The Dark Mage of Rhudaur by AliceNWonder000137  

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The Village of Maig Tuira

The waenhosh slogs along the Dunnish Track, the main road through Rhudaur, to the village of Maig Tuira to trade and resupply.

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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