The Dark Mage of Rhudaur by AliceNWonder000137  

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The Seeds of Treachery

The Tirthon is surrounded by Ethacali's forces and the defenders prepare for a siege.  Mercatur knows that something is amiss but Dagar can't hear it but young Dagar does find something.  Dagar meets Lady Eanfled where they talk about Cardolan.

The Tirthon, Cerveth 12th, 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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