she seized the orc, her fangs sprouting past her lips.  The blood nourished her, and her skin became less ghostlike.  How long?  How long had it been?

Then, she saw a dark-skinned man with a white beard, holding up a rune.  “Skrykalian, by the power of the Necromancer I bind thee!  Thy powers are now mine to wield!”

How was this possible? How was she still alive?  The rune flashed and she was unable to move.  Still, she could think.  With her vampiric powers, she began to probe his mind, see his family, know his desires and his fears.  She would learn all that she could about these newcomers, who knew nothing of the ages that they had lived.  There would be a way out.  There would be a chance for escape, and they would be free at last. 

Chapter End Notes

I want to show the deep manipulative evil of Sauron and how he deceives and bends others to his will.  And how Alquanesse found her courage to defy him and try to free themselves.  This was a short interlude into their backstory and now back to Rhudaur.

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The Tirthon, Cerveth 12^th, 1407

With light just appearing on the horizon above the trees, Ethacali watched as Hirgrim led the 20 Cultirith Rangers to the edge of the woods near Ynarri’s Drift.  A smattering of arrows flew and landed on the inn, just enough to get their attention.  “Good…good, nobody gets hurt yet.  Just herd them to the tower, Hirgrim.”  He stood under the trees to the south as the battle unfolded, guarded by his snow troll, Oologg, as well as by Naranantur and Skrykalian.  On cue, the Macha Mur tribe took the field, forming a ragged line of about 40 archers and light infantry.  The white furred troll grunted his approval at the developing fight.

Ethacali’s eye went back to the Cultirith, known as the Bronze Guard, who kept their distance, firing a few more arrows.  The three wagons of the waenhosh rushed out of the gate of Ynarri’s Drift and turned north towards the Tirthon.  Ethacali could already see archers on the tower, ready to defend.  “That’s it.  Just scare them.”

Skrykalian eased over to him, standing a half a head taller than the mage.  She was, after all, a Noldorin lady of the First Age.  “Well planned,” she cooed, her face the picture of admiration.  The very sound of her voice stirred his heart, and his breath quickened.  He fought the distraction of her presence, but the struggle was futile.  She put her arm around his shoulders and drew his head to the crook of her neck.  “This is much better,” she said.

“Yes…yes…but I…uh, need to concentrate, Skrykalian, please.  This is important.”  His mind felt foggy, and it felt like a finger was digging through his ear into his brain.

“Of course.  Don’t let me bother you.”

He shook his head to clear it and then pointed to the far side of the tower.  “Cagh should be leading the Siol Nȗnaw behind the tower soon to surround them.  Naranantur, go make sure the construction of the siege engines is coming along.  I want them fully completed in two days.”

The male Blood-Wight shrugged. “Would we not be of better use attacking the tower?  Why this game that you’re playing?”

The mage narrowed his eyes and glared at him.  “Just do as I say.”

Naranantur made a face and walked off.  “Fine. I can be a mere messenger if it suits you.”  It was clear that he did not have a lot of respect for Ethacali.  The mage wished it were otherwise, but as long as they obeyed him, it did not ultimately matter.  He could now see Lumban leading his men forward, keeping just out of bowshot. The tower would be completely encircled by late morning.  He suddenly felt a chill down his spine and shuddered.  The feeling of a finger digging into his brain became the feeling of a long, snake’s tongue probing in his mind, peeling the onion of his memories.

“Ah,” said Skrykalian, “You wanted the waenhosh to make it to the tower.  Why?  Let’s see…some infected grain.  Oh…and an agent in the waenhosh.  I see. Well, I’m glad that my dreaming with the lord of the tower has been working too.”

He tried to push her out of his mind, but it was like pushing pond water.  Every time he moved her probe away, it came in through a different route, a different angle.  He felt her blow into his ear, and he began to tremble.  He wanted to invoke the rune of control and get her to stop but he couldn’t move his arms.  “Yes, that worked very well,” he whispered.  He felt a pang of jealousy, knowing that she had been with Marendil, the commander, even if it was on his orders.

Skrykalian moved behind him and put her arms around his chest.  She giggled.  “You’re jealous.  That’s simply adorable.  Let’s see what else is in the plan.”

He tried to bury the memories. He wanted to push her away.  He could feel her breath on his neck now. For a moment, he had an irrational fear that she would tear his throat out.  After all, he had seen her do just that.  The image of Skrykalian attacking an orc, her jaw stretched beyond what was possible, her mouth full of razor sharp teeth, flashed in his imagination and a cold prickly feeling formed in his gut.  His secret plan had one other detail that he had told only a few of his closest allies.

“A ring?” Skrykalian asked. “I see a ring now.  Oh, this is exciting.  I am very familiar with magical rings.  You see, I was a frequent visitor to Ost-in-Edhil.  Perhaps you know the name, Celebrimbor?  See, I know a lot about rings, my dear.”  She put her left hand in front of his face and wriggled her ring finger.

Ethacali was becoming exhausted trying to fight her mental power.  He had revealed the secret weapon that was currently with the waenhosh.  But what did it matter if Skrykalian were his to command.  There was no way she would use the ring against him.  His vision became blurry, and he blinked hard to clear it.  The Dunnish tribes had now surrounded the Tirthon. They would start to build earthworks to keep the defenders at bay and prevent any escapes, trenches, pits and spikes. “Good…good, they are umm surrounded now. We will…we will…wait for the siege engines to be…to be completed.”  His tongue felt numb and thick, and he struggled to find the right words. “I…I’m exhausted.  I uhh, need to lie down for a moment.  Yes.”

Skrykalian’s hands worked downward, and the mage gasped.  It took all of his strength but he took her hands and moved them from his body. “I…no Skrykalian.  No.  I am going to lie down.  I feel…I feel.  No, you remain here.  You know the plan now.  You direct them…as needed.”  He backed away from her and she appeared sad.  He staggered towards his tall field tent, Oologg in tow.  The troll was afraid of the Blood-Wights, which made him afraid too.  As he approached the entrance, Skrykalian stood there, somehow having gotten ahead of him.  “You’re supposed to…supposed to…what are you doing?”  He leaned on his staff heavily.  Oologg stepped back, his troll eyes wide, keeping his distance from the Blood-Wight.

“You needed help,” she said. “You look so tired, Ethacali.  Let me help you.”  She guided him into the tent to his bed and had him sit down. The troll tried to enter, but she gave him a look and he retreated back out.

“No, no, I’m fine.  Let me be.  I need to…I need to…” he stuttered as she set his staff to the side and pulled his shirt off.  She started to remove his pants when he panicked.  He forced his mind to picture the rune of control and raised his hand, finding his strength.  “Skrykalian, stop!  Stop this! I am pledged to my wife, Ethanya! You must go back and keep an eye on the battle.  I just need a moment’s rest.”

She released him, but her hand brushed along between his legs as she stood back up.  “Oh, Ethacali, what did you think I was trying to do?  I just wanted to help you get some rest. Of course you are true to your wife. I would expect nothing less.”  She turned to go.  “I’m in command.  How delightful,” she said as she strode out of the tent, Oologg jumping aside to make way for her.

The mage blew out a long breath.  He was losing control and he knew it.  What did he unleash?  Just how ancient and powerful were these creatures?  They had seen the rise and fall of kingdoms and knew the world when it was young.  Names that were just legends to him were real to them: Fingolfin, Gondolin, Nargothrond, Thuringwethil, Celebrimbor.  How could he, a 60-year-old mage from Logath, hope to keep them under his power forever?

He picked up the leather-bound tome that the Lord of Angmar gave him and began reading again.  It seemed that whenever he read, new sections of the book were added.  It was a sorcery beyond his ability or comprehension.  He flipped through the pages, trying to find more references to the Blood-Wights.  He stopped at a chapter that spoke of the Tower of Tirith Aeluin in the region of Dorthonion.  There was a woman named Irimë, who lived there, but the name was unfamiliar to him. She had a secret affair with a man named Maglor, which resulted in four children.  During a cataclysmic battle, the vampire, Thuringwethil captured Irimë and one of her daughters, Alquanessë.  Over time, she captured all of the siblings and turned them into vampires. Ethacali was sure that the tome was written by none other than Sauron, who perished at the end of the last age. Who else would have knowledge that ancient.

Then, something caught his attention.  “Wait, what? There’s a cure?”  Maybe this was something that he could hold over them, assuming that they even wanted to be cured.  He would take anything that would give him leverage.  He could never show this to his subordinates but he knew that he was no match for their strength should they get free of the power of the runes. He would need to dispatch scouts to find the proper items and ingredients, just to be prepared.  Then, he narrowed his eyes as he thought of something.  “But the Witch-King wants them as weapons.”  He sighed.  This was going to be sticky.  He motioned to Oologg, who came back into the tent.  “My friend, send this message to Athrug and Urfase,” he said as he wrote down the details of the cure.  “Tell them that they need to procure these things.  Price and force are no object.”

“Yes, mage.”

As the troll left, the ranger, Hirgrim, entered with one of his sergeants, Castor.  The captain of the Cultirith was easily recognized by the scars that snaked across his body from numerous battles.  He wore a leather cuirass and greaves that were tinted bronze. His dark hair just began graying as he approached middle age.  “Ethacali, the tower is surrounded,” he said in his gravelly voice.  “We’ve begun setting the siege lines just out of bowshot.  I did lose one man to a stray arrow though. When should we begin the attack?”

Hirgrim was initially angry that an outsider from the east was given command, so Ethacali did his best to include the captain in his plans.  “What do you suggest?”

The captain thought for a moment, seemingly pleased to make the decision.  “I would like to wait until the siege engines are completed. We outnumber them, but we are only light infantry.  The Vulseggi in there have heavy cavalry, which we cannot stand against in open battle. And those tribesmen with us…let me just say that they are unsteady in a stand up fight.  Cagh’s boys are a little bit better, but none of them are going to live through a charge of heavy horse with lances.”

Ethacali nodded.  “Very good.  Thank you for your opinion on this.  That is what we will do.  Send out word to Lumban and Cagh.”

As Hirgrim tilted his head and walked out of the tent, Ethacali motioned to Castor.  “Stay a moment.  I have something for the Cultirith.”  When Hirgrim was out of earshot, the mage put a bag of gold coins in the sergeant’s hand and their eyes met with some secret knowledge between them. “Our arrangement still stands.  Keep an eye on him.”  The sergeant grinned and then departed.            

Now, it was time for the infected grain to take effect in the tower along with his agent in the waenhosh. The ring would be most crucial of all to an easy victory here.  He could then return to Carn Dȗm victorious, receive his reward and make his way back to Logath.  He lay back in his bed and pictured Ethanya cooking his favorite beef broth as his grandchildren laughed and played at his feet. 

Chapter End Notes

Ethacali learns more about the nature of the Blood-Wights and knows that he is outmatched.  But can he outthink them and maintain control?  His plan nears fruition and he can return to his family that he loves so much.

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The Tirthon, Cerveth 12^th, 1407

Over the light dusting of snow, the waenhosh tore out of the gates of Ynarri’s Drift and veered north towards the tower as a smattering of arrows fell around them, some hitting and imbedding into the wood of the wagons.  Dagar was wide eyed with fear as he brought up the rear of the fleeing caravan. Against his first instincts, he insisted on being the last one out of the gate.  Mercatur and the other mercenaries sat in the back of the wagon, taking shots with their crossbows.  They packed everyone that they possibly could in the wagons, while a few of the faster ones ran alongside.  Dagar slapped the reins hard, driving the oxen as fast as they could run.

Mercatur fired a bolt that caught one of the Cultirith in the throat and the ranger went down hard.  The rangers fired another volley and more arrows thunked into the side of the wagons.  “I don’t know what they’re playing at,” yelled the mercenary.  “But they ought to be charging us about now and they’re not!”

Dagar looked back and saw the line of Cultirith archers take a knee and fire another volley that fell far short of the fleeing wagons or villagers.  He was just glad that their fire wasn’t accurate and did not have the mental energy to process what Mercatur was saying.  The gates to the wooden palisade were now open and northmen on horseback with lances and crossbows waited outside.  While they wore chainmail hauberks and conical nasal helmets, one man wore a black robe with a light gray cloak.  He waved to them to keep coming.  “Nasen!  We have you covered!  This way!”

The ten Vulseggi cavalry trotted forward and encircled the wagons, giving them protection from any attack. Their steel helmets, with a piece of metal covering the nose, glinted in the morning light.  Dagar could see intricate geometric patterns etched into the steel, common among the Northrons.  Their artistry was something that he admired about their culture.  He recognized the Lance, Ecegar, and saw an older Northron in heavy chainmail with a flanged mace at his belt and a lance under his arm.  “This way, Master Dagar,” the Lance called out, pointing to the open gate.  “We’ll guide you in.  This is our sergeant, Tonfall.  We’d follow him into the gates of Carn Dȗm if he asked nicely.”

Tonfall tilted his head at Dagar but kept watch on the Cultirith.  In another couple of minutes, they were through the gate, and it was slammed shut by footmen wearing ringmail and leather armor.  The man in the black robes walked up to Nasen and extended his hand. He had a shock of white hair and looked to be in his 60s.  As villagers bent over or collapsed to the ground in exhaustion and fear, Nasen brought the old man over to Dagar.  “Young master, this is Wiglaf Harcarl, the hallweard of the tower.  He is the brains behind what makes this place run.  All food, supplies and stores go through him. Wiglaf, the young master will be taking over for Culberth in a few years.”

Wiglaf looked puzzled at first.  “I thought that was going to be you, Nasen?”

“Change of plans,” Nasen said and then pursed his lips.  “Dagar has proven very capable in this year’s waenhosh though.”

Wiglaf smiled and extended his hand.  “Very well. Well met, young Dagar.  Welcome to the Tirthon.  Here, let’s get your grain and stores into the barns over there,” he said, pointing to a nearby wooden building.  Workers and wealli debt servants came out of barns and began unloading the barrels and crates from the wagons along with Old Pad, Nig and Cisgid. “You’ve come at the right time.  Those bastards will smash a few things, tromp around our fields and steal our corn and barley in the field, and they’ll vanish into the woods by autumn.”

“Just like every year,” Nasen said with a chuckle.  “We’ve seen this play too many times now, haven’t we, Wiglaf?”

Mercatur stepped up with Jaabran.  “We were running pretty hard so you may not have noticed, but those rangers did not press the attack like they should have.  Not a single arrow hit anything important.  I’m telling you that something’s not right.  I’ve worked the Dunnish Track for ten years, fought Hirgrim more than a few times and this has never happened.”

Dagar started to respond when one wealli dropped a barrel and it fell over, spilling grain.  He ran over.  “Here, let me help you…wait,” he said, looking at and then picking up some of the sheafs of wheat.  “Hey, look here!  On some of the kernels…they’re blackened.  This is ergot.  The whole barrel has been infected.  That can’t be.  We inspected all of them prior to departure.”

Wiglaf stooped down and grabbed a handful of sheafs.  “Blast! You’re right, Master Dagar.  The whole barrel is a loss.”

A cold pit grew in Dagar’s stomach and his face twisted in horror.  “We need to inspect every barrel, every crate.  This could be a disaster.  We bake that into bread and we’ll all go insane.”  He pointed at the other workers and wealli.  “You men there.  Open the crates and barrels.  We need to see if there is any other infection.  This is horrible, simply horrible.”  He went from one barrel to the next, having forgotten Mercatur’s concerns.

When all of the stores were inspected, he blew out a sigh of relief.  “It’s still not ideal, but only three barrels were infected, and we’ve contained the rest,” he told Nasen and Wiglaf.  “I think this will get you through the winter.”  All of the preparations and study that he had done with his father was paying off.

Wiglaf smiled while Nasen stood, stonefaced.  “I was definitely worried, Master Dagar,” the hallweard said.  “You did good again and I am grateful.  You’ll get the full amount plus the bonus for being on time. I’ll have the gold for you when you are ready to depart.”  He looked up at the sky as a snowflake fell on his face.  “And what is with this snow in summer.  I have never seen anything like this.”  He sighed and shook his head.  “Anyhow, we have quarters for you and your men up in the tower.  The villagers will have to use the workers’ quarters next to the barn.  Here, let me lead you up to the tower.  The lord is…indisposed and Sir Oswy is busy preparing the defense, so you’re stuck with me.”

They walked to the tower where they passed the gate that was adorned with carvings of horses and then through two raised portculli.  Further down the corridor were murder holes and arrow slits where boiling oil could be poured and arrows fired into attackers.  They turned right at the intersecting hallway, which was covered in rich tapestries that depicted life in Rhudaur: landscapes, setting suns and forests.  They turned into the kitchen where several cooks stood near boiling pots and frying pans.  Nasen broke off.  “I need to meet with the cook.  I want to check their pantry space.”

Wiglaf motioned Dagar up a stairway that then turned into a spiral staircase up the tower.  “Your quarters are up here.  Not a lot of space, mind you, but it’ll fit your team.”

“Thank you, good Wiglaf. We very much appreciate your hospitality,” he said as he looked back to see Nasen give one of the cooks a golden ring. He wondered what that was about, but it was probably just something personal.  Mercatur had personal business with Lord Rhudainor after all.  On the Second Level, the hallweard led him to the two guest quarters room.  It would be a little tight, but manageable.

Dagar did a quick inspection and found it satisfactory.  He was quickly getting used to sleeping in sacks in the wagons or on the road so this was a step up.  “I should get back to our people.  I should get back to our people and help them to prepare.  Is there anything that we can do to help you in the siege?”

“That is very kind of you. I will pass that on to Sir Oswy. I’m sure that he could make use of you.”

A tall, red-haired woman came around the corner and saw them.  She was dressed in a form-fitting red gown with golden accents, and her hair was braided with gold wire and yellow flowers.  Wiglaf bowed.  “Lady Éanfled,” he said politely.  Dagar watched this and then bowed as well with a flourish of the Cardolan Court that he had learned from Haedorial.

She smiled brightly and tilted her head in greeting, then raised her nose and put her finger to her cheek.  “Good Wiglaf, I take it that this man is from the caravan?”

“Yes, my lady.  This is good Master Dagar.”

Dagar had always been enamored of nobility and royalty, and he remained with his head low.  He would only rise when given permission by his betters.  “My Lady Éanfled.  I bid your greetings from Tharbad.  I have heard that you spent time in Cardolan.”

Her face registered pleasant surprise.  “Why good Dagar, it has been too long since I have encountered someone from Cardolan, someone so cultured.  Please good Dagar, raise your head.”  She responded exactly like Haedorial told him that a good noble would.  She reached down and gently pulled his face up by his chin. Her touch was electrifying.  “I was a lady of the court in Princess Nirnadel’s house and, I must say that your flourish was fit for the House of the King. Where did you learn such fine manners and culture?”

He gulped, almost unable to speak.  He started to tremble, but he fought to keep his body still.  “My lady, I am honored by your words.  I was…was an accountant in the House of the Nightsingers in Tharbad. I worked for Haedorial, a bard of the Royal Court.”

Éanfled’s eyes widened with joy.  “Haedorial? Of the silver voice?”  She put her hands over her heart.  “I don’t know what to say, good Dagar, you have made my day. When this dreadful siege is over could you please convince him to make a journey to Rhudaur.  My family would pay handsomely for such a treat.”

Dagar put his hand on his chest.  “I will do my best, my lady.”  He was ever so tempted to remain and continue speaking with this delightful lady, but he was also worried about other things.  “My lady, please forgive my rudeness, but I must return to help my people in the yard.  We have many things to do to bring you your grain and stores.  And I have one small request, my lady.”

“Of course, good Dagar. If it is within my power to grant, I shall.”

“There is a woman from the village of Maig Tuira.  It was destroyed by the tribes,” he said and Éanfled gasped, putting her hand over her mouth.  “Yes, completely destroyed.  We brought whom we could here under our protection.  Would you please see that they are treated well?  And there is a woman, Mirthi, who lost her parents and husband and has a young daughter.  Would you allow her to take my place in the guest room?”

“A noble heart and a noble bearing.  Oh, good Dagar, I would love to show you the inside of the court.  The good Princess Nirnadel is young, but she has such fire inside of her.  We had the pleasure of hearing Haedorial many times.  Of course I can grant your request.  Senechal Wiglaf and I will see to your needs.  And your boy, Baga, he is resting in the infirmary.  He had some information about the attackers that I passed onto my husband, Sir Oswy.”

“Thank you, my lady. You are most kind.”

She took his hand.  “Before you go, I would like to show you the surrounding lands.  Here, come with me,” she said, gesturing towards the staircase.  “My good Wiglaf, please accommodate Dagar’s request.”

“Yes, my lady,” the hallweard said with a bow and departed.

She preceded him up the stairs, humming some sort of song that he was unfamiliar with.  “I see you are accustomed to Dúnedain culture and manners. I have so missed that.  What do you call your caravan?  Waen something?  I just cannot bring myself to use Northron or Dunnish terms for things when Sindarin is so much more elegant.  Don’t you agree?”

He wasn’t sure how to answer that, but he nodded anyway.  “Of course, my lady.”

“Hallweard,” she said, using Wiglaf’s title.  “It sounds so weird.  I simply cannot say anything other than senechal or castellan.  We hope to retake Castle Amrodan with King Ostoher’s help. He will have an army that can do this for us in a couple of years.  You would make a fine senechal, I can sense these things.”

They passed through the Third Level where footmen were boiling oil in vats for the defense.  The smell was nearly overpowering but for the arrow slits that provided ventilation.  They went on to the roof that was shielded by thick bronze plates to protect the defenders. Éanfled swept her hand across the landscape of deep, primeval forests, rolling hills and swift rivers.  “It’s beautiful, is it not?  Still, I would trade it for the wonders of Tharbad and Thalion in a minute.”  She forced a smile.

Dagar nodded, but he saw something else that she seemed to overlook.  About 80 tribesmen and rangers surrounded the tower and he thought he could see a troll in the distance.  He was sure that there would be more in the woods.  At best, he thought the tower had 30 defenders, not including the mercenaries from the waenhosh or Penda’s men.  The tribesmen were already busy digging trenches and laying stakes in the ground. “Thank you, my lady.  I should get back to the caravan now and see to my people.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Thank you for brightening my day, good Dagar.  We shall speak again anon.  I would love to play a song for you that I learned from Haedorial.  Perhaps at supper this evening?”

He bowed low with a flourish again and then ran back down the steps.  There was still so much to be done.  He had a nagging thought that this siege would be much more than what everyone was saying.  He suddenly remembered Mercatur’s words.  “I need to speak to him right away.”

Chapter End Notes

Dagar accidentally uncovers part of Ethacali's plan.  I want to portray Lady Eanfled as rather snobby, enamored of court life, much like Dagar is.

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The Tirthon, Cerveth 17^th, 1407

It was already midafternoon as Ethacali stood at the edge of the tree line, surveying the field to the north.  He was surrounded by his orc shamans with the troll, Oologg, by his side.  The two Blood-Wights waited a distance behind him as he found them distracting to his ability to focus on the coming battle.

The mage snorted out his frustration.  The construction of the siege engines was already a day behind schedule.  One onager, a small catapult, had been completed and other engines, including the siege tower, were having difficulties.  “There’s no lack of wood,” he said to Urfase, shaking his head as he gestured to the forests around them.  “I don’t understand the problem.”  The goblin engineers from Gundabad were unreliable and constantly fought amongst themselves, squabbling over everything despite their skill in construction.

He really missed the rolling plains of Logath and the warm breeze that blew over the land.  He suddenly thought about how his mind went less and less to his family.  What was going on?  They had always been his rock, and he would return to them, triumphant.  Having done the bidding of the Necromancer, he would finally retire and spend the rest of his days in peace.  It was all that he wanted.

He pointed to a section of the wooden palisade to the east of the gate.  “You see that there?  Have the onager focus their fire on that area.  We will bring it down and then the orc company will penetrate at that point. The Macha Mur will be in reserve, ready to follow or come in through the open gate.”

Urfase was down on all fours like a beast and licked the back of his hand.  “Of course, great mage.  I will tell Yarnaghk to move his goblins forward.  Your will shall be done, great mage.”

The mage nodded and then pointed to Grashur.  “Once the orcs have secured the breach, I want them to get the gate open for Lumban. We then sweep the Vulseggi back to the tower and capture the barns and the pond.  I want to cut them off from their food and water.  We’ve already wasted three days, and they have been moving grain to the Tirthon.”  He hoped that the infected grain would begin to take effect soon.

Grashur tilted his head and then departed, an orc of few words.  The third shaman, Athrug, fidgeted before he spoke.  “And what do you need of me, mage?  Or am I just to sit around with my thumb up your ass like Urfase?”

Ethacali turned sharply on the orc shaman.  “Mind your tongue, Athrug.  We don’t have to like each other but you do have to obey me else the Witch-King will hear of it.”  His trust in the orc was falling by the day.  “You will remain here in reserve to help exploit any openings that I see.”

Athrug snorted, but bowed his head as the ranger captain, Hirgrim, approached.  “Ethacali, we found an escape tunnel beneath Ynarri’s Drift. That’s how the crippled bastard and his pet pig escaped along with his servants.  We scouted it and the Vulseggi collapsed the tunnel further up, but I would suggest getting some of the goblin engineers on it.  We could dig through in a couple of weeks.”

The sheer number of things to attend to was becoming overwhelming.  Ethacali was a powerful mage, but he always wanted to prove himself as a battlefield commander before he retired.  While he had prepared exhaustively, he was unused to the rapidly changing environment and the inevitable delays that came from logistics. He had never before experienced the reality and fog of war.  “I don’t know if I can spare any engineers before we complete the siege engines, but I will certainly keep it in mind and act upon it once we do.”

Hirgrim nodded. “Understandable.  Do keep it in mind if this siege goes on.  We brought down their messenger birds, but it’s only a matter of time before word gets to Vulfredda of our action here and she sends her cavalry.  We best be done before that happens.”  With that, he made a curt bow and departed.

He watched as Yarnaghk and his goblins moved the onager forward, foot by foot, protected by 20 orc troops with 40 Macha Mur on their flank.  He outnumbered the defenders by about 4 to 1, but he still had to worry about the Vulseggi from Thuin Boid.  He had time, but not an unlimited amount.  He had to plan for every contingency and that bothered him. Despite his misgivings, he needed the Blood-Wights to ensure a quick victory.  He turned and motioned to them just as the first stone was thrown from the onager.  It struck the wooden walls of the palisade and deflected off of it, splintering some of the wood.

Skrykalian approached him, brushing her hand across Athrug’s chest.  The orc inhaled deeply, watching her bare body move past him.  She hung onto the mage’s shoulder and leaned her head on his.  “Yes dear. You’ll want us to dream tonight with the people in the tower, yes?”

Ethacali immediately knew that this was a bad idea, but he had no choice.  “Yes, exactly that,” he tried to say authoritatively, but his voice cracked. He felt her move behind him and massage his shoulders.  It felt wonderful, given all of the stress that he felt.

“You will have to feed us first, you know.  Our power is not unlimited.  We wouldn’t mind an orc or two.  We should make up a sign that I have seen in your human cities full of poverty…what did it say?  Ah yes, will work for food.”  Ethacali had to admit that she had a wry sense of humor for a monster.  If she were not a blood-sucking vampire, they might even enjoy jokes over a cup of coffee and some pastries.  Surely a couple of orcs from his company wouldn’t be missed to keep them fed if they couldn’t secure prisoners.

He saw one large stone shatter a wooden post in the palisade.  It was just a matter of time before that part of the wall was breached. He could see Vulseggi soldiers moving about to prepare for that, but there was nothing that they could do short of a charge to stop it and he had over 70 troops in the way.  One tall knight in gray plate armor directed the defense. Was that the Lord Commander?  He couldn’t tell from this distance. Skrykalian had weakened that man’s mind for a while now and she would do so again tonight.

“So, this attack is only a probe, I see,” Skrykalian said as she burrowed into his mind.  “If it does what you want, great, but you’re not counting on it to take the tower.  Hmmm. Interesting.”  She dug her fingers into his shoulders, and he winced for a moment, but then felt amazing.  “Oh, you have a knot right there.  I’m going to work on it,” she added as she pushed her elbow into his back while pulling with her other hand.  “I can’t wait for darkness so I can get to work.”  It was originally disconcerting as to how she could pull his thoughts and memories out, but he was becoming used to it.

A gap was now open in the wooden wall and orcs charged into the opening, brandishing scimitars and crude pole weapons as the onager switched to another part of the palisade. The orcs were the fodder for his force. Several Vulseggi foot soldiers met them at the breach, lowering spears in a wall.  A vicious melee developed as one orc was speared and other orcs ran for the gate.  An archer popped up over the wall and launched an arrow into another orc and several attackers swarmed a spearman, scimitars rising and falling as blood flew. “That’s it,” the mage said.  “Get that gate open.”

He could see the knight pointing at the gate and a few of the footmen peeled off from the formation and tried to intercept them.  A second fight erupted near the gate as the orcs pushed the wooden bar away.  Two orcs slashed a guard, and he fell backwards, wounded, but a spearman drove the tip of his weapon through one of those orc’s neck.  The gate was now open.  On cue, Lumban led his 40 Macha Mur forward at a run.  With any luck, this would be over today.  Now heavily outnumbered, the Vulseggi retreated in good order, spears outward as the wounded guard scrambled back to the tower.  An orc fired an arrow into the face of a spearman, and he fell over, holding his eye.  His comrades tried to drag him behind the line, but he was dead.

Ethacali felt that it was going well until they could see horsemen forming up.  About a dozen Northron cavalry were assembling in a line, lances held high.  A squire handed the knight his lance and the cavalry began to move ahead.  The mage felt a lump in his throat.  He felt a tug on his shoulder.

“We could stop this for you,” Skrykalian said.  “You just have to say the word.”

He was conflicted but shook his head.  “No, let it play out.  I don’t want to reveal you two just yet.  I want you to keep undermining their leadership.”

“Oh, how boring,” she cooed, working on his neck now.  “When will you trust us?”

“When this is done, and the north is ours.”  As he feared, the cavalry smashed into the horde of orcs and the Macha Mur at the gate. Lances tore through orc and tribesmen’s bodies and horses smashed into their now panicked ranks.  The knight drew a slender longsword that glowed blue, and he slashed down at an orc, splitting its head.  One horseman was pulled down and gutted, but the attack had failed.  Orcs and tribesmen began streaming back, some throwing down weapons as they ran, some limping with injuries.

“Hmmm,” Skrykalian murmured. “It might take a little longer than you think.  Are you sure you have enough time left as a human?”

He did not want to appear weak to her and somehow, her opinions began to matter to him.  “It’s all part of the plan.  We weakened them some and my secret attacks will begin to manifest soon.  We must be patient in these things.”

She pointed to the gap in the palisade that was now being barricaded with wood and rocks.  “I get the feeling that they’ve done this before. And, how adorable of you to tell me that I need to be patient.  I mean, I’ve only been around about Fifty-Two-Hundred years…give or take.”

He had his suspicions as to how old she was, but hearing it was staggering.  It was an age unimaginable to a human.  He was about to answer when the some of the wounded began to stream into the camp while the orcs and men that were still hale reformed a line.  It was not a complete disaster.  Six orcs were dead and seven Macha Mur with a few injured that were led back to an infirmary. Urfase and Grashur had returned as well. “We’ve taken some losses, great mage,” Urfase said, licking his hand.  Skrykalian mimicked this behavior, taking long strokes with her tongue in a clearly sensual way.

Ethacali tried to look away, but he found it very difficult until he heard Grashur.  “Your orders, mage?”

He shook his head and cleared his throat.  “Umm, have the troops continue to dig trenches and tell Yarnaghk to hurry up with the siege equipment.  We need that soon.  I’ll be in my tent reading the tome.”  He walked away, Oologg behind him.  In another moment, the Blood-Wight was beside him, skipping like a schoolgirl in Logath. He glanced back to see Athrug’s eyes upon her the whole time with a look on his face that he knew would be trouble. “I don’t need your assistance at this time, Skrykalian…or should I say, Alquanessë,” he said, trying to throw her off guard.  He wanted her to be the one who was uncomfortable for once.

She clapped and bounced on her toes.  “Well done, Ethacali,” she said excitedly.  “You’ve found our secret.  What else do you know?”  She seemed entirely unfazed by the probe.  Disappointed, he continued walking and she resumed skipping along.

“You were a lady of the High Elves, among the nobility.  Thuringwethil turned you and your siblings.  You became devoted followers of Morgoth and then Sauron and advanced the cause of darkness.”  He kept hoping to see some level of discomfort in her.

She tilted her head, narrowed her eyes and raised one side of her mouth.  “Umm, mostly true, but not entirely.  You kind of had to be there.  But then again, you humans pass in the blink of an eye to me.  And a lot of history gets lost or muddled after time so I can’t fault you for your ignorance.”  They reached the entrance to the tent and the Blood-Wight stared at Oologg. “Go wait over there,” she said with a tilt of her head, and the troll moved away.  “He’s very obedient.  You taught him well.”

The mage was perturbed that his bodyguard followed her orders, but he knew that the troll was deathly afraid of her.  She held open the tent flap for him and he walked in, then turning to stop her from following.  He had to gain control.  “Thank you, Skrykalian, but you may return to your brother to await the darkness.  Then, continue to make them dream.”

She put her hands on her hips. “What if I refuse?”  The question shocked him.  She had been evasive and manipulative, but never outright disobedient.

He held up his hand and his face became stern, eyes narrowed and jaw taut.  “Then I invoke the rune of binding.  You cannot escape and you are bound by the Necromancer to obey me.”  He pointed his finger at her and then outside the tent.  “Now, do as I say and go.”  She took his hand gently and began sucking on his finger.  His heart skipped a beat.

“I know you look at me,” she said seductively, her voice soft and melodic.  “And you’re jealous of Marendil and Athrug.  We wouldn’t be hurting anyone, and you’ll show that orc who’s boss…who I belong to.”  She guided him inside of the tent and onto a chair.  She sat in his lap, and he couldn’t look away.

“Yes…I need to show him who’s boss.  Yes.” It felt as if he were on a narcotic, his head light and his tongue thick.  She lowered her head, and he could smell her hair, a sweet scent of rose and honeysuckle. “No, no, please Skrykalian…my wife…Ethanya…no, stop.”

She hiked one leg up and he could see all of her.  “Shall I stop?”

He began to tremble. “I…I…please.”  The intoxication was like a tidal wave.  Her cheek brushed his and he could smell her skin and feel that she was a little chill.  “You…you’re cold.”

“I haven’t fed in three days. It would be nice if you treated a lady to dinner.”  She was breathing quickly now, her voice husky.  She guided his hand lower.  She inhaled sharply and let out a soft moan.

He could no longer stand it. He lifted her up with a grunt and set her down on the bed.  She smiled up at him, a sweet, innocent smile, which he knew was anything but.  Part of the tome flashed through his mind as he removed his robes.  The men of the region called her a succubus, a corrupter of men and a demon of the night. But he was beyond caring.  He felt like he was 18 again, full of energy and vigor. In his mind, he now saw things no living human had seen: the wonders Beleriand, the halls of Nargothrond, the War of Wrath, the marble walls of Ost-in-Edhil and the smiths of the Mírdaithrond.  He felt enveloped by her memories as if he would drown but he wanted to drown.

Afterwards, she lay in his arms, intertwined as he inhaled the musky scent of her sweaty skin and the sweet aroma of her hair.  She breathed quietly as if asleep.  Did Blood-Wights truly sleep?  Right now, to him, she was a beautiful woman, resting peacefully.  He felt a pang of guilt, but was it so bad?  Ethanya would never know, and this would just be a one-time thing.  He could tell that it was night now and crickets were chirping outside as the air grew colder.  He knew that the Witch-King’s sorcery would take full effect soon.  He gently extricated his arm from beneath her neck and reached over to pick up the tome.  She rolled over with a sigh and he saw that her eyes were open, silver with slits like a cat’s.  He gasped in surprise at first but realized that she was dreaming.  Soon, she would be in Marendil’s head, driving him to madness.

Under the light of a lantern, he delved further into the tome.  It spoke more about the wars of Beleriand.  It was both a wonderous and terrifying time with vampires, werewolves, balrogs and dragons, things he could scarcely imagine.  One by one, the ancient elven kingdoms fell and yet they fought on.  He had to admit admiration for their struggle, ill fated though it was.  The tome mentioned something about Alquanessë being an extraordinary singer and dancer, gifted even among the High Elves.  It was something that he truly desired to see.  But he wanted more about Blogath.  He had a bad feeling that he would need her before this was over.  Her birth name was Sercë, a fierce leader under the Prince of the Noldor, Fingon, and all of the siblings followed her command.  If he could just get her on his side, his problems with Skrykalian would be solved.

The woman next to him stirred and yawned, something that he did not expect from a Blood-Wight.  Her eyes focused and she smiled.  “There, Naranantur and I did as you commanded.  Now, Ethacali…now that we are bonded and we have carried out your orders to the letter, I would ask a favor of you.”

He was cautious, not knowing what she would ask.  “I’ll consider it.”

“When this is done, I would ask for freedom for my brother and I.”

He thought for a moment. It would be a bad idea, and the Witch-King specifically instructed him to turn them into weapons against the Dúnedain kingdoms.  Even curing them would defy his orders.  As intoxicated as he was by her, he could not agree.  “The Lord of Angmar has ordered me to make you into weapons for the wars to come.  I’m sorry, but I cannot.”

Her smile faded and her eyes flashed for a moment before her face softened again.  “No matter.  Freedom was just a dream.”  She pursed her lips and then smiled, but he could tell that it was fake.  She put her finger to her ear.  “The results of my dream should be apparent just…about…now.”

The pounding of hooves could be heard along with the screams of orcs and goblins.  As Ethacali leapt out of bed and pulled on his pants, he could hear a man yelling, “Burn the onager!  Burn it!  That’s it! Fall back!  Fall back!”

The mage ran out, shirtless and could see the onager in flames with several dead orcs and goblins lying next to it, some with lances driven clean through.  He could just make out the Vulseggi cavalry reaching the palisade gate.  He kicked the ground in anger and grunted.  Looking back at his tent, he saw Skrykalian shrug.  “Sorry, the dream had a different effect tonight.  Try again tomorrow?” she said in an almost singsong voice.

He moved her aside and walked into his tent.  She tried to follow, but this time, he found the strength to stop her.  “I’m not in the mood.  We will speak more tomorrow.”  Just then, the snow began to fall in thick sheets.  He sat down again and put his face in his hands and began to shake.  He tried to picture his wife’s face, but the image was blurry and distorted in his mind.  He pulled out the cameo of Ethanya and willed himself to look at it.  Tears began to roll down his cheek.  “What have I done?  What have I done?”

He wiped his nose and put the cameo away.  Beyond his personal agony, there was the matter of the destroyed onager, and the casualties that his force were taking.  If he were to fail here, any personal angst would pale in comparison to the what he would face in Carn Dȗm.  Getting home in one piece might not even be an option.  He took long, steady breaths to regain control, just like when he was learning to be a mage.  Control was paramount when casting powerful spells and focus had always been his forté. His heartbeat returned to normal, and he exhaled a sigh of relief.  It was just a one-time thing, he told himself again, a foolish mistake in a weak moment and it was something that he would take to his grave.  Right now though, he needed rest and would focus on the siege again tomorrow.   

Chapter End Notes

I wanted to portray the relationship between Ethacali and Skrykalian as a cat and mouse and have the mage know that he is playing with things beyond his control or imagining.  I always wanted to write a succubus and show the raw, seductive power of one over her victims, but Skrykalian is also a victim.  I did a fair amount of research about siege warfare to make it more realistic.

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The Tirthon, Cerveth 20^th, 1407

Mercatur glanced out of a window at the slowly setting sun and scratched at his chin beneath his thick, brown beard.  “The lord is indisposed…again?” he asked with a frustrated sigh.  “Look Wiglaf, it’s been days now and I have some personal business with Marendil.  He’s my…cousin.”

The Hallweard shrugged. “I figured, but I don’t know what to tell you.  If you have a problem, bring it up to Sir Oswy. He’s…uhhh…been running things while the lord attends to…other matters.”

“I know you’re blowing it out your ass, Wiglaf, but I got nowhere else I gotta be so I’m not going anywhere.”

Wiglaf patted the mercenary on the shoulder.  “Have it your way.  You know where to find Sir Oswy.  I have to attend to the new stores.  We thank you for making the journey.  The grain comes none too soon.  And don’t worry.  The pay is good this year.”

Mercatur nodded.  Wiglaf was an old friend who even knew his father. He knew that the Hallweard was going to be busy so he stopped pressing the issue. “Sure thing.  And hey, congratulations on your new kid, Wiglaf, you old dog.  But seriously, keep an eye out.  I’m telling you, this is not a normal smash and grab raid this year.  Something’s up.  Just look at the snow in summer.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it, and I will keep an eye out.  Thanks for the warning,” Wiglaf said and headed down the stairs to the kitchen.

Mercatur blew out another frustrated sigh.  He looked down the hall towards Oswy and Éanfled’s quarters.  “Eh, what the hell,” he said, walked over and began knocking. Éanfled answered the door, wearing a sheer nightgown that left little to the imagination.  The mercenary snuck a peek and then averted his eyes.  “Umm, Lady Éanfled, is your husband around.  I have a question for him.”

“No, my good mercenary, but he will be back soon.  We can wait for him in the library,” she said, taking his arm and guiding him to the next room.  She opened the door and ushered him inside.  “Please, have a seat.  So, am I to understand that you are related to Lord Rhudainor?”

Mercatur bowed as he passed and entered the garishly decorated library.  The room was paneled in crimson with paisley patterns, brass lanterns on the walls and silver candelabra on the tables.  Wooden bookshelves held novels, nature guides and scrolls of poetry and songs along with several lap harps.  An elegantly varnished spinning wheel and a loom sat in the corner, covered with sewing tools.  He straightened his wool tunic that he had just washed in the pond.  “Thank you, my lady and yes, Lord Rhudainor is my cousin. Our fathers were…brothers,” he said, instinctively falling back into more polite speech, fit for the nobility. “I have some personal business with him regarding my inheritance.”

“I see,” she said as she picked up a pitcher and filled two brass goblets.  She put one goblet down on the end table next to Mercatur and brushed his arm as she went to her seat.  “Mmm, you’re very muscular.  From your hard-fought battles, no doubt.”

He sipped the apple cider, enjoying its tart, sour flavor.  “Thank you, my lady.  I have been working up and down the Dunnish Track for ten years now.  There are always bandits and raiders.”

“Oh, how dreadful,” she exclaimed, putting her hands over her mouth.  “I can say that I for one am glad that you survived.  So, am I to call you Lord Rhudainor as well?”

He shook his head.  “I am afraid not.  At least not yet.  I…uhhh…was a rather rebellious youth and was disinherited.  Carousing suited me more than classical studies and managing the household finances.  My father passed earlier this year and, it seems that he wanted to rescind that. But that is entirely up to the Lord Rhudainor now.  I hope to have it sorted quickly.”

“Your story reminds me of good Master Dagar’s.”

Mercatur nodded.  “Yes, yes it does.  I have to say that I have a soft spot for him.  I understand what he is going through.”

“He is a delightful young man. We sang together the other night. He is raw, but he has potential. He studied in Tharbad, you know. Such a wonderful city.  So full of life.  Now, good Mercatur, have you told Dagar of this?”

He tilted his head down. “Umm, no, I have not.”

The door opened and Éanfled stood to greet her husband.  “Perhaps you should,” she said to the mercenary.  She gave Oswy a polite peck on the cheek and gestured for him to enter. “Would you like some apple cider, my husband?”

He nodded but pointed at her nightgown.  “Go and change, Éanfled.  Our guest doesn’t need to be seeing all of that.”

She chuckled.  “Of course, dear husband.  I wouldn’t want any undue attention now, would I?”  She bowed and left.

Oswy grunted and rolled his eyes before he focused on Mercatur.  “Sorry, what can I do for you?” he asked with a slight edge, warrior to warrior.

Mercatur slid away from his polite speech and spoke as a hardened mercenary.  “Look Oswy, Marendil is my cousin.  I need to settle some personal business with him, nothing fancy, I’m not here to mess him up, but it’s an inheritance thing, you know. Anyway you could get me in to see him or even give him a message.  I gotta get this thing resolved.”  He pulled a necklace from his pocket and displayed it, showing the sigil of a bronze wyvern as the centerpiece of the pendant.  “If you show him this, he’ll know it’s me.”

Oswy took the necklace and then furrowed his brows.  “At first, I thought against helping you, but I think that this is a good thing.  I’m going to be honest.  I’m worried about Lord Rhudainor.  Ever since his wife Eitheriel died in childbirth, he’s been a mess and it’s gotten much worse in the last week or so.  I’ve been pretty much running things and making excuses for him. Maybe seeing you will help.”  He handed the necklace back to Mercatur. “Here, you can show him.”

“I hope so.  Hey, and great raid the other night.  I heard you destroyed one of the onagers.  I’m here so let me know how I can help.  I’ve already been paid to fight so I’m here to fight.”

The knight nodded. “Much appreciated and I’m going to take you up on that.  It’s been fairly quiet since then other than a few raids on both sides.  We’ve been running up our kill totals while sustaining only a few casualties.  I am worried though, that their defensive fortifications are improving, and quick cavalry strikes will become more hazardous as time goes on.”  He stood up and motioned for Mercatur to follow.  They went through the conference room into the den where the chamber had been turned into a shrine to Eitheriel.  There were multiple paintings and drawings of her on the walls and on tables and desks, all surrounded by lit candles.  The mercenary had never met her but knew of the marriage and of her grace and charm.  At the door to Marendil’s bedchamber, Oswy stooped down and picked up a silver platter full of food.  “He’s barely eating,” Oswy said in a worried voice.  He knocked.  There was no answer.

Oswy tried the doorknob, and it was unlocked.  He eased the door open, and they saw dim candlelight.  He looked back at Mercatur, his face with a deep worried expression, eyes narrowed and mouth slightly open.  He knocked again.  “Lord Rhudainor?”  They could see a shape in the bed, tossing and turning, seeming to fight some unseen force.

The lord grunted and groaned. “No…no…I have to.  Why?”

Oswy went over and knelt down, gently rocking Marendil’s shoulder.  “Lord Rhudainor.  Can you hear me?  Lord-”

Marendil bolted up with a start, his eyes wide and mouth agape.  “Eitheriel, no!  I will show you that I’m brave.  Do not call me a coward!”  His eyes darted back and forth and then focused on the knight.  “Oswy, she’s alive.  Eitheriel is alive.  She’s telling me that we need to end this now, else I am a coward.”  He practically jumped out of bed.  “Muster the Vulseggi.  We charge them at first light.  We drive them away and make an example of them.  You do not mess with the Tirthon.”  He looked around as if searching for something.  Not finding it, he became frantic.  “Where did she go?  She was right here.  Oswy, didn’t you see her?  She was sitting right here, talking to me.”  His eyes were wild, his hair disheveled with three days of stubble on his face.

Oswy shook his head. “No, my lord.  She…she passed.  She’s gone.”

With a slice of his hand, Marendil shook his head.  “No, no! You don’t know what you’re talking about.  She’s just outside in the den, reading as usual.  Another baby is on the way.  It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

Mercatur gave Oswy a look, his eyes narrowed but said nothing.  Marendil began to walk to the den but made eye contact with the mercenary.  He tapped Mercatur on the chest.  “I know you…Mercatur…cousin.  How are your parents?  It’s been a long time since Eitheriel and I visited.”

The mercenary took a step back and sighed.  “Umm, they passed.  Earlier this year.  I wanted to speak to you about my inheritance, but it can wait.  You clearly have something going on.  I just need your signature as head of the house.”

“Of course, of course, I’m happy to do that.  Come, come, I want to introduce you to Eitheriel.  She’s an absolute delight,” Marendil said and proceeded to the den. They followed him in, and he began searching again.  They watched in increasing horror as he turned over chairs and moved desks around.  Lord Rhudainor slumped to the carpet and put his head in his hands.  “She is right.  I am a coward.  I am lost.”  Then, his eyes focused on someone who was clearly not there.  “There you are love.”  He extended his hand to the unseen person and stood back up.  “Thank you.  I will make this right.  We will end this at first light, and I will show you true courage.”

A sudden chill seemed to enter the room and Mercatur got a bad feeling.  He went to the window and looked out, seeing only a swan flying away. “Who are you talking to, Marendil?”

“Why…Eitheriel.  She was…you must have scared her off.  She can be a little shy.”

Mercatur moved back to him. “What did you see?”

Marendil sat and stroked his chin, rubbing the stubble with his nails.  “Her…my wife.  Always so elegantly dressed.  But sometimes, she looks like an elf with black hair, but I know it’s my Eitheriel.”

The mercenaries blood ran cold, and he shot Oswy a look.  “Marendil, look, I think you might be under a spell.  I saw an elf woman with black hair in the Dunnish camp along with a mage. I don’t think that this is a coincidence.”

Marendil sucked his teeth and then shook his head.  “Ah, this is a joke between you and my wife.  Very funny. I appreciate you trying to bolster my spirit.”  He stood sharply and grasped Oswy by the arm.  “Follow my orders and muster the Vulseggi.  We end this tomorrow.  Mercatur, you will join us for glory.”

Oswy blew out a long breath. “Yes, my lord.  We will be ready by dawn.”  He walked past them and gave Mercatur a look of concern.

The mercenary relished the thought of battle, but something weird was going on here.  There was nothing that he could do so he shrugged and pulled the writ of inheritance that was in his pouch.  “Hey, Marendil, if you could just sign here, I’ll be out of your hair.”

Lord Rhudainor looked for a quill and ink and then scribbled his signature onto the scroll.  He poured some wax from a candle onto the paper and pushed his signet ring into the runny wax.  He nodded.  “Good, good, I want to see you taken care of, cousin.  Eitheriel says that we will destroy them tomorrow and you can collect your inheritance.  What is it, exactly?”

Mercatur flipped his hand up. “Eh, it’s an old manor house and some farmland near Thuin Boid.  I was thinking about selling it and moving to Cardolan.”

“Ah, Cardolan.  It seems many of we Rhudaurans are doing just that. I can’t blame you.  I would truly think about going with you, but I have an oath to House Melossë.”  It seemed like the lord was his old self, talking to his cousin.  He made a resigned nod of his head.  “It appears that I’m stuck here, cousin and I’ll make the best of it as I have my dear Eitheriel.  Well, I’m glad that I could help you and I will see you tomorrow on the field as we ride to glory.”

A smile cracked on the mercenary’s lips.  “Yeah, glory…I like that.”

The dawn came all too quickly and Mercatur blinked his eyes, having bagged a few hours of sleep, waking every so often to watch a candle burn down and to listen to the distant sound of saws and hammers.  He actually felt excited for the coming fight.  He was a mercenary after all, and it was his love of fighting that angered his parents.  He rose, washed his face and ran a brush over his teeth.  He glanced into his mirror and pushed his fingers through his hair. “Hey, Gamrid, Jaabran, up and at em. Let’s end this thing today, grab our gold and head home.”  The other two mercenaries groaned and rolled out their cots.  He strapped on a leather jerkin and pulled on his breeches.  He then put on a heavy chainmail hauberk over his shoulders that hung down to his thighs, followed by steel couters to cover his elbows, polyens to cover his knees and greaves to cover his shins.  He carefully secured the leather straps and tucked the ends in.  A steel gorget then covered his throat with gauntlets for his hands.  He picked up a thick barbute helmet and put it under his arm. A single-bladed axe with a sharp spike at the back hung at his belt along with a wide bladed dirk in a jeweled scabbard with an intricately carved bone handle, a gift from his parents when he was a teen.  He was ready for battle.  

They went to the yard where the Vulseggi were gathering.  Marendil was already mounted on a white horse, wearing silver plate armor with a pigeon-breasted cuirass over his chest that had a prominent medial ridge to deflect blows. The visor of his helmet was up, and it was clear that he had shaved and bathed for the battle.  A squire held his lance, and a long-bearded axe hung at his belt. Oswy wore his gray plate armor and carried a kite-shaped shield in his left hand.  Eighteen Vulseggi, including the two sergeants and three lances, stood beside their mounts, awaiting the command.  Mercatur had to admit that it was one of the most spectacular things that he had ever seen.  A stable hand held the reins of his horse.  He put a foot into a stirrup and then swung his leg over the saddle, a fine piece of leather craftsmanship with a pommel and high cantle, designed to keep the rider in place during a fight.

Oswy nudged his horse over to Mercatur and pointed to the enemy line in the slowly growing light.  “We had a couple of inches of snow overnight. It will slow the charge, and they worked on their defenses all night.  I fear that this will not be as easy as we hope but I will not be called a coward by our lord.  Fight hard but be careful.  Should today go ill for us, fall back to the gate.  Our archers will cover you from the walls.  Or, break for the woods to the north.  The tribes are actually superstitious about the forest, calling it the Yfelwood.  They claim it’s haunted by blood sucking demons, a succubus among them?”

“A succubus?”

“I doubt it’s real but it’s a female demon that seduces men to their doom.  The tribesmen claim that an ancient evil lives in the forest.  In ages past they would sacrifice people to a dark lord using the demons to drink their blood.  The succubus would twist men and bring them dark dreams, ruining their minds.”  Oswy shrugged, raising the steel pauldrons over his shoulders.  “Personally, I think it’s all superstitious bullshit.”

It was like someone punched him in the gut.  “Oswy, wait. Marendil, do you-” he began before the horn sounded.

The knight raised his lance. “Where now is the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?  Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?” he called out, reciting an old Northron poem as his blond hair flowed out the back of his helmet.

The gate to the palisade was opened, and the cavalry rode out in double file.  Mercatur could see the Macha Mur and Siol Nȗnaw tribesmen raise shields and raise spears as the few remaining orc bowmen filled in behind them. He looked around to see if he could find Hirgrim and his Cultirith, but they were nowhere to be seen.  He thought that it would be bad if the enemy attacked the Tirthon while the cavalry was fighting but there was nothing he could do about it now.

Marendil strapped his shield to his left arm and stood in the saddle.  “Form wedge!  Form wedge!” and the riders reformed into an arrowlike group, designed to slice through a line of infantry.  He looked over and nodded.  “It will be good to fight by your side, cousin.  Mere tribesmen cannot withstand a charge of heavy horse and Eitheriel will prepare us a victory feast when this is done.  For House Rhudainor!”  He yanked on the reins and his horse reared.  When it came down, he put spurs to flank, and his mount broke into a gallop.  Mercatur tried to say something but he was swept up in the charge.

The thunder of hooves was near deafening, even over the soft snow.  For ten long seconds it seemed that they would be unstoppable until a long spear ripped completely through one horse and rider.  Mercatur glanced back as they collapsed into the snow.  It was a ballista.  He yelled over to Gamrid and Jaabran.  “Stay close and watch for that damn thing!”  Orcish arrows flew and dug into shields but two found a rider and he tumbled from the saddle.  The mercenary could see Lumban now and he grit his teeth and raised his axe.  He would love to separate that freak’s head from his body.

Dunnish spears came up to meet Northron lances and the lines crashed together.  Horses and men screamed as lance and spear drove through flesh.  Hooves lashed out and more arrows flew.  It was chaos. Mercatur brought his axe down into the face of a Macha Mur, who made a sickening croak as the mercenary pulled it out. He swung back, driving the spike on the backside into an orc’s head as his horse kicked another tribesman.  One of the Lances, Lassar, screamed next to him, putting his hands over an arrow in his eye.  A spear brought down another horse and the rider toppled over.  Oswy laid about him with his glowing longsword, hewing the arm off of a Dunman while Marendil swung his axe into the throat of another.

Another ballista bolt ripped through a rider, flinging him many feet back as Jaabran sliced the throat of an orc with his scimitar.  Mercatur howled with glee in the thick of the fight.  It was what he was born for, and he was glad that Dagar paid better than anything that Lumban offered.  Gamrid rode over an orc as Mercatur slammed the spike of his axe into a tribesman’s nose. The two mercenaries made eye contact and grinned.

Then, he heard an evil shriek overhead.  “What the…?” Two winged people dove down on them, one male with black wings and one female with white.  He recognized them as the elves from the Dunnish camp and knew that the legends were true.  The male held a black sword and swept by a rider.  The man stopped in the saddle and dropped his sword, wide eyed as his head slid from his shoulders.  The female swooped down and seized Gamrid with her clawed hands and she ripped him from his saddle.  Mercatur heard a scream and watched as she flew away with his friend.  Her jaw extended beyond anything humanly possible, and she sank her fangs into Gamrid’s throat.  Blood poured down his body, dripping back to earth.  The woman flung his limp body away and grinned at Mercatur, blood coating her body.  He howled in rage, shaking his axe but he was powerless.

The battle was devolving into a vicious brawl, individual fights erupting everywhere.  All order was lost.  Some Vulseggi riders lost their nerve and spurred their horses back to the palisade as orcs and tribesmen fled, screaming into the woods.  Marendil was shouting, “Stand firm!  We have them!”  The ground was littered with dead orcs, tribesmen, horses and riders.  The lord drove his horse over two tribesmen and swung his axe into Lumban’s shield.  The Macha Mur chief grunted and stumbled back by the force of the blow when a ballista bolt slammed into Marendil’s chest through a gap in his armor.  The lord spat blood through his visor and put a hand on the wooden shaft as his axe fell from his hand.

Mercatur spun his horse and spurred it towards his cousin.  “Marendil!  I’m coming!” He rode over a wounded tribesman and swung his axe into an orc’s head.  He could see Lumban move in for the kill so he reared his horse up and its hooves kicked the chief’s shield, hurling him back.  He grasped Marendil’s arm.  “We need to get you back!” he yelled over the noise of battle.  The lord smiled at him for a moment before the female demon swept Marendil away.

Oswy rode up to the mercenary. “Fall back!  Fall back!  Rally at the gate!”

Mercatur snarled.  “Not a chance!  I’m going after my cousin!”

“I was wrong!  The demons are real!  Don’t throw your life away!  Rally back and that’s an order!”  What remained of the Vulseggi put spur to horse and they galloped northward to safety.  As they rode within bowshot of the palisade they slowed to a trot.  Lassar was gone along with ten of the Vulseggi riders and Ecegar was wounded.

The young firebrand Lance, Vilhelm, shouted defiance at the enemy until Tonfall calmed him down.  Mercatur watched as the two demons drank from the wounded orcs and tribesmen.  He noted that they seemed to avoid the wounded Vulseggi that remained on the field. The sound of battle was gone, replaced by screams and shrieks.  “If I had know what they were I would have splattered that bitch back then,” he said with a snarl.  “But know this.  I’m coming for you for Gamrid.  I’ll be drinking your blood next time.”

Jaabran nodded and then drank some foul Haradrim concoction from his flask.  “To you, Gamrid.  We will avenge you.”

The gate to the palisade was open and Oswy ushered the men in before the ballista could be moved and aimed at them.  “Inside everyone, inside!  Tend to the wounded and prepare to defend.  They’d be fools to not throw everything at us now.”

Mercatur counted seven Vulseggi who could still fight and four remaining footmen.  “Shit, I hope the stable boys and cooks can swing an axe because we’re going to need them.”

As the palisade gate closed, Dagar ran up to them with Nig and Cisgid.  “I saw what happened,” he said.  “It was horrible but we’re ready to fight.”  There was fear on his face but also determination.  He handed maces to the two wealli.  “Fight and I swear that I will free you and you will be paid for the waenhosh as workers.”  The brothers agreed and took the weapons.  Dagar smiled and looked up at Mercatur.  “That’s three more for you and Old Pad can still swing a sword.  We have Penda and his men plus Baga and the men of the Maig Tuira.  A few strong girls have joined in too.”

“You did all of this while we were away?”

Dagar nodded, a grim smile on his lips and he curled the end of his mustache with his fingers.  “I had to make myself useful.”

Mercatur dismounted and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder.  “You’ve been more than that.  Not now, but I have something to tell you later.”  He dug in his pocket and then handed his necklace to Dagar. “Here, I want you to have this.  I want you to consider yourself part of House Rhudainor.  You’ve earned it.”

The young man took it with reverence and then knelt.  “I am honored, Lord Rhudainor.”

The mercenary chuckled. “I ain’t no lord and I’m not even a sir. Mercatur will do.  I’ll even answer to, ‘hey you.’  Take care of that.  It was my mom’s.”  He was about to add something when the crash of a stone against wood rang out.  He, Dagar and Oswy ran up to the walkway along the palisade.  The last onager was reloading, and the goblins were pushing the ballista forward. There were under 20 Macha Mur left with about 15 Siol Nȗnaw.  There didn’t seem to be any orcs left but 19 Cultirith rangers were now massing.  They might have 25 including the untrained villagers but those demons were out there, and it made Mercatur’s skin crawl.

The screaming on the field had stopped as the sun barely glowed through the gray overcast.  The snow fell heavily now, forcing the enemy to slog through the drifts.  One good thing was that it would slow their attack as much as it did for the Vulseggi. One other thing caught Mercatur’s eye. “Dammit…as if this wasn’t bad enough, they have three trolls pulling a siege tower.  I knew that something was up.  Get ready for a fight.”

Oswy blew his horn and waved his arm above his head.  “We cannot hold them at the Palisade!  Fall back! Fall back to the tower and prepare yourselves.  We fight to the last!  No quarter given!”

A stone shattered a section of the palisade, and the enemy surged forward, screaming for blood. Mercatur thought he smelled smoke, and he looked back to see flames coming out of one of the Tirthon’s windows on the ground level.

“Dammit, I just knew that something was up.  I just knew it!  Jaabran, Dagar, stay close!”

Chapter End Notes

Ethacali's carefully laid plan will come to fruition.  Mercatur secures his inheritance, but is it something he actually wants?  The forces of the Tirthon are spent in a fruitless attack.  Dagar is finding his way but the enemy is launching its final assault. 

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The Tirthon, Cerveth 20^th, 1407

Watching the Vulseggi flee was a validation of Ethacali’s planning and preparation.  He continued to invoke the rune of control, forcing Naranantur and Skrykalian to do his bidding and to attack.  They were reluctant at first, so a little display of power was needed to adjust their attitude.  Taking to the air, they dove down, cleaving through the enemy line. Once they tasted blood, urging them to continue to attack was unnecessary and their need for blood would drive them. When he saw Skrykalian sweep Lord Rhudainor from his horse, he motioned with his hand to summon her.  He was expending a lot of energy, but she would replenish him soon.

Skrykalian landed and lay Lord Rhudainor down on the snowy ground.  Her body was covered in blood as she knelt before the mage.  “By your command,” she said through gritted teeth. “I have done what you forced me to do.” The lord struggled on the ground, wrestling with the bolt in his chest.  The Blood-Wight gently removed his helmet and stroked his forehead with her hand.  “I’m sorry, my lord.  I had no choice.  I was forced to do this,” she whispered into his ear.

He was gasping for breath, blood coming from his nose and mouth.  “Eitheriel…Eitheriel, you saved me.”  He reached up and touched her cheek.  “You’re covered in blood?  What happened?  Are you hurt?”

Skrykalian’s hand trembled and her breath caught in her throat.  “No love. I am unhurt.  All will be well soon.”

Ethacali was growing impatient at the display.  She was to be a tool, no more, he told himself.  Growing attached to her victim was not supposed to happen.  And he found himself jealous again, a cold pit in his stomach.  Watching her caress the man angered him.  “Enough Skrykalian.  Finish him. I need the energy.  Controlling you and your brother is tiring.”

She seemed to ignore him as she grasped the bolt firmly.  “Relax love, I’m going to remove this.  I need you to be strong.”  She bit her wrist and then let a few drops of her blood fall into his mouth.  “This will ease the pain.”  She put her other hand on his chest and yanked hard to pull the bolt out.  He grunted and winced but nothing more.  She let drops of her blood fall onto the wound and his bleeding stopped.

The mage grit his teeth every time she called Lord Rhudainor ‘love’ but he controlled his breathing and heartbeat, inhaling slowly.  He was not supposed to become attached to her.  She is just a tool, he told himself again.  He snorted as he was done with her antics.  “Skrykalian, I said enough,” he said sharply as he closed his fist, invoking the rune.  She winced and her body contorted.  “Finish him and give me his energy.”  Shame at his betrayal of Ethanya ate at him and he took it out on the Blood-Wight.

She stood, wiped blood from her chest and flicked it at him with her hand, a sure sign of disrespect. “Finish him yourself!”  She put her hands on her hips, daring him to act.

Rage flared in his mind at her defiance…and over his enemy that she now seemed to love.  He closed his fist tighter, and she groaned in pain and doubled over, coughing.  “You will do as I command!” he shouted, his neck taut with veins bulging.  He pushed his hand forward and she fell, kneeling over Marendil.  “Finish him!”

She raised her hand and lowered her head in a submissive posture.  “He’s hurt, Ethacali.  Please, don’t make me do this.  I beg of you.”  She put her body over Marendil as a shield.  “I’ve already caused so much pain and suffering.  No more!  Please free us.”

Her care for the man just enraged Ethacali more.  With a shout, he closed his fist again, as tight as he could and Skrykalian screamed in agony.  He funneled all of his power through the rune and her eyes glazed over.  His aura glowed with dark energy.  “I’m not going to say it again, finish him!”

Her whole body shook as she tried to resist him, but she turned her face towards Lord Rhudainor. “I’m sorry…I’m sorry love.  Please forgive me.  Just close your eyes,” she said quietly.  “Just close your eyes love.  We will be together again soon.”  She cradled his head with both hands.

Marendil stroked her hair. “I trust you Eitheriel,” he said and closed his eyes.  Instead of viciously ripping his throat, she leaned in and kissed him and then gently bit into his neck, sucking the blood as it flowed.  His breathing became slower and weaker.  He opened his eyes and moved her back to look at her one last time.  “You always were so beautiful Eitheriel.  I am such a lucky man,” he whispered as his eyes closed and his breathing stopped.

Skrykalian buried her face into the crook of his neck and let out a shriek that chilled Ethacali to the bone as birds took flight around the forest.  When the cry died away, only the sound of quiet sobbing could be heard.  The mage now felt his legs weaken.  He had poured so much of his power into making the Blood-Wight do what he commanded.  He needed her energy now.  “Skrykalian, come here,” he ordered, leaning heavily on his staff, his body feeling old and tired.  He held out his hand and pulled his fingers in.  “I need the energy.  We are so close to victory.  I must see our forces finish this,” he said, practically pleading.  “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

Skrykalian stood and raised her arms up, summoning her own power and the blood on her body evaporated, leaving nothing but skin.  Droplets floated, suspended in the air and she inhaled, drawing them into her mouth. She raised the edge of her lips up in a sneer.  “Of course, love.  As you command,” she said with a mock bow and flourish.  She put one hand behind his neck and hiked one leg up to his armpit and pulled him in close.  He could feel her breasts against him as she pushed into his body slowly at the hips, stimulating him.  There was that feeling again, like he was 18 and invincible.  Sparks erupted around them and his white hair stood on end.  He was sure that he could tear a tree in two with his bare hands, he felt so strong.  She leaned back and looked him in the eye, her silver, catlike eyes glistening.  “Drink of me and be renewed.”

Ethacali inhaled her power, feeling a hot surge down to his stomach which flowed into his arms and legs. His mind was clear and his lungs full of fresh air.  Skrykalian fell to her knees, weakened, her skin more pale and translucent, just as he found her months ago in the dark chamber.  He pointed down at her, his earlier sense of mercy fading.  “Do not defy me again.  Now, you and your brother go feed on the wounded.  Replenish your energy.  I will need you again soon.”  With the strength he now felt, she would be in no position to refuse him.

She grunted in anger but stood slowly, then raised her head and made a cry like a swan.  Naranantur flew overhead, his raven wings unfurled and Skrykalian took flight upon her swan wings.  Ethacali watched as they landed on a group of wounded orcs and began feeding. Shrieks and screams echoed over the battlefield.  The mage pondered for a moment that he should save his wounded but they no longer mattered and he needed the Blood-Wights strong.

He summoned his orc shamans. The time to act was now, before the defenders could truly regroup.  This would be his crowning achievement.  “Grashur, have the goblins focus fire there along the palisade,” he said, pointing to a part of the wooden wall.  “Have the ballista keep archers off of the walls.  Oologg will wait until the palisade is down and then place the siege tower against the Tirthon.  Tell Lumban, Cagh and Hirgrim, full assault now.  Hold nothing back.”

He looked back at the two remaining orcs.  “It looks like we won’t need Blogath after all.”

Shortly, the onager began hurling stones at the wooden wall and it soon collapsed under the barrage. He could see the Vulseggi falling back to the tower.  They would trap themselves and there would be no quarter given or received.  He could not let any enemy, who had seen the Blood-Wights, survive.  They were to be the Witch-King’s weapons in the upcoming war, one that he would be happy to sit out in Logath.  He would return home, triumphant, all knowledge of his indiscretion forgotten. After all, the Lord of Angmar had promised this to him.

Now it was time to unleash his secret weapons.  He raised his staff and the skull at its top began to glow in a golden hue.  “I call upon the power of the ring,” he said in a clear voice and the glow became a blinding light.  In another minute or two, black smoke began to pour out of the tower and the Vulseggi ran to deal with another attack.

Ethacali signaled for his horse and a servant brought it to him.  He climbed into the saddle and pointed to the Tirthon.  “Urfase, Athrug, follow me.  This ends now.  We will dine in the tower tonight and the spoils of war will be ours.”  

Chapter End Notes

Skrykalian becomes increasingly rebellious, begging for their freedom.  The House of Rhudainor is ended, but is it?  Ethacali orders the final assault.

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The Tirthon, Cerveth 20^th, 1407

Dagar watched in horror as dark gray smoke poured out of the kitchen window on the ground floor, an orange glow behind the smoke.  “Mirthi! She was helping in the kitchen!” he cried as he ran for all he was worth to the tower entrance.  A dark cloud erupted in his heart and mind.

“Right behind you!” Mercatur shouted as they tore down the entry corridor to the kitchen.  Smoke was already filling the halls as they bashed in the door.  Much of the kitchen was engulfed in flame, and bodies lay about on the ground.

Dagar’s eyes darted around, looking for any sign of life.  Then, he saw Mirthi, crawling on the floor, blood on her forehead, holding a knife in her hand.  “Mirthi!” he called over the roar of the fire.  He covered his face with the sleeve of his tunic and rushed to her. She was coughing and raised her knife when she saw him.  “No! It’s me!  Dagar!” he shouted.  She stopped and focused her eyes.  He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her up as Mercatur threw a wet blanket over them. They rushed back out of the door as Wiglaf and some boys began hurling buckets of water into the room.

Dagar walked Mirthi down the corridor and put one hand up above his head in a prayer.  “Thank the Valar.  Thank the Valar.  I couldn’t lose you.”  As she coughed, he patted her on the back.

Mercatur chuckled.  “You did good again.  I’ll make a mercenary out of you yet.”  The blanket was steaming from the heat but they were alive.

Éanfled came running to meet them.  “What happened?  Is everyone all right?”  She wore her red gown and carried a sack over her shoulder.

Dagar pointed at Mirthi. “She inhaled smoke and is coughing.”

Lady Amrodan pulled out some dried leaves from an envelope in her sack.  She crushed them in her hand and then held the leaves under Mirthi’s nose. “There you go.  Inhale slowly.  Slowly.  There, that should ease the congestion.”  She pulled a vial of liquid out and handed it to the girl.  “Take a sip now and then another in ten minutes.”  She looked at Dagar.  “You’ll see to it, yes?”

He nodded, and Éanfled gave them a smile.  Wiglaf called her and she ran down the hall to the men to help any injured there.  Mirthi breathed easier and nodded her head. Dagar blew out a long sigh of relief. “I was so worried, so worried.  What happened back there?  How did that fire start?”

She gave one final cough and cleared her throat.  She took a sip from the vial and inhaled deeply.  “The cook…Garwine, started talking to his ring and then he just went crazy…started shouting nonsense and then stabbing the other cooks,” she said excitedly, her brown eyes huge.  “Then he threw oil on the cooking fires, and they got out of control.  He tried to stab me!  Cut me on the head, he did!” she exclaimed, holding her hand over a wound on her scalp.

Dagar’s heart was pounding as he listened to the story.  “Then what?”

“I hit him with a frying pan and grabbed a knife.  He tried to stab me again and missed and I stabbed him!” she said aloud, her body shaking. “He tried to come at me once more and I managed to pull this off of him,” she continued, showing them the golden ring.  “Then, he just went limp and tried to crawl away, but the fires were everywhere.  Then, you came!  You saved my life…again!”

He stood and bowed with a flourish worthy of King Ostoher’s court.  “I could do no less, good Mirthi.”

Mercatur patted him on the back.  “Good man. Looks like the fire is contained. I have to head back out with Oswy. Those bastards are coming shortly, and I need you to get to the top of the tower and make sure that boiling oil is ready to pour on them.  Take your crossbow too.  We may need support up top.  Go, go, be safe.”

Dagar and Mirthi rushed up the stairs and she quickly peeked into the guest room.  Cicrid was there with the other village girls.  She would be safe for now.  Mirthi pointed at some of the adult women.  “Follow us to the roof!”  They continued to the top where the four remaining footmen were boiling vats of oil.  Steam floated up from the vats and the smell was overpowering, making Dagar’s eyes water. “What can we do?” Dagar shouted to the footmen.

“You see that pump handle? Yeah, that one!  Start pumping for all you’re worth!” yelled the lead.  The man looked out through a gap in the bronze plating.  “Pump fast! Here they come!”  Just then a stone slammed into a huge bronze plate that shielded the roof, setting off a ringing noise that made everyone cover their ears.

Dagar and Mirthi took hold of the handle and started pumping it back and forth.  Oil began to flow up through pipes into tubs that would be poured when ready.  A ballista bolt lodged in the armored plate with a loud PANG.  The footman shouted out, “It’s not going to hold forever! Faster!”  The footmen kept stoking the flames beneath the vats, all of them covered in soot and sweat.

Several of the village women, along with Baga Montúri, ran up and started grabbing rocks to throw.  Baga still had a bandage over his head where his ear was cut off and he looked ready to fight.  Dagar motioned one of them over.  “Take the pump for a minute!” he yelled, and a teenage girl grabbed the handle.  He ran over to the edge, keeping partially hidden behind the bronze plate.  He could see Oswy on the ground, ushering stable boys and villagers into the tower.

“Everyone in!  Everyone in!  Hurry!” the knight yelled as the enemy poured in through the shattered part of the palisade.  Dunnish tribesmen with axes, spears and clubs screamed an unearthly battle cry and charged as rangers with bows began to pelt the tower with arrows.  Dagar winced as the ping ping ping of arrows sounded on the bronze plate.  He grit his teeth and aimed his crossbow ahead of a tribesman and pulled the trigger. The bowstring snapped and the bolt flew into the chest of the man, burying itself in his fur jacket up to the fletchings.

The last of the villagers were inside and Oswy rushed in and slammed the gate shut.  Dagar could hear the two portculli slam down soon after.  Arrows began flying from the tower as the Vulseggi retaliated.  Dagar fired another bolt and saw the Dunnish warriors placing ladders on the tower wall. Behind them rolled a siege tower, pushed by three trolls.  The young man had never seen one before and his eyes grew huge at the sight of these monstrosities.  “They’re climbing up ladders!  We need the oil now!”

The footman pointed at a level on the wall.  “Do it! Don’t wait for us!”

Dagar grabbed the level and yanked it down, opening up tubes that let the boiling oil flow out of the tubs. Steaming liquid rained down on the ladders and the screams chilled the young man to his core.  He could never forget that sound for the rest of his life. Amid a shower of rocks thrown by villagers, tribesman tumbled off of the ladder, falling back to the ground, silencing their shrieks with a series of thuds.  Another wave surged up the ladders as a stone slammed into the bronze plate, cracking it up the middle, pieces of green metal flying back onto the roof.  Dagar flinched but held up his hand.  “Keep pumping!  Refill the tubs!”  Mirthi and the teenaged girl rocked back and forth, keeping the pumps going.  A glass gauge on the side of the tub showed half full but it was going to have to do.  He yanked the level down again and the oil flowed from the pipes into the faces of the tribesmen.  More screams and more thuds.  A third wave was already on the ladder.  The tribesmen were fanatical in their mindless hate and showed no signs of wavering.

There was no way that the tubs would be full enough to have any effect now and Dagar knew it. “They’re coming up the ladder! Prepare yourselves!” he shouted and fired a bolt into the face of the lead climber.  The man was dead before he hit the ground.  Dagar leaned back to reload as the four footmen rushed over and drew shortswords, axes and machetes.  One clansman came over the top, howling and laughing, only to be hacked to pieces by the footmen.  Another was over the top and leapt onto a soldier, stabbing over and over with a dagger. Two more came over and the melee was joined.  Dagar fired a bolt into the stomach of one attacker, but he didn’t slow down.  The lead footman swung his axe into the man’s cheek and the man fell where he stood.  A short, stocky Dunman came over next, clad in stiff leather armor with a cloak of human and orc ears and noses.  This was the clan chief.  The chief swung his spiked club down on top of the head of another footman and blood sprayed from his mouth and nose.  “Surrender now to the Macha Mur and I’ll just take your ears and noses.”

Dagar staggered back and drew his smallsword.  He knew that Mercatur was right.  This pigsticker wouldn’t do shit against this enemy.  He fell in with the two remaining footmen and waved Mirthi and the teen back. “Get behind us!”  Baga and the village women began hurling rocks at the Macha Mur as more of the Dunnish warriors climbed over the wall.  Mirthi threw a rock that smacked into the face of one warrior who was at the top of a ladder, and he fell backwards, screaming all the way to the ground.  About ten Macha Mur were on the roof now with more streaming up the ladders from the Siol Nȗnaw.

The chief pointed his spiked club at the defenders and scoffed.  “Heh, two idiots, two boys and a bunch of girls.  You will all make fine trophies or slaves.”

A voice sounded from behind Dagar and the roof went quiet.  “Is that so, Lumban?  What? You can only fight boys and girls?” Dagar looked back to see Mercatur and Jaabran moving in besides them.  Both mercenaries were covered in blood and the blade of Mercatur’s axe was notched like a saw after the battle below.  He looked at Dagar and made a sly half smile.  “Miss me?”

“You don’t know how much.”

Lumban moved forward, flipping his club back and forth menacingly.  “I thought I saw you out there earlier, Mercatur.  You should have taken my deal.  Now you’re on the losing side.  I’m going to enjoy adding you to my collection.”

Mercatur chuckled as he adjusted the chin strap of his barbute helmet.  “It’s getting hot in here, isn’t it?” he said and then kicked over one of the oil vats towards the Dunnish warriors and the steaming liquid poured out around some of their feet.  Macha Mur and Siol Nȗnaw fighters howled in pain and began hopping around, trying to get free of the molten mess.  Dagar took the cue and fired a bolt into the throat of a warrior as rocks began to fly again.

Lumban was quick on his feet and skittered away from the oil as the defenders moved forward cautiously. Steel met wood as the melee broke out again.  The Macha Mur chief lunged at Dagar, and he leapt back, parrying with his small sword. He was not an expert by any means, but he knew enough to deflect instead of block.  He had learned one signature move from Haedorial that wouldn’t fool anyone in the Nightsinger’s Guild or the School of Duelists in Tharbad, but this wasn’t Tharbad.  Lumban swung again, an overhead crushing blow to which Dagar angled his thin blade, deflecting the club into the floor.  With a flick of his wrist, he sliced Lumban’s cheek with the tip of the blade and then thrust the tip into the chief’s shoulder.

The barbarian roared in pain and anger as blood trickled down his face.  “I’ll take more than your ears and nose, boy,” he growled, taking an offensive stance again.

Dagar’s eyes darted back and forth, looking for opportunities or means of escape.  Nearby, Jaabran sliced the hand off of a warrior with his curved sword, but one footman was down and not moving.  The young man could hear a battering ram below, slamming into the Tirthon’s gate.  As if that wasn’t enough, the siege tower was almost at the wall.  The Vulseggi below were pouring arrows into the tower and the trolls.  Dagar waved Mirthi and the teen back.  “Get downstairs!  We cannot hold them!”

Mirthi screamed, “Never! They murdered my whole village!  They’ll have to kill me before I run!”

As Lumban circled them, Dagar glanced at the huge bronze shield that faced the attackers.  They wouldn’t dare fire the onager or the ballista while their men were on the roof and ladders.  An idea struck him.  “Mercatur! Cut the ropes!  Cut the ropes!” he shouted, pointing at the bronze plate that was easily as big as a wagon.  It wasn’t going to hold much longer anyway.

The mercenary looked at him, questioning, and then it registered.  “Keep them off of me, Jaabran!”  As the Haradrim fended off two warriors, he sliced at the thick ropes with his axe, hacking them twice before they snapped.  With a great groan, the bronze plate toppled forward and crashed into the siege tower, crushing one troll.  The siege tower wobbled for a few seconds and then toppled backwards, wooden splinters flying into the air.

Lumban howled with rage and swung at Dagar again, knocking the blade of his smallsword aside.  The young man staggered back but Mirthi threw a rock into the chief’s face, drawing blood.  Dagar recovered and did a quick thrust into Lumban’s thigh and then twisted the blade.  Lumban hobbled back with a grunt, holding his leg.  The smallsword was not so much a killing weapon as it was a dueling weapon, designed to wear an opponent down with small wounds.

Mercatur stepped between them and motioned Dagar aside.  “You did good, Dagar.  I’ll make a mercenary out of you yet.  And I take back what I said about your pigsticker.  But this one is mine.  I’ve been waiting for this for a while now.”  The roof was near quiet now as the Dunnish warriors were nearly all dead.  Jaabran and the footman leader were putting the wounded enemy to the sword.

Dagar nodded and put his arm around Mirthi, guiding her back.  Lumban laughed at them, uncaring about his perilous position now.  Mercatur kept tapping the haft of his axe into the open palm of his free hand.  Then, he extended that hand and pulled his fingers in.  “Come on.”

Lumban raised his club to strike but Mercatur leapt forward and brought the blade of his axe down on the chief’s shoulder.  It sank in several inches in a sickening squelch of cutting flesh and bone. Lumban gasped, his mouth wide open. He tried to speak but only a croaking noise came out.  Mercatur drew his dagger and sliced off the barbarian’s nose.

“Good to see you too, Lumban,” he said with a grin.  “Next time, pay better and don’t be such a ghoul.”  He picked the chief up and threw him over the wall.

Dagar collapsed to his knees in exhaustion as the adrenaline wore off.  He felt hollow and nauseous even as Mirthi hugged him.  The lead footman came over to them.  “You were amazing,” the man said, extending his hand. “Fastulf is my name.  I can’t tell you how glad I am that you stood with us.”

Mirthi pointed at the teenage girl who fought with them.  “And this is Heci, my cousin.”

Fastulf helped him to his feet, and he wobbled a little bit, still drained from the fight.  Mercatur walked over and tossed his axe aside.  He wrapped Dagar up in a bear hug.  “Dammit,” the mercenary said.  “I had you all wrong.  I thought you were some pouncy fop from the city who couldn’t hold his own out here.”

Dagar laughed for the first time in a while.  “Umm, you thought right.  I was exactly that, some pouncy fop from the city who couldn’t hold his own out here. But I…I couldn’t have done this without you, good Mercatur.”

As Fastulf and Jaabran tended to their wounded, Oswy and Tonfall came up the stairs, followed by Éanfled. A few of the Dunnish tribesmen surrendered and threw down their weapons.  Oswy had a huge grin.  “They’re in full retreat.  They got through the gate, but we held them in the corridor with arrows and flaming oil. Tonfall and I led the charge to repel them and drive them from the tower.  Now, get yourself together.  We’re going to pursue and finish them off for good.”  Éanfled came over to Mirthi and applied a bandage to the cut on her scalp, wiping away the blood on her face with a damp cloth.

Dagar sighed in relief but then another thought came to him.  He turned to Mirthi.  “Do you still have that ring?”  She pulled it out from a pocket of her cook’s apron and showed it to him.  “I saw…I saw Nasen give the cook that ring.  There is something evil about it,” he said, taking the ring and then hurling over the wall.  Then, his blood ran cold.  “Nasen? Nasen gave him the ring.  By the Valar, is Nasen a traitor?  We need to find him.”

Oswy narrowed his eyes. “He and his men left the tower after we drove the enemy away.  I tried to warn him not to leave but he ignored me.  I had more important things to do than chase him.”

The pieces of the puzzle began to come together for Dagar.  “The look he gave me when my father told me that I would inherit the business and not him…  Since I left for Tharbad, Nasen was named as the successor.  It all…it all makes sense now.  I think he hoped that I would die here and he would still inherit.”

Mercatur gave him a grim smile.  “Welcome to Rhudaur.”  He motioned to the stairway down.  “Come on. Daylight’s a wasting.  We have some assholes to squash, and I want to personally squish that mage and that blood-sucking bitch.”

They rushed down the stairs into the yard where the few Vulseggi remaining stood with horses, ready to go.  Oswy swung into the saddle.  “There aren’t many of us left,” he said, “but they are even fewer now.  He leaned over and kissed Éanfled.  “Let’s finish this once and for all.”

Wiglaf and some of the servants stood nearby along with Old Pad, Nig and Cisgid.  “Aldhelm and l will take care of things here, Sir Oswy. Fight bravely,” the old man said. “But when you return, we’re going to need to talk about the tower.  It may not be salvageable and we may not have enough people to hold it any longer.”

Dagar went to a horse, but Mercatur waved him off.  “You’ve done enough, young man.  You don’t need to go on this one.”  

Dagar shook his head. “Not a chance, good Mercatur.  I’m seeing this through.”  He grasped Nig and Cisgid by the arms.  “You stood and fought as promised.  As promised, I am releasing you from indentured service and will pay you once we return.  If you choose to stay with me, I will consider you full employees.”  The two teens nodded in agreement.

Wiglaf grinned.  “Don’t you worry about payment.  I have you taken care of.  You all earned it.”

Dagar had been thinking about this for some time, but he knew that now was his chance and he’d better take it or forever regret it.  He grasped Mirthi from behind the neck and pulled her in with a kiss.  She tensed at first but then relaxed into his arms.

Mercatur patted him on the head.  “Alright, lover boy.  Come on. If you’re going to join us, it’s time to go.”

The young man reluctantly released her and climbed into the saddle.  “I’ll be back.  I swear it.” They rode through the shattered palisade gate and turned north to pursue the enemy into the Yfelwood.

To the west, walking slowly away, were the few remaining Siol Nȗnaw.  Their chief raised his open hand to them and Mercatur stood tall in the saddle, waving back.  “He’s signaling that he’s leaving the field and will fight no more.  Let em go.  Cagh, you dog,” he said of the chief.  “Be safe and I’m glad your tribe survived.”

As they rode away, a rider galloped toward them.  It was Baga Montúri, the wounded boy from Maig Tuira.  His face was full of anger.  “I’m coming with you.  They will pay for what they did to the village.”  Oswy nodded and motioned him forward.  They passed the tree line into the forest and the temperature fell significantly.  Dagar shivered and pulled his fur cloak tight.  Snow lay thick on the forest floor but there was a trail where the enemy had retreated. The chill was beyond just the cold. There was something evil ahead.

Mercatur rummaged around in his saddle bag and pulled out a scroll.  He leaned over to Dagar and handed it to him.  “I wanted to tell you something before but there wasn’t time.  I told you a little bit before, but I was disinherited too.  My father called me a wastrel, brawling in pubs, fighting for money.  No son of mine, he said.  Not worthy of the Rhudainor name, he said.  Last year, my mother convinced him to relent.  I was on my way back home when they died of the fever. I know what you’re going through and I want you to have this.”

Dagar narrowed his eyes, curious.  “What is it?”

“It’s my inheritance. Our manor house and some farmland. It’s near Thuin Boid so you can still be close to family.”

Dagar was moved, his mouth falling open.  “I…I can’t. That’s your inheritance.  You’re a Rhudainor.  I’m just an accountant in a guild of bards.  I’m just the waenhosh driver.  I don’t have a drop of noble blood.”

Mercatur pressed the scroll into his palm and closed it.  “Raise your right hand and repeat after me,” he said, and Dagar put his arm up.  “I, do solemnly swear to uphold the laws of the Kingdom of Arnor of old as created by the men of the west from across the sea. I swear to protect its lands and its people with my life if need be and I will carry my title with courage and with honor.”  Dagar had a chill run down his spine as he repeated it and then Mercatur slapped him across the cheek with his bare hand.  “And this is so that you won’t forget it.”  The mercenary bowed his head.  “Congratulations, Lord Rhudainor.”

Dagar rubbed his face, but his smile was a mile wide.  “I don’t know what to say.  Are you…are you the last Rhudainor?”

“No, you are,” Mercatur said, shaking his head.  “But Marendil has a sister in Tharbad, so I hear.  Never met her.  No idea what she looks like.  I think her name is Silmarien or something.  My parents said that she studies magic and wants nothing to do with Rhudaur.”

They continued to ride down the path, occasionally passing over a dead goblin or Macha Mur along with a couple of dead rangers, face down in the snow.  The Cultirith and Hirgrim were still strong and would be dangerous.  Dagar counted four Vulseggi, Ecegar, Tonfall and Oswy along with Baga, Mercatur and Jaabran. Eleven in total, including him and they would still have to face the mage and those blood-sucking demons.  He began to wonder if this was such a great idea. After a couple of hours, they rode into a vale, where many of the trees were burnt and nothing else seemed to grow. The pathway wound downhill into a clearing, where it looked like an excavation had taken place.  Equipment lay scattered about haphazardly and the tracks continued in the snow to a large cavern.  The sun was low above the trees now, but they could not stop to let the enemy regroup.

As they neared the cavern entrance, they dismounted and tied their horses to a post nearby.  Mercatur and Oswy stopped and looked around as if they saw something.  “Do you see her?” the mercenary asked.

“Who?  Who do you see?” asked Dagar, looking about.

“She was right there! Talking to me.”

Dagar shook his head. “I don’t see anyone.”  Then, he felt someone touch him on the shoulder. He turned and there she was: a tall, beautiful elven woman with curly black hair, angular features and high cheekbones, but not the demon who fought them earlier, the one from the Dunnish camp. He couldn’t help but notice that she was unclothed, and he felt embarrassed and looked away.

She appeared distressed and she put her hands together as if begging.  “Help me, Dagar.  My name is Sercë.  I am trapped inside,” she said, her voice reverberating.  “The mage and my sister hold me against my will.  Her name is Skrykalian.  Do not trust her as she is a vampire…an evil seductress.  Please help me.  He does unspeakable things to me, Dagar.  Please hurry,” she said, pleading and then evaporated into mist.  He could still feel her aura and her draw was undeniable.

Dagar grabbed Mercatur’s arm. “She’s a prisoner of the mage.  We need to free her and we must hurry.”

Chapter End Notes

Ethacali is defeated but he still has tricks up his sleeve.  Mercatur takes care of Lumban and Cagh saves his tribe.  But now the defenders pursue Ethacali into Blogath's Vale.

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The Tirthon, Cerveth 21^st, 1407

The defeat of the Dunnish tribes was stunning, given their advantages in numbers and magic, not to mention the trolls and Blood-Wights.  In the span of twenty minutes, Ethacali watched in horror as the massive bronze plate that protected the roof of the Tirthon fell on the siege tower, collapsing it and killing one of his trolls.  He raised his staff and drew upon his power to energize his warriors, driving them into a killing frenzy.  With howls of rage, they climbed the ladders in spite of boiling oil and arrows, oblivious to pain and fear.  He knew that Lumban was on the roof, clearing it of the enemy.  Rangers and the Siol Nȗnaw had penetrated the Tirthon’s gate and were ready to tear down the portculli.  Victory was still within his grasp.

Standing at the shattered gate, he focused his command of essence and aimed his staff at the first portcullis. He grit his teeth, and a fine beam of red light illuminated the metal bars.  With a shout, he closed his open hand, and the steel glowed orange and began to melt. In the corridor, arrows flew, and more boiling oil poured down on the attackers.  He had to get through now or he would have no force left.  He could feel the strain of his spell, but he had no choice: the path to victory and home to Logath lay through that gate.  The first portcullis was nothing but molten slag now and the second began to melt under the intense heat of his magic.

“The way is open!” he yelled at Hirgrim and Cagh.  “Get your men through!”  Tribesmen rushed in with rangers as arrows flew from murder holes in the walls.  A couple fell, but the charge made it past the defenses, stepping over the bodies of their comrades, shot with arrows or boiled with oil.  The screams of the wounded were horrific, but this was it.  He could feel it.  Lumban would have cleared the roof by now and Hirgrim would sweep the ground level.  He could hear fighting down the corridor. The mage would head towards the fight in a moment to bring his magic to bear directly on the enemy.    

He felt just a little short of breath from the power that he had unleashed, and he put a hand on his knee to rest.  He’d only need a moment because of the energy that Skrykalian had given him.  Her essence gave him vitality, vigor and youth and he felt that he could run back home at a sprint.  He raised himself back up just as Lumban’s body hit the ground near him.  Ethacali’s mouth fell open.  Blood soaked the barbarian’s leather armor, and his nose had been sliced off.  His eyes were open, but his neck was twisted far beyond what anyone living could endure.  

In another moment, the Siol Nȗnaw and rangers came pouring back out of the Tirthon, some in absolute panic.  “Turn around! Fight!  Where are you going?”  Fear, then rage gripped him at the thought of defeat.  He had planned everything down to the wire.  Nothing could have stopped him.  He grabbed one of the tribesmen and shook his staff at the man.  “You coward!” he yelled, and his staff glowed. The man screamed as blood poured from his eyes, ears and nose and he collapsed in the snow.  He could see the knight in gray armor leading a countercharge to drive his men from the corridor.  The man’s sword glowed blue as he hacked down tribesmen and rangers in their leather armor while their clubs just bounced off his full plate.  Ethacali growled with frustration and climbed back onto his horse.  He waved the three orc shamans back.  “Regroup at the woods.  We can turn this around.”  His voice was already weaker and more hollow, and his legs ached sitting in the saddle.

The mage rode just ahead of his fleeing force and stopped at the tree line of the woods.  He spun his horse about and summoned the Blood-Wights to him as the orcs caught up.  Rangers and the last of the Macha Mur straggled towards him, demoralized with a number of wounded.  He looked around but could not see Cagh or the Siol Nȗnaw anywhere.  Were they dead?  Did they betray him?  He didn’t have time to think that through.  As he assessed the dire situation, Nasen and his men ran up.

“Great mage,” Nasen said, “we did as you asked, exactly as you asked but Dagar yet lives.  I did my part.  I was supposed to become-”

Ethacali brandished his staff, and it crackled with energy.  “Silence cur!  I don’t give an orc’s ass about your petty family squabbles.  Follow and fight if you want to live.”  He sneered at the merchant.  “Do as I say and when we turn this around, I may be inclined to help you.”

Nasen bowed his head and raised his hands in apology.  “I’m sorry, great mage.  I spoke in anger.  We will follow you.”  The merchant motioned Penda and his three men to join the battered force.

Naranantur and Skrykalian landed nearby, and their wings retracted into their bodies.  They closed their eyes and raised their hands and said something in Quenya.  The blood coating their bodies lifted off of their skin in a red mist and they inhaled the droplets into their mouths.  Nasen and Penda recoiled, horrified by the vampires.  Skrykalian walked past them and bared her fangs, causing them to step back again.  She pointed at the merchant and his thugs.  “Food?” she asked the mage.

“Where were you two?” Ethacali asked impatiently as he looked to the Tirthon for any sign of pursuit.  There was none yet.  The Vulseggi also took a beating, and they may not be in any shape to attack.

The Blood-Wight looked confused, and she tilted her head to one side.  She turned to her brother, and he gave the same expression.  “I…I thought you told us to feed on the wounded,” she said innocently.  “That’s exactly what we were doing.  I feel so fresh now,” she added and then reached up to touch his white hair.  “I was going to say ‘young’ but I’m always young and will always be young.  You know, orcs are so…bitter, but the Dunmen…mmmm, delicious.”  She looked at Nasen and sucked on her fingers.  “I’ll bet the little merchant would make for a tasty treat…I mean would be able to make a tasty treat.  Do you bake, little merchant,” she taunted, standing a full head taller than Nasen.  “I just love biscuits and cookies.  I mean in addition to blood and flesh.”

Ethacali raised his fist, and it glowed with the power of the rune.  “Enough,” he said as he saw Vulseggi gathering in the yard of the Tirthon and they began mounting horses.  He might be able to stand and fight here as he still had an advantage in numbers but just barely now.  No, it would be too risky, and he still had one trump card to play.  “We must return to the vale.  We must free your sister.”

For the first time, he saw true terror in the eyes of the Blood-Wights and he found that he liked it. Skrykalian put her hand over her mouth. “Are…are you certain, great mage? My sister…she…I really think that you should reconsider.”

Seeing her fear convinced him that it was the right thing to do.  “Every time I listen to you it is to my detriment.  Come, back to the vale.  We will free Blogath and win this day yet.”  The tome told him that the eldest sister was more powerful than the other three combined, having been the closest to mighty Sauron.  She would crush his enemies with barely a thought and his goals and dreams would still come to fruition.

They were able to stay ahead of the Vulseggi along the trail through the Yfelwood.  A few of the wounded fell in the snow and no one looked back.  Ethacali couldn’t help but glance down at Skrykalian’s body, which had returned to a healthy flesh tone from her feeding.  She began talking to Athrug in a very suggestive manner and he maneuvered his horse between them.  His confidence slowly returned at the thought of turning his defeat into victory.  “How long were you in the vale?” he asked her, more out of wanting idle chatter to fill the uncomfortable silence.

“Oh, let’s see now,” she said, speaking as if she were a girl in school.  “Do you remember the Dagor Bragollach?  No, of course you don’t.  How about the Nirnaeth Arnoediad?  Oh, how foolish of me.  You’re a human,” she said in a voice dripping with disappointment.  “Well, we’ve been here since a time between the two…if that means anything to you.”

He felt stung and resumed his silence, but he continued to watch her, half out of lust and half out of not trusting her.  She cocked her head, and he knew her well enough to know that she was probing someone’s mind, and it wasn’t his.  His curiosity was piqued, and he kept a close eye on what was happening.  From behind her, Penda and his three thugs along with Nasen kept inching closer to her with their hands on their weapons. Apparently, they didn’t take too kindly to being humiliated earlier.  Naranantur moved in next to his sister and they began speaking as if they were unaware of what was transpiring.  Ethacali knew better than to believe that.  Although Nasen had done his bidding, they were still willing to betray their own people, and the mage wasn’t particularly concerned about what would happen to them.

Two of Penda’s thugs drew daggers and crept in right behind the Blood-Wights, then it seemed as if everything moved in slow motion.  One man made a stab at Naranatur, but the Blood-Wight stepped aside and swung his sword upwards between the man’s legs.  The man dropped his dagger, mouth open, unable to speak, his eyes huge.  Naranantur drew the sword upwards to the man’s abdomen and then his hand became a claw, and he tore the thug’s throat out with a sweep of his talons.  At the same time, the other man made a stab at Skrykalian’s back, but in a blur of motion, she turned and grasped the man’s wrist, stopping his attack.  With a twist of her arm, she snapped the man’s wrist backwards with a sickening crack of bones breaking.  The man shrieked, his eyes wide as saucers.  In another blur, her mouth filled with razor-sharp fangs and bit his wrist in two.  She tossed the hand and dagger away.

As Naranantur fed on the dying man, Skrykalian’s attacker tried to pull his arm away.  She shook her head and wagged her finger at him. “Uh uh,” she said and then drank from the blood that flowed from his wrist.  Then, she pushed him back to his comrades and he cradled the stump with a look of pain and horror.  As Naranantur stood with his black sword and faced them, Skrykalian circled them slowly, licking her fingers.  “Mmm, thank you for the power.  I’m still riding high from the blood of the orcs and tribesmen, but this is like dessert.” She pointed at the wounded man and then the hand and weapon in the snow.  “Don’t forget your dagger.  I think you’re going to need it.”

She approached Penda and the big man started shaking.  She stood a few inches taller than him and ran a bloody finger down the bridge of his nose.  “Have you felt it?  My finger digging through your mind?  My tongue, licking at your thoughts, memories and feelings?  Yes, that was me.  You just can’t decide if you want to kill me or lie with me,” she said, and then gestured down her body.  “Just ask Ethacali.  I know his every secret by now.”

Ethacali found that he enjoyed someone else being the target of her manipulations.  That was, until she turned back on him.  Her silver eyes widened, and her pupils contracted to catlike slits again.  She curled her lip up.  “Except for one thing,” she said accusingly.  “The cure.”

The mage thought that he had successfully hid that secret but he knew that he had let his guard down.  He wanted to end this exchange before it got out of hand.  “Enough Skrykalian.  You’ve had your fun.  We will free your sister and that is the end of it.  Then we can discuss a potential cure.”

She chuckled cynically and then lifted Penda off of the ground with one hand.  The man had to outweigh her by at least twice but she was fueled by the power of blood.  She tossed him a short distance without any effort, and it was clear that she was holding back.  “Please, try that stunt again.  You have a lot of blood in those veins.”

Penda scrambled back up and ran to his friends.  Skrykalian flipped her hair back and continued walking towards the vale.  “I thought we were lovers, Ethacali.  You disappoint me.  We will talk of the cure when we reach the caverns.”  Naranantur scowled at Nasen, his eyes glowing red for a moment.  When the commotion had died away, Ethacali and Hirgrim looked at the corpse of Penda’s friend, innards spilled on the snow with his throat and lower jaw ripped away. His eyes held a look of terror that was now frozen in death.

“The Vulseggi may be an hour behind us, and they are on horseback,” Hirgrim said and then sucked his teeth.  “We best keep moving.”  He spat tobacco on the corpse.

Ethacali nodded.  He would turn all of this back around. There was still time.  They passed into a clearing and the vale was in sight, a winding pathway down to the caverns where Balisimur and Blogath awaited. Having used the final rune, the mage bound Balisimur to his will, but the eldest sister remained untethered.  He thought about how to perform a binding ritual and there was no chance he could succeed alone without a rune of binding. It would take the power of all of the shamans to give him any hope of bending Blogath to his will.  If the eldest sister was anything like the youngest, he would have his hands full.

He saw excavation equipment, half buried in the snow along with the burnt huorns that he slew to clear the way into the vale.  They might have served as a trap for the Vulseggi, but it was too late now.  That was two years ago…two years since he had seen Ethanya and his family.  He imagined that his son, Ethorno, would be stoking the fire about now in the hearth of their home as his wife read by candlelight.  His grandchildren would be swarming at his feet, begging him to play a game.  How did he get so far away?  Alliance with the Necromancer was to bring him power, prestige and pride.  But it seemed that all he had received was shame, defeat and this unending chill in a distant land.

He pointed to the entrance of the caverns.  “Hirgrim, set your men here.  You’ll be the first line of defense.  I will leave Oologg with you.  When I free Blogath, we will come to your aid.”

The scarred ranger nodded and directed his fourteen remaining men to take cover.  The Cultirith began pulling dead branches and other debris in to conceal their positions.  Ethacali led the way into the caverns and a deep chill and dread filled his heart.  The passed through the crystal caves where the orc shamans gathered weapons and items of power and then proceeded down the long stairway into Blogath’s halls.  The sense of familiarity came back to the mage as he led the way into the black marble foyer where Naranantur and Skrykalian had to stoop to avoid hitting their heads on the ceiling.  He stopped at the old door that appeared to be made of blood that swirled in a circle. The design was remarkable if unnerving. “Kaul dar!” he commanded in the Black Speech and portal swung open silently.  He looked back and saw a worried expression on the Blood-Wight’s faces. This surely was a good sign.  As they entered the central hall, he could see ghostly shapes fade into the walls, leaving a wispy mist in the air.

Skrykalian tugged at this sleeve.  “Trust me, you don’t want to do this.  You can take whatever is left in the treasury.  We accumulated much during the eons of our existence.  Take it and return home to Ethanya, beyond the reach of evil here.  Live your life.  Be free. It is all that I have ever wanted since Thuringwethil tore me from the tower of Tirith Aeluin as Thangorodrim erupted.”

He stopped for a moment, thinking on her words.  There was no influence or power behind them.  She was speaking from the heart.  Part of him wanted to give her the cure and to return home.  She looked down the hallway, seemingly sad at the dilapidated condition of their once elegant home.  He shook his head.  “I cannot run now, Skrykalian.  I have to see this through.  Word would go east and Khamȗl would have my family murdered if I fail here.”  He gave her a sympathetic look, eyes soft. “I…appreciate the thought though.”

She appeared about to protest when an old copper coin flew through the air and struck her in the chest. She staggered back a step, more stunned than hurt.  She bowed her head and raised her hands.  “I will say no more, sister.”

They continued down another long stairway, past an empty guardroom where more spirits faded into the walls.  The sacrifices of a century and a half of blood and terror still walked the corridors.  They passed into the waiting room and Ethacali used the tip of his staff to inscribe a rune of warding on the ground.  He led the group down the long corridor, oblivious of the rune evaporating into thin air as if it never was.  Ethacali thought he saw a dark shape on the ceiling crawl past him, but when he looked up, there was nothing there.  He then heard a shriek that was cut short, and he looked back to see that one of the last four of the Macha Mur was gone.

The three who were left scrambled forward, shouting in panic.  “It just took him!  It just took him!” they cried out.  “Claws and silver eyes in the dark!”  They crowded in with Nasen and Penda.  Including himself, they were down to eleven now.

Skrykalian took his arm and held him tightly.  “That would be my brother, Balisimur.  You could invoke your rune of binding, but he is the strongest of us.  It would weaken you greatly in the process.”  They passed three empty rooms on the right of the hall, and she looked at them with an expression of bittersweet nostalgia.  “The kitchen, the pantry and the library.  I would sing and dance here for my family. You would have loved it, Ethacali, the lore of the ages with music from fair Valinor,” she said as she motioned to a chamber full of dust.  She began to hum a tune that he had never heard.  She looked at him and smiled nervously.  “I do this when I’m afraid.  It’s the Lindë Arannor, the song of eternal days.”

There was another shriek to the rear, and they looked back to see that Penda’s unhurt friend was gone, replaced by a pool of blood.  “Whatever it is, we need to do it soon!” yelled Nasen.  “Otherwise, we’re out of here!”

Skrykalian pointed at the man whose hand she bit off.  “I told you; you’re going to need that dagger.”

Ethacali stopped at the entrance to Blogath’s sanctuary, and the light of their lanterns flickered and dimmed.  He was filled with doubt, but he knew that he had no choice now.  He had to go forward.  He took several deep breaths to calm his nerves.  Blogath was a demon of the ancient world…someone to be reckoned with. At her greatest, she might even be a match for one of the Nazgȗl.

He was about to cross over the threshold into the waiting room when Skrykalian pulled on his shoulder.  “Are you absolutely sure, Ethacali?  I beg you to go now.  Take the contents of the treasury: you’ll be rich in Logath, and your family will be taken care of.  I’ll meet with the heralds of Angmar and tell them that you were killed.  No one will be the wiser.  Go home to your family.  I know how much you miss them.  If only I had someone who loved me that much.”

He closed his eyes and inhaled a long breath.  How he wanted to take her advice.  He let that breath out and shook his head again.  Throughout his sixty years he had never failed, the very reason that he was selected for this task above all others.  He had to succeed.  “No, we must go on.  I tell you, I will give you the secret to the cure when we are done if that is what you want.”

Her eyes widened, soft and silver, dark pupils filling the irises of her eyes.  Then, she looked down as if thinking.  “I…I have been a demon for longer than twenty thousand of your generations.  I know of no other way now…but I still dream of being an elf…a woman.  I would appreciate that and think on the consequences of a cure.  In case you are unaware, when we elves pass, our spirits journey to the Halls of Mandos in Valinor, where he will sit in judgment of our lives.  I cannot imagine that he will be merciful to me, and I expect to be cast into the void for all of eternity.  I have never before had to face that reality.  I am afraid, Ethacali.”

“I did not know that about elves,” he said sympathetically.

She put her hand on his shoulder.  “If you continue, would you please let my brother and I remain here?”

“I cannot.  I need you going forward.  It will take all of our combined powers to rein in Blogath.”

She sighed, seemingly resigned to her fate.  “As you wish.”

When he stepped across the threshold into the waiting room of Blogath’s sanctuary, the darkness was oppressive, and their lights dimmed.  Their six remaining followers were trembling with fear and one of the Macha Mur had wet himself.  The air seemed as thick as soup, and it took a conscious effort to breathe.  Even sound seemed distorted, and their footsteps rang out louder than they should have been.  Skrykalian continued to hum her tune softly as she clung to Ethacali’s arm.

She pointed to the left. “The dining room.  We had the most elegant feasts here.  Food, I mean.”  All that remained was dust and debris.  She rubbed his ear, and a vision formed in his mind, and he heard laughter.  He looked into the dining room and saw finely crafted furniture and magical lanterns illuminating the area.  He could smell fresh venison, cooked with herbs and spices.  He saw bowls of fruit and salad, topped with cherry tomatoes and other greens.  Four siblings sat at the table and toasted with crystal goblets full of wine.  It was hard to imagine, but the Blood-Wights also ate food.  Skrykalian was dressed in a silk and velvet gown of sky blue with silver trim, the colors of the House of Fingolfin.  A brooch in the shape of a swan was pinned to her collar.  The vision of her turned to him and smiled.  Then, she picked up a flute and began to play the most exquisite music that he had ever heard.  It was like the notes of the instrument were in his heart and it pulled on the strings of his soul.  Then, it was gone, replaced again by dust and debris.

“We must turn right here,” Skrykalian said, pointing down a junction in the hallway.  Her voice was wavering.

There was another scream from behind and another Macha Mur staggered forward, his head missing, blood spraying into the air.  The others in the party cried out in terror, huddling together.  Standing to their rear, Balisimur held the head of the man. The Blood-Wight was heavily muscled, and his form seemed to shimmer, shifting back and forth between that of an elf and that of an eagle.  He tossed the head aside and bowed.  “Welcome home, brother…sister,” he said, his voice reverberating with energy.  With a taloned hand, he pointed at the mage.  “You cannot go back now.  The way is blocked.  Your path is only forward.  Our sister has prepared a greeting.”

Naranantur and Skrykalian bowed in return.  “Come,” she said to Ethacali.  
We have no choice now.  Balisimur would tear us all to shreds.”

“But I have the rune,” he protested.

“And you would use all of your energy to bend him to your will.  You will need all of it to face Blogath.”  He nodded, unsure whether to trust her.  They took the right turn, their lanterns becoming ever dimmer. Even the mage’s staff shone less bright, and he could only see a few feet ahead now.  They were near the chamber where he first bound Balisimur and sealed Blogath back in.  He could see the white sheen of the barrier that he had placed.  He saw misty white forms stepping out of the walls, holding rusty daggers and swords; the spirits of their followers and sacrifices.  The mage held up his staff and channeled power into it and the ghostly forms faded away, but the weapons remained floating in the air.  

Ethacali was about to speak when the form of a woman floated up to the barrier.  He could see her red eyes through the gloom, and they bored into him.  “Welcome back, Ethacali…brother, sister,” she said in a voice full of power that shook the halls.  She unfurled her falcon wings and tucked them behind her.  “I have had some time to prepare for your arrival.”  She raised a hand, and the barrier began to waver.  It was as if he were being pounded by waves of energy.  “Come, please allow me to be a good hostess.”

“No,” said the mage sternly. “You will kneel to me first.”

Blogath let out a laugh that chilled him to the bone.  “Come to me, Balisimur.  Feed.” Then, she pointed to her other siblings. “Kneel,” she said, and they did so.

Ethacali was losing control of the situation.  He heard the shriek of an eagle and then screams from behind.  There was the sound of fighting and then shrieks and gurgling. He had no choice now.  He raised his staff and invoked the runes.  Energy surged out of him and engulfed the three younger Blood-Wights.  The sound of battle stopped, and he saw the last of the Macha Mur torn apart like rag dolls.  Nasen, Penda and his last man quivered on the floor.  Balisimur floated in the air, his eyes white as did Naranantur and Skrykalian.

The mage’s body ached, and he felt exhausted at the effort.  The barrier faded away and Blogath floated out from her chamber.  He pointed at the orc shamans.  “Begin the chant!  We must bind her now!”

The three put their fists to their chest and began the chant in Black Speech.  “Krimp doturog lat!  Krimp doturog lat!” they cried out.  Ethacali poured the last of his power into theirs and they glowed from the magical force.  Pulses of magic crashed into Blogath, and she recoiled.

“You are not being good guests,” she said with a grunt and then pushed her palms out and the chamber fell silent.

Ethacali stood in horror as no sound came from their mouths and Blogath floated towards them.  Penda had had enough, and he came at her with his hand axe, his mouth twisted in silent fury.  As he swung at her head, she caught the weapon by its blade, the sharp edge not even breaking the skin of her palm.  With a flick of her wrist, she snapped the steel blade into shards of metal, one flying back and imbedding in Penda’s cheek.  Blogath watched the blood trickle down his face and her eyes widened and she quivered.  “Sit down, child,” she ordered, her voice reverberating.  She pushed her hand down and he fell to the floor, shaking and crying. “Now, calm yourselves, children.  We are just getting started.”

She raised her hands, one at a time and the room began to swirl and change, becoming the magnificent chamber that it once was, paneled in rich wood that was painted in crimson with paisley patterns etched into them in black and gold.  Luxurious furniture appeared, padded couches and seats along with magical lights.  “Please, have a seat,” she said and then Nasen and Penda marched mechanically to sit down.  Tears and snot ran down their faces.  Ethacali felt that his body was no longer his own and he struggled to resist but found himself seated at a table, made of walnut and high-quality resins, across from the orcs.  “There, that’s better, isn’t it?” she said soothingly, which only heightened his fear.

Ethacali’s breath came in terrified gasps now and he could see the horror on his party’s faces.  “Release me, Blogath,” he said through gritted teeth, unable to move his jaw.

“All in good time, my dear.” She snapped her fingers, and her siblings awoke and came to her side.  “You will be happy to know that I erased all of your runes, and we have more guests outside now.  We have not had a gathering like this in these halls in…in say…how long has it been, sister?”

Skrykalian’s lower lip quivered.  “Three thousand, two hundred years now, sister.”

Blogath leaned in next to Ethacali’s ear.  “I love to entertain.” 

Chapter End Notes

I want to showcase the power and horror of the Blood-Wights here as well as some more of the history behind them.  

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The Yfelwood, Cerveth 21^st, 1407

Dagar cleared his head after the vision from Sercë, begging for his help.  Mercatur and Oswy did the same, blinking hard and taking deep breaths. Dagar was excited about the prospect of saving an elven princess and he was eager to get inside of the caverns.  Mercatur held him back.  “I got a bad feeling about this.  This place feels…wrong.”

Oswy nodded.  “I have to agree.  This place makes my hair stand on end.  I can’t explain it.”

They heard some footsteps approaching and they looked over to the scarred ranger walking towards them with his palms held out, a sign of parley.

Mercatur’s axe was instantly in his hand as Oswy drew his longsword and Jaabran, his scimitar.  “Hirgrim?  Parley?” the mercenary asked as Dagar moved in besides them, ready to fight.

The ranger nodded.  “I’m unarmed.  If I wanted you dead, I have fourteen rangers hidden around here,” he said and then lifted his hands up.  The men of the Cultirith stood up from bushes and carefully concealed cover, holding their bows low and non-threateningly.  “I just want to talk.”

Dagar blew out a breath of relief and then looked to Mercatur.  The Mercenary gave him a wry expression, the edge of his mouth curled upwards.  “Lord Rhudainor,” he said with a nod and gestured the young man to take the lead.

Lord Rhudainor tightened his stomach for courage and stepped forward, the others making no protest.  “My name is Dagar.  What do you wish to speak about, good ranger?  We are listening.”

“I’m done with this disaster. I even sent the troll on his way. All we want is to return home to Dol Cultirith.  I offer a truce.  We had no part in the sack of Maig Tuira.  That was all Lumban.  You know us, Mercatur,” he said, gesturing towards the mercenary.  “We fight for Cameth Brin, but we do so with honor.  We don’t execute captives, and we don’t murder women and children.  What say you?”

Mercatur put his hand on Dagar’s shoulder and nodded.  “He’s telling the truth.  I’ve fought with them and against them and they’ve never betrayed their word.”

Dagar looked back at the ranger.  “What do you want in return?”

“You’ve captured all of our stores at the Tirthon, and we have no food for the long march home.  We are good hunters but the battle has scared off all of the game for miles.  Would you be willing to share?  We would not forget such kindness.”

Without waiting for a consensus, Dagar nodded.  “Done. Can you give us any information about what is happening inside?”

Hirgrim gestured back to his men, and they slung their bows and walked into the clearing.  He pulled a pipe from a sack.  “I can.  Let us sit and we can speak more comfortably.”  He came forward as he packed the pipe with a pungent weed.  “This blend comes from northwest of here.  The little people…the halflings…they grow it. I can assure you that it is the finest in the region.”  He sat on the ground, surrounded by the Cultirith.

Dagar was not entirely sure whether to trust him, but he trusted Mercatur’s word, and he sat down with his party.  Hirgrim lit the pipe, inhaled deeply and then handed it to the young man.  Dagar took a puff and started coughing.  It was like his lungs were on fire from the earthy flavor of the tobacco.  

Hirgrim laughed and slapped Dagar on the back.  “Welcome to Rhudaur, my friend.  Everything is stronger and more caustic here.  But, that we share a pipe is a sign of trust.  I have no wish for further violence.”

The young man coughed again and then took another puff.  He handed the pipe back to the ranger as he pounded his own chest with his fist. “Nor do I.  Khe khe khe,” he said with a couple more coughs.  “What can you tell us?”

Hirgrim took a long puff and then handed the pipe to Mercatur.  “About a dozen went inside a half hour ago, led by the mage, Ethacali. He was chosen by the Lord of Angmar to lead the expedition.  I wasn’t there, but a year ago he dug up those creatures called Blood-Wights.  Two of them were on the battlefield but I think there may be more in the caverns.”

“What exactly are they? I mean they flew, and they ripped people apart and drank their blood.”

The ranger nodded.  “You just described them.  The men from your waenhosh went in with Ethacali…the ones who were left, I mean.  Nasen and Penda and maybe one or two more, I don’t remember exactly.”

Dagar had a flash of anger. “Nasen?  The traitor!”

“The two Blood-Wights that were with us, Naranantur and Skrykalian they were called, they butchered one of Penda’s men and the lady bit off another’s hand.  It was beyond anything that I’ve seen.  I mean, watching a beautiful woman walk around naked was fine, but I’d be a fool to get too close.”

Mercatur grunted.  “I don’t really care what they are.  The bitch killed Gamrid and I’m gonna get payback.” Jaabran nodded in agreement.

Hirgrim shook his head and made a slicing motion with his hand.  “Not so fast, you two.  I wouldn’t mess with her myself after seeing what she did.  First, she gets inside people’s heads.  She knew Penda’s men would try and attack her.  She told Penda afterwards that she could read his mind and I believe her.  Second, I’m telling you that she was forced to attack by the mage.  He has some kind of rune of binding on the two of them.  I saw her beg him to not force her to fight. And when she brought your commander to him, she begged him not to make her kill.  She doesn’t want to be here so I think it may be possible to get her on your side.  I’m just saying to keep that in mind.”

Dagar nodded along with the story.  “We will, good ranger and thank you.  Please await us close by.  When we return, we will go back to the Tirthon for your supplies.”

“Agreed.  You are a good man, Lord Rhudainor.  I am glad that we did not have to fight.  Honestly, if it weren’t for Mercatur here, I don’t think I would’ve trusted you at first.  I saw Cagh leading the Siol Nȗnaw away.  I’m glad he made it out too.”

They stood and shook hands as everyone around took a puff from the pipe.  The Vulseggi began to move towards the cavern entrance and Dagar noticed that the mercenary looked pensive.  He pointed at Baga.  “You’re still hurt.  Just coming with us was an act of bravery, good Baga and you have earned respect.  Wait here with the horses and guard the camp. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

The teen made an awkward bow. “Yes, Lord Rhudainor.”

There was a gentle stream next to the cavern entrance.  If this were not a den of evil, it would be quite beautiful.  Once inside, the walls were coated with crystals of different colors, some black, some red, some clear.  Mercatur and Jaabran dug a few out.  “Might be worth something,” Mercatur said, stuffing them into his pack.  “Old habits die hard.”  They continued west until they came to a long stairway down. Mercatur, Oswy and Jaabran led the way with Dagar and the rest of the Vulseggi behind.  They passed into the black marble foyer and then followed the tracks through the dust on the floor.  Two sets of tracks were barefoot.  That had to be the Blood-Wights.

They followed another stairway down, their lanterns flickering in the gloom, casting about eerie shadows. Dagar’s fear was palpable, and it felt like he could cut it with his smallsword.  How would they fight a mage down here, much less those Blood-Wights. He hoped that Hirgrim was right and that they could be reasoned with.  If it meant that the Tirthon and its people would be safe, he would fight or negotiate...whatever it took to make sure that Mirthi and Cicrid came to no harm.    

They continued down the long hallway, where it grew ever colder.  Dagar could already see his breath, steaming out of his mouth.  They passed three rooms to their right, and he could’ve sworn that he smelled roast chicken with herbs and garlic and heard the clinking of pots and pans.  He heard a woman whisper in his ear.  “You are getting close now,” the voice said.  He knew that it was Sercë and he hoped that she was unharmed.  Hirgrim had warned them about the Blood-Wights, but he was uncertain if she was one of them.  “Help me, Dagar.  I am trapped in the sanctuary ahead.  The mage means to sacrifice me to his necromancer and my sister is helping him.  Please hurry.”

Mercatur turned back. “Was she in your head too?  Are there more than the two Blood-Wights that we saw?  Whatever Hirgrim said, if they try anything, I’m sticking my axe in their heads.”

They crossed the threshold into Blogath’s sanctuary, and their lanterns grew dim, flickering in protest of some foul magic.  The feeling of weight and oppression grew, and it became hard to breath or even focus. Dagar also felt lightheaded, and his mind was drawn to the room to their right.  He glanced into the large room, and the dust and debris seemed to shimmer. He saw flashes of a vision where four elves sat at a table, dining and toasting with crystal goblets.  He saw the Blood-Wight, Skrykalian, now dressed in a sky-blue gown with silver trim.  She wore a brooch of mithril that was shaped like a swan.  The elf looked positively radiant and elegant, a woman of refinement and nobility.  He wondered if Skrykalian was anything before she was a Blood-Wight.  He was sure that Haedorial would know…if he ever got the chance to speak with the bard again.  Right now, he was not entirely sure.

Skrykalian picked up a flute from the table and began to play, a lively, jaunty tune that was sublime, worthy of the Nightsingers.  Was this what it was like to be an elf, an ancient being in a world long forgotten? He felt for her.  If there was any way that she could be saved, he would try.

Jaabran touched him on the shoulder and the vision faded.  “Are you alright, Lord Rhudainor?”

Dagar took a sharp breath and focused his eyes on the Haradan.  “What?  Yes…I’m fine. And call me Dagar…please.  I’m not used to being Lord Rhudainor.  I am not the brave lord and knight who rode to battle earlier.  I’m just an accountant and a mediocre bard.”

Jaabran smiled. “Nonsense, Lord Rhudainor.  You were brave and stout hearted in the battle. I’m not sure we would have won had you not defended the roof.”

This comforted Dagar and they continued to follow the tracks to the right into a processional hall.  There were signs of an ancient battle here, gouges on the walls and floors with a smattering of old bones.  He heard another voice now, softer, barely audible.  It was a different woman.  “Turn back.  It’s a trap. She will kill you all.  Turn back.”  Aside from the warning, her voice was melodious like the sound of a rippling stream.  Could this be Skrykalian?

He reached out to warn Mercatur but there was a bright flash of light, and he winced, shielding his eyes with his hand.  When his vision cleared, the empty chamber of dust and debris became a warm, inviting room, full of exquisite furniture, paneled in rich wood that was painted crimson with beautifully etched patterns in paisley, dyed in black and gold.  He inhaled in surprise and saw that the mage, Nasen, Penda and his one maimed man and three orcs sat at an elegant walnut table. The legs of the table were carved to look like trees with tiny leaves that were all colored silver and gold, and the top of the table had the map of Beleriand carved upon it.

A tall, elven woman with angular features and short coal black hair, stood at the head of the table.  Her nude body was muscular and toned and falcon wings were tucked in behind her.  Her silver eyes practically glowed with power.  Another male, with rippling muscles and a square jaw, stood beside her. It was easy to see that they were related.  A hammer, forged of black metal, floated in front of him.  Behind them were the two Blood-Wights at the Tirthon.  This was the first opportunity that Dagar had to see them up close.  Naranantur was lean and had a face that exuded confidence, almost haughtiness. His black sword floated near him, reflecting the lights in the room.  Skrykalian was only slightly shorter than her brother.  Her body was lithe, like a dancer’s and her face, soft and heart-shaped with high cheekbones, framed by straight, raven black hair.  She was easily the most beautiful woman Dagar had ever seen.  The air around them shimmered as pulses of energy surged from the one with falcon wings.

Dagar shook and his legs felt weak, his mind clouded and fuzzy.  “Sercë?” he asked, even though he knew it was her from the vision at the entrance.

She smiled and gestured to the table and eight chairs appeared around it.  “Yes, thank you for heeding my call for aid.  You are most kind, good Dagar.  Please, all of you, have a seat.  You are my guests.  How I have longed to entertain again.”

All of them marched mechanically to the table and sat down.  Dagar felt as if he were a marionette on a string.  He looked across the table at Nasen and glowered.  The traitor would pay.  If not by his hand, then someone else’s.  Still, Nasen, Penda and the other man wept silently, their whole bodies quivering in terror.  Growing up, he had never seen them cry or be frightened and that worried him.

Skrykalian glided around the table, moving sensually.  She brushed Dagar’s cheek and leaned into his ear.  “I tried to warn you.  Why didn’t you turn back?” she whispered seriously, then smiled at him and continued on.

Sercë clapped her hands, getting everyone’s attention.  “Eyes here!” she called, and the captives all turned their heads as one.  “Very good, my children.  I want you to be comfortable in your new home.  You may call me Blogath from now on…or mother.”

Skrykalian turned on her elder sister and scowled.  “You sound like Thuringwethil.  Do you hope to make a new family like she did?  What has become of you?”

Blogath sneered and her teeth became fangs.  “Silence! Should I give you to these men as the Lord of Gifts intended?  They would all die happy with the scent of an elven princess on their noses.”

“We have come full circle, Sercë.  You are now the monster who made us into monsters.  I will have no more of your evil,” Skrykalian said and turned away.

“Do not turn your back on me, dear sister!” Blogath called and closed her fist, stopping Skrykalian in her tracks.  She gestured with her other hand and the blank runes of binding floated out of Ethacali’s pouch and floated to her.  “I am…transferring ownership,” she said.  “This will require a blood sacrifice.”  She began to walk around the table, letting her finger brush along every captive, drinking in the sound of sobbing.  “Let’s see…the little mage needs his three shamans to bind me.  Without all three, he lacks the power to do so.”  Her hand became a claw, and she drew a talon along Grashur’s throat.  The orc’s eyes widened, and he began to gurgle as black blood ran down his chest. Blogath leaned over him and began drinking the flowing liquid.  She stood back up, her eyes red and her mouth and neck soaked in blood as Grashur slumped over, his final breath leaving him.  “Ah, bitter like all orcs, but still energizing.  And that was your most effective shaman, leaving the lickspittle and the one with treachery in his heart.  And now, you lack the power to challenge me,” she told Ethacali.

The mage’s breath came in sharp gasps as he tried to fight her will.  “The Witch-King will come for you,” he said, still unable to move his jaw. “You would be wise to release us.”

She laughed sarcastically. “Do you think that I am afraid of your Lord of Angmar…Er-Mȗrazôr, the errant prince of Númenor?  He was not yet born when we were ancient.”  She put her hand on his face, cradling it gently.  “And you, Ethacali, the Dark Mage of Rhudaur, you have failed him.  He would feed you to the wargs or cast you into the dungeons of Carn Dȗm.  You would never see your beloved again.  You should have listened to my sister.  It is best that you stay with me now, my child.  I will care for you and raise you as my own.”

She drew her closed fist in and Skrykalian seemed to be pulled by an unseen force.  “I have not forgotten you, my treacherous sister,” she said and then gestured to Athrug, the other orc shaman.  “I see in his mind how he lusts for you.  I will give you to him first.”

The younger sister thrashed about, gnashing her teeth.  “Kill me and be done with it!”

Blogath laughed again. “Oh, you cannot die, dear sister. You are a wight, remember.  We are already undead.  Those treacherous men killed us millennia ago and yet, here we are. Even after our own kind sealed us in this tomb, we yet live and breathe and feed.”

Skrykalian snickered this time.  “Yes, I remember.  Blood feeds us, but our blood powers others,” she said and then bit down on her wrist and put it in Ethacali’s mouth.  He drank of her blood and his body glowed.  With a grunt, he stood up, shaking off Blogath’s power.  A pulse of energy shot outwards from him, and it knocked the captives out of their seats and threw Blogath against the wall.

The mage turned back to the captives, now sprawled on the floor.  “Run! All of you run!”  He looked at Dagar and Oswy.  “I’m sorry for what I did,” he said and then thrust his staff into the ceiling as he handed the tome to Skrykalian.  The stone above them crackled and rumbled and flakes began to fall. Dagar and the rest ran for all they were worth as the ceiling collapsed, one huge chunk crushing Penda and the two orcs.  Skrykalian and Naranantur flew by, picking up as many of them as they could.  As they passed the threshold of Blogath’s sanctuary, dust blew out onto them as loud, crashing sounds filled the corridor.

Skrykalian landed and set Dagar and Oswy down.  The young man coughed from the cloud of dust and waved his hand back and forth in front of his face.  His throat and his eyes felt coated in grit and he blinked numerous times.  The Blood-Wights held up their hands and the dark hall glowed with magical lights.  When he could see again, he noticed that the corridor was dilapidated as it was before.  He did a quick head count; all of the Vulseggi were here, as was Mercatur and Jaabran, along with Nasen and the wounded friend of Penda’s.  He looked up at Skrykalian, who was much taller than he. “You…you saved us.  The mage?  What happened?”  He looked back and noticed that a translucent barrier blocked the way back to Blogath’s sanctuary.  It must have been Ethacali’s final act.

Her wings folded back into her body, and she gave him a bittersweet smile.  “I could sense that Ethacali would rather die than be trapped here for the rest of his life…or be turned into a monster like me.  My blood gave him the power to resist and to choose his own fate.  You are innocents, caught up in his and my sister’s machinations,” she said and then stumbled as if dizzy.  Dagar caught her, feeling her bare flesh against him, her lithe body using him as a crutch.  The scent of her was intoxicating, like a rose after a rain.  His mind began to wander, and he gulped hard.  “Thank you.  I am weakened from giving Ethacali my blood.”  Her skin was now pale and cold to the touch.  She looked at Mercatur and Jaabran.  “I am truly sorry for your friend and for your cousin.  Ethacali forced me to attack, but I relished the blood. I have no desire to kill anyone who does not deserve it but Sauron made me slaughter hundreds in sacrifice.  I am a monster, and I offer you my life in exchange for those that you lost,” she said and faced them, spreading her arms wide. She looked them in the eye but there was fear in her.

Mercatur drew his axe and then snorted.  “But you’ll just come back in a number of years, right?”

She nodded.  “If it would give you satisfaction, I offer no resistance.  And it will still hurt.”

The mercenary grunted and put his axe away.  “No point to it.  You saved us back there so I’ll call us even.”

Dagar sighed in relief. “Enough blood has been shed today,” he said, looking at Nasen and his man.  “You betrayed my father and I.  Had you just talked to me, I would’ve stepped down.  I never wanted to take over for my father.  You earned it while I wasted my life and money in Tharbad.  Until I joined the Nightsingers I was nothing…a stupid kid with stupid dreams.  I will let you live, but I never want to see you again.”  Nasen nodded silently.

Naranantur held out two of the blank runes.  “I got these on the way out, sister.  The runes of binding.  We are free,” he said as the papers burst into flame and crumbled into ash in his hand.

Skrykalian stood straight again.  “Our elder sister and brother are not dead but merely trapped within.  And though Ethacali’s designs were evil, he died fighting evil.  I will…have a message sent to his home in Logath.  Now, let us leave this place.”  She led the way but looked back at them.  “And by the way, you may now call us, Finculion and Alquanessë, our real names before Thuringwethil stole them from us.  We were of the Noldor of Beleriand, thousands of years ago, from the House of Fingolfin.  Maybe one day we will find our way back.”

As they exited the caverns, Dagar was never so happy to see the rising sun and to breathe fresh air. A little while ago, he was sure that they would all be killed and drained of blood, left as shriveled husks in a dark tomb.  Along with Hirgrim and the Cultirith, they returned to the tower as Nasen and his man went south.  Wiglaf and Aldhelm met them at the shattered palisade gate, eyeing the rangers and the Blood-Wights suspiciously.  “We have a truce,” Dagar told them.  “Hirgrim asked for parley and gave us valuable information on the vale.  In exchange, I agreed to return their stores that we captured after the battle.  They will return to Dol Cultirith in peace.”  He then gestured to the Blood-Wights.  “And these are…Finculion and Alquanessë of the Noldor. We also have a truce with them.” He gave them a bow and flourish.

Wiglaf nodded cautiously. “Very well, Dagar,” he said slowly and pointed to the sacks and crates that they had recovered after the battle. “I’ll send some men to help.”  The hallweard then looked at the Blood-Wights. “You…umm…don’t want any clothes? It…uhhh…must be cold.”

Alquanessë shook her head. “No, I’m just fine as is.  All of my clothes rotted away eons ago.  And then the drinking blood thing…it ruined everything I wore so I gave up.”

Mercatur chuckled. “Don’t change on my account, lady. Just looking at you brightens my day.” He then put his hand on Wiglaf’s shoulder.  “You should know that I gave my lands and title to young Dagar here.  He is now Lord Rhudainor.  With time, I think he will make a fine head of the house.”

Wiglaf bowed to Dagar. “We are honored, Lord Rhudainor. We thought ourselves dispossessed but it is good to know that our house has a future again.”  He gestured back to the tower.  “But I am afraid that the Tirthon is no longer defensible.  The copper plates are destroyed or damaged. The kitchen is a loss and the walls are crumbling.  It would take years to repair, and we don’t have the manpower.  I would suggest that we move to the Harnalda Tower and offer our services there.  We could blend in but continue to be autonomous.”  

Dagar smiled.  “I may have a better idea, good Wiglaf.  Good Mercatur was kind enough to give us a manor house and farmland near Thuin Boid.  I think it would be a good idea to resettle there.  If you would accept, I would be honored to have you continue as the Hallweard of House Rhudainor.”

“But of course, my lord. Everyone here who was sworn to Marendil is sworn to you now.  Even Nig and Cisgid are willing to work for you.  You’ll be close enough to help your father and, I daresay, you will have the means to help your mother.”

Dagar turned to the mercenaries.  “Would you consider staying on at the house.  You’re more than welcome.”

Mercatur shook his head. “Nah, I think we’ve had enough of Rhudaur and Rhudaur has had enough of us for a while.  I think we’re going to try our hand in Cardolan.  There’s enough work there for mercenaries.”

Lord Rhudainor turned to Finculion and Alquanessë.  “And where will you go?”

Alquanessë cocked her head as if thinking and put her finger to her lips.  “I honestly had not thought about it.  We never even hoped to be free,” she said, sniffling and wiping her nose with her arm.  Dagar handed her his now filthy silk handkerchief.  She made a sour face but dabbed her nose.  “Thank you.  I think we’ll just take it a day at a time.  Our mother, Irimë, is still out there and I wish to make amends to my dear friend, Morelen.  We also recently learned that our true father is Maglor, a bard of much renown.  And, there is still the cure to decide upon,” she added, holding up the tome.

Dagar splayed his hands with a grin.  “You can always stay with me until you decide.”

She started to refuse but stopped herself, narrowing one eye.  “You know…I think we will take you up on that.  After all, we are homeless now and what do you humans say in the cities when you’re homeless…will work for food.”

Dagar laughed, stunned by the demon’s sense of humor.  But the laugh faded when he realized that their food was blood.  “Oh…no…uh.”

Alquanessë giggled, putting her hand over her mouth.  “No…no, we eat regular food too.”  She pointed to a woman and girl running towards them.  “Well, you best pay attention to them now.  We’ll see you for dinner…regular food.  Anything that tastes like chicken will do.”

Dagar wrapped Mirthi and Cicrid up in his arms as they arrived.  “I am such a lucky man.”

Chapter End Notes

The adventure reaches its conclusion.  I also wrote a tragic ending but I decided on the happy ending.  Mercatur's story will continue in The Thieves of Tharbad, where there will be a part that Serce and Alquanesse will play.

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Epilogue

Cardolan, the Palace at Thalion, Yüle, 1407

Haedorial the bard looked out upon the courtyard that was covered in a blanket of fresh snow.  Multiple carriages were parked near the stables with drivers and coachmen standing by for the royal and aristocratic guests of King Ostoher for the grand Yüle fête.  It was one of the great festivals in the Kingdom of Cardolan and the good king always made sure to honor the event.  The walls of the palace were of white marble with veins of gold and 40’ tall sculptures of the Two Trees were planted just in front of the grand stairway that led up to a columned portico.  Four frozen reflecting ponds to the west of the building surrounded a large festival court that was used during the warmer summer and fall months. Beyond that was the processional way, flanked with tall pine trees and 20’ tall alabaster obelisks that had multi-colored tourmalines set in the faces.

The bard’s breath streamed from his mouth and nose in the freezing weather.  He inhaled and exhaled a series of quick breaths to expand his lungs and prepare his voice for the performance.  He raised his arms and expanded his chest.  For the last ten years he had been the key performer for the royal feast. He was dressed in his finest winter robes, green and red velvet with a silver cloak trimmed in ermine and a black velvet flatcap.  His brown hair hung in ringlets, and he had a brown mustache that was curled up at the ends. As part of the theme for the festival, he wore a paper mâché mask over his upper face that was also red and green with white feathers.  He could already hear musicians in the main hall, drums beating out a tune along with flutes, recorders and lyres.

A woman touched him on the shoulder from behind and he turned.  “Oh, Faeliriel, I didn’t see you coming.  Forgive my ignorance.  I was lost in thought, preparing for the festival.”

The bard’s wife stretched up to kiss him.  She was dressed in a midnight blue gown that was trimmed in fur with a silver cloak. She wore a laurel of holly leaves and berries over her blonde hair.  Her mask was silver and gold with black feathers and intricate designs on the face. “A messenger came for you, love. A letter from Rhudaur of all places. Who do you know in Rhudaur?  Isn’t it a land of savages and barbarians?” she asked as she handed him the scroll of parchment paper.

“Well, not always.  Up until King Forodacil, it was a primeval land of forests and hills, led by the Dúnedain, descendants of Isildur.  Rhugga the Hillman usurped the throne in Eleven Seventy Six until Forodacil’s granddaughter, Queen Elewen, took it back in Twelve Thirty One and reigned for over seventy years.  Unfortunately, her son, Aldor the Addled, became king after followed by his equally inept brother, Elegost the Enfeebled and the kingdom disintegrated and fell under the rule of Angmar.”

Faeliriel humored him with a smile.  They met as bards in the Nightsinger’s Guild, and she was easily as learned in ancient lore as he.  “Of course, dear.  Now, please read the letter.  Do you know who it’s from?”

He rotated the scroll until he saw a red wax seal.  “Oh, my…the seal of House Rhudainor.  I’ve heard rumors that they were still in Rhudaur, defending the faith.  A very noble house led by one, Marendil.  What could he possibly want with me?”  He was about to crack the seal when a teenaged girl walked onto the portico and looked at them.  She was dressed in a scarlet ball gown that had silver accents and intricate geometric patterns in the fabric.  Her cloak was forest green and trimmed in fox fur and she wore a flatcap of scarlet velvet lined with mink fur.  She seemed to be struggling with her mask, which was painted in elaborate golden designs with raven feathers that matched the color of her long hair.

“We do so hate these things. We only wear them once a year for mother and father,” the girl said, clearly flustered.  “We much preferred a pony for our birthday.  We had better get something much more fun for Yüle.”  She made a curtsey as she approached to which Haedorial bowed and Faeliriel returned the curtsey.  “We simply had to get some fresh air, you see,” she added and turned her chin up and put her finger to her cheek.

Haedorial instantly knew that she was noble but from which family.  The Girithlins?  They did not have a daughter of that age.  The Calantirs?  They had many daughters and granddaughters of Hir Celeph but their hair was blonde or brown. It must be the Tinares.  Hir Duin had a son and daughter…what were their names…Ostomir and Galadel.  It must be Galadel.  “It’s not that difficult, my lady.  May I?” he asked, pointing to the mask that she held over her face.

She released the mask to him and nodded and he tied the string behind her head.  “Thank you, good sir.  We are in your debt.”  She gestured to his scroll.  “Were you about to read your letter?  We apologize for the interruption.  Praythee good sir, do not let us stop you.”

The bard cracked the wax seal. “It’s from Marendil Rhudainor of Rhudaur,” he said as he unrolled the parchment, and he read out loud:

“My dear Haedorial and Faeliriel, it is I, Dagar.  I pray that you are both well and in good health.”  The bard took a breath.  “It’s young Dagar!  I had hoped that he was doing well.”

His eyes went back to the parchment.  “I have had the most extraordinary adventure.  It all started when I arrived home, and my father made me the head of the annual waenhosh to the Tirthon Tower.  All went smoothly until we reached the town of Maig Tuira, which had been sacked by the Macha Mur tribe.  Everyone had been killed, tortured and mutilated by them and their chief, the barbaric Lumban.  There was a sole survivor, Baga Montúri, a teenager, who now works for me.  Things became stranger as we drove the wagons along the Dunnish Track to the tower and it began to snow in summer.”  Haedorial stopped and looked up at the girl, concerned that the description of violence would rattle her.  “My lady, perhaps you should go inside.  This may be graphic.”

She shook her head.  “We are fine, good sir.  This is most interesting.  We do so enjoy tales from far off lands.  Praythee, continue.”

“Along with mercenaries, who became my friends, we scouted the forest and found the Dunnish camp.  My friend, can you imagine me in the company of mercenaries?  I am sure you could not.  It was there that I had to kill my first enemy.  I felt sick.  We were able to free many of the prisoners from Maig Tuira, including a young woman named Mirthi and her daughter, Cicrid, but I regret that the elderly and the gravely wounded could not be saved as we were being pursued.  It was heartbreaking to have to leave Mirthi’s parents.  The Macha Mur tribe was positively fearsome, and their chief wore a cloak of ears and noses.  How horrifying.”

“We arrived at the Tirthon while under attack from the Cultirith Rangers, vassals of Cameth Brin. Soon, the tower fell under siege, and we were bombarded with stones and bolts.  Sir Oswy Amrodan led sorties out at night to destroy some of the siege equipment and to wear down the attackers.  You may know his wife, Éanfled Amrodan, who was a lady of the court in service to the Princess Nirnadel.”

The girl seemed excited and bounced on the balls of her feet.  “Yes!  We know good Éanfled!  We are ever so pleased to hear her name, but the siege sounds positively dreadful.”

Haedorial had met her on different occasions at functions and she was a pleasant, cultured woman whom he knew hailed from Rhudaur.  He continued reading.  “Lady Amrodan and I would pass time during the siege playing music for the garrison. As you know, I was a mediocre bard in the Nightsingers.  However, I have since had a mentor who greatly improved my skills.  I will speak of her later in the letter.  Now, unbeknownst to us, a demon of the night who had been recruited by an Easterling mage, Ethacali, had been infecting the dreams of Lord Marendil Rhudainor, driving him to despair and depression.  He became consumed by guilt and launched an ill-fated cavalry charge that was defeated by the enemy.  One of my mercenary friends, Gamrid, was slain by one of the demons, known as a Blood-Wight.  Yes, it is as bad as it sounds.  They consume the blood of victims like the vampires of legend.”

The bard, his wife and the young lady gasped.  “Lord Marendil fought bravely alongside his cousin, my other mercenary friend but he was struck by a ballista bolt in the chest.  Mercatur tried to save him, but the female Blood-Wight, Skrykalian, swept him away.  Yes, poor Marendil fell in that battle but I am sure that he is with his wife, Eitheriel now.”  Haedorial looked at the cracked wax seal.  “If Marendil fell, then who made this seal?”

“Marendil’s troops, the Vulseggi, who are all under House Melossë, fell back in disarray.  Ethacali then launched an all out attack. Clansmen from the Macha Mur, the Siol Nȗnaw, the rangers of the Cultirith, orcs, goblins and three trolls surged forward.  I saw that the kitchen was on fire, the result of foul magic from Ethacali and I ran there to save Mirthi.  It was something orchestrated by my father’s supposed friend, Nasen.  Nasen betrayed us because he wanted to inherit the business. Through a magic ring, the mage was able to bewitch the cook, who murdered the other cooks and hurt Mirthi. She hit him with a frying pan and stabbed him with a kitchen knife.  She is someone who can take care of herself, mind you.”

“Then, Mercatur sent us to the roof and the footmen and I fought the barbarians coming over the top until the mercenaries arrived.  It was there that I had to battle Lumban.  But the siege tower was also nearing, and I had an idea.  I had Mercatur cut away one of the giant bronze plates that protected the tower, and it smashed the siege tower and crushed a troll.  Ha!”

“Then, Lumban came at Mirthi and I with a spiked club.  You know, all I had was my smallsword and a light crossbow and I must credit you for the one good technique that I learned.  Somehow, I was able to wound Lumban, probably more luck than skill.  Mercatur then finished him off and threw him over the wall.”

The girl had her hands over her mouth through this whole last section.  “How dreadful and exciting at the same time,” she said with a gasp.

“On the ground floor, Sir Oswy counterattacked and broke the enemy.  Our casualties were high so we were not able to pursue right away.  Ethacali and the survivors fled to a place called the Yfelwood. It was there that the Blood-Wights made their home.  I will resist telling you more of them right now for fear of spoiling your enjoyment. But, suffice it to say that they appeared as High Elves of old, tall, proud and regal, but with wings and fangs and without a shred of clothing.”

“I will let one thing slip here.  My friend, Mercatur, the cousin of Marendil, named me as the successor to House Rhudainor so I write you now as Lord Rhudainor, hence the seal.”  Haedorial looked up.  “This is extraordinary!”

“We pursued them to their caverns in the vale where the Cultirith asked for parley and we came to a truce, which I was able to negotiate.  Their captain, Hirgrim, told us that the two younger Blood-Wights seemed reluctant to participate in the fighting but were forced to do so by the mage, using a rune of binding.  I only hoped that we might have been able to negotiate with them as well.  We then entered the caverns of which I cannot truly do justice to the description of fear and horror within.  We began to see visions of one of the Blood-Wights, Blogath, who tried to trick us into ‘rescuing’ her.  We also saw visions of how the caverns used to be in the last age, luxurious and full of music and mirth.  But then, we were all trapped in the spirit realm by Blogath.  All of us, Ethacali, Nasen and even the orcs.  Blogath’s power was immense as she is a demon of the ancient world from the times that you told me about, a time of dragons, balrogs, vampires and werewolves.  We were unable to control even our own bodies, and she made us sit, telling us that we would become her children.  I can only imagine that she meant to turn us into vampires.  Now, the Blood-Wights were all siblings who were turned by Thuringwethil, surely you remember the name from the tales of the Silmarillion that you shared with me.”

Haedorial nodded.  “I do indeed, young Dagar.  I am enthralled by your tale.”

The young woman grasped him by the arm, unable to contain herself.  “We simply cannot wait.  We praythee, good sir, continue with all haste.”

“Hirgrim was right. Skrykalian and her brother Naranantur rebelled against the older siblings, Balisimur and Blogath.  Blogath sacrificed one of the orcs and her power grew. She was going to humiliate Skrykalian by forcing her to lie with an orc but the younger sister bit her wrist and poured her blood into Ethacali’s mouth.  With the power of her blood, he broke free and freed us.  He apologized as he struck the ceiling with his staff, collapsing the room on top of him, the orcs, Blogath and Balisimur.  Skrykalian and her brother helped carry us to safety. Then, Ethacali erected a magical barrier as his final act to seal them in.”

The three on the foyer blew out breaths in relief.  “I have no way to top this tale,” Haedorial said, eyes wide and full of wonder.  “I must add this to the collection of bardic sagas in our library.”

The young woman jabbed the parchment with her finger.  “There’s more.  Please, there’s more!”

“I cannot express the relief that I felt at having survived that ordeal.  There were too many times that I was sure that I would not make it. I banished Nasen and his man and we returned to the tower to assess our future.  The tower was so badly damaged and so few troops were left that we decided to abandon it and move to the manor of House Rhudainor.  You would be amazed to see me as a lord, overseeing farms and soldiers.  You prepared me well, my friends, as I keep the books for the house and we have prospered. Sir Oswy is the captain of my guard. Wiglaf is my Hallweard.  Baga is my master of stables.  Ynarri, his workers and his pig are my kitchen staff.  But the pig has to stay outside for the time being. I freed the two wealli, Nig and Cisgid and they organize supplies and caravans.  You would also be amazed to hear that the two Blood-Wights have come to stay with us for now.”

Haedorial’s eyes widened. “What?  This is extraordinary!”  He took a deep breath and continued.  “So now I will reveal to you, the history of the Blood-Wights, something that I am sure that you will be interested in.  I have one final surprise for you at the end, so please indulge me.  The Blood-Wights were originally High Elves in the land of Beleriand in the First Age, a time so ancient that we cannot truly understand it. They are the children of Irimë, the younger sister of High King Fingolfin of the Noldor and Maglor, the bard, though it seemed to be out of wedlock.”

Haedorial looked at his wife and the young woman.  “This is…this is extraordinary!  I am…without words.  They were kidnapped by Thuringwethil during the Dagor Bragollach and made into vampires. Thuringwethil took pleasure in corrupting them in front of their mother, which nearly drove her mad.  They escaped and hid until the arrival of Sauron in the Second Age.  He corrupted them again until the armies of Gil-Galad and the Númenóreans arrived and destroyed Sauron’s army.  They were all slain and sealed in the caverns as their tomb until Ethacali woke them.  So now you have the full story of my adventure. The Blood-Wights, whose true names are Finculion, known as the brave and Alquanessë, known as the fairest of Irimë’s children, are staying with us for now.  They will be searching for their mother soon and have a lead on a cure for vampirism.  I daresay that Alquanessë is the most beautiful woman that I have ever seen, and she is the one who taught me more about singing and music.  I would offer that she would give you a run for your money.”

Haedorial smiled broadly. “We simply must bring him here or we must travel there.”

“And, we have made trade agreements with the Siol Nȗnaw and the Cultirith so it has been peaceful since the battle though Alquanessë tells me that Angmar will stir up trouble soon, but she doesn’t know any more.  If that happens, they can conceal the manor house and they have already spread rumors that our lands are haunted and cursed by vampires, which I suppose is true. And, I was able to convince them to wear clothing…most of the time.  She dotes on Cicrid too and has become her teacher.  Finally, I know that you will soon perform for the Yüle Festival so I will leave you with the fact that Mirthi is now Lady Rhudainor and I have adopted Cicrid as my own and my heir.  I wished that I could have joined you as I am sure that it will be sublime but we are expecting.  I wish you and Faeliriel good tidings and happiness.  Until we meet again, yours, Dagar Rhudainor.”

Haedorial wiped a tear from his eye.  “I am so proud of him.  I was truly worried when he went to Rhudaur but my fears were unfounded.  We simply must hear this tale in person one day.”

The young woman clapped and bounced up and down and her mask fell off.  The bard scooped it up and handed it back to her and he gasped.  “Oh my…Oh my, Your Grace, Princess Nirnadel,” he said with a deep bow and flourish.  Faeliriel’s face registered shock, and then she did the same.  The Princess extended her hand, and he kissed the ruby ring on her finger.  “I apologize. I thought you were the Lady Galadel Tinare.  Forgive me, Your Grace.”

“There is nothing to forgive, my good bard.  We would know your name, but We know that such a thing is not allowed at our masquerade. Perhaps one day We shall know it. We suspect that it is nearing time for the festivities.  Just look at the wreaths of holly and ivy.  We love this time of year.  Our royal father has so many presents for us.  We simply cannot contain our excitement.  But We must say, dear bard, that your telling of this tale was the highlight of our evening. We will remember it for all of our days.”  She turned and Haedorial retied her mask and they went to the grand hall where jugglers and entertainers played before the guests and music filled the halls.

Haedorial and his wife took the stage and then horns blew out a pomp and flourish, and all in the room bowed or knelt.  A herald pounded his staff on the floor three times.  “All bow!  Announcing the entry of our great and wise King Ostoher and his lovely and wise Queen Miretar!”

The two bowed low with a grand flourish as Princess Nirnadel went to rejoin her parents and two older brothers, her mask securely in place.  “Greetings good King Ostoher!  We are ever so grateful for your gracious invitation to play before this esteemed audience!  We bring to you selected excerpts from the Lay or Leithian, the ancient tale of Beren and Luthien.  We wish you a joyous Yüle!  Now…please…allow us to entertain you!” 

Chapter End Notes

Haedorial, Ostomir and Galadel Tinare and Princess Nirnadel's story continues in the Thieves of Tharbad.

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