The Dark Mage of Rhudaur by AliceNWonder000137  

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The Dunnish Camp

Mercatur leads a group to scout the forest and the Dunnish camp as Dagar comes to grips with his fears.

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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. 

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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.