Chapter Two
15th February
Henneth Annûn
Darien rode late into the night, early into the dark hours of the next morning, then he camped, allowing the horse to rest while he tossed and turned, seeking vainly for sleep. Despite the cold and his nagging thoughts, sleep finally found him, and she brought the usual array of flashbacks and portents. He awoke with a start; Landis, his closest friend, his dead friend, speaking words that further chilled him. But the voice and its meaning evaporated as soon as Darien's eyes sprang open to the overhead sun. He cursed and clambered out of his blankets. He had not intended to delay so long. Breaking camp, and eating no more than dry rations, he set out at a steady pace once more.
It was growing late when Darien arrived at Henneth Annûn. He went directly to the tavern where he had stayed previously, The Whistling Dog. A cheerful lad offered to take care of Darien's mount; the horse leant to him by Halbarad. This was one of the factors that had determined Darien's course, to return to The Burping Troll with the ranger's steed. But first, there was someone in the town he wanted to meet.
As he entered the inn, the redheaded barmaid, Sira, greeted him. She recognised Darien and flirted half-heartedly while showing him to a room. Sira recollected this man's last visit. He had remained cool with her but one of his two companions, the older man - what was he called? - Landis. Yes, Landis. He had been friendly and fun. She wondered whether he might show up too. Then she remembered that the trio had been involved in troubles that resulted in the deaths of some men, and injury to her archenemy, Sevilodorf.
'Every cloud has a silver lining,' Sira mused cheerfully before asking, "You only want the one bed, sir, or are the other gentlemen arriving later?"
Darien simply stared at the girl for a moment. Then he managed to say, "No, just the one bed. The other men will not be joining me."
Sira shrugged, opening the door to a small room. "I hope this will suit you then, sir. Just call if you want anything."
Before she could leave, Darien asked, "There's a farm out on the west side of town. Do you know who owns it?"
Sira shrugged a white shoulder; farmers did not interest her at all. "Might be one of several."
"A large farm, with low stone walls about the fields. It's not on the road to the garrison, but on the smaller road going south."
Wrinkling her nose in thought, a look she had practiced often to determine the most appealing pose, Sira said, "Oh, that'd be Farmer Tiroc."
She batted her eyelashes and smiled broadly, pleased that she had been able to answer the question. Her disappointment that Landis would not be coming faded as she mulled on Darien's air of distinction, an air that carried the scent of wealth.
"Does Tiroc ever frequent this tavern?"
To Sira's ears, the man's voice also dripped with gold. If he was on his own, maybe she could get him to thaw a little; the offer of useful information would no doubt help. "He was here a few moments ago looking for his son. He's just set off to check at The Black Cauldron." She shook her head in disgust. "That lad's become a real problem."
"I'll try to catch up with Tiroc then. What does he look like and where is The Black Cauldron?" Darien reached into his pocket for a coin to quicken the girl's tongue. It worked, she rattled off a description and route, taking the money as Darien hastened out of the room.
'Well,' Sira thought as she watched the man leave, 'that's a promising start. I hope he comes back soon.' She examined the bright disk in her palm. 'I'll wager there's more where this came from.'
xxx
Darien entered The Black Cauldron and came to an immediate halt. It was as different to The Whistling Dog as night is to day; the gloomy, oppressive room crowded his senses with mumbling voices, choking smoke and overripe smells. Whoever owned the place used cheap oil in the few, rusty lanterns, adding more fumes than light to the depressing atmosphere. The walls, where he could make them out, bore dribbled brown droplets down the yellowing paint. He shuddered at the thought of touching any of the surfaces.
Pulling his attention back to the reason for setting foot in such a pit to begin with, Darien peered around at the faces of the occupants. In one of the far corners, he spotted a familiar figure; it was Cullen, a farm lad who had assisted the orc hunters when they arrived in Henneth Annûn over a month ago. A stocky, balding man, seemingly arguing with the youth, matched Sira's description of the farmer exactly. With an inward groan, Darien realised that this was Tiroc and, putting two and two together, the lad must be the farmer's son; an unexpected complication. Darien gritted his teeth and made his way towards them.
Turning his face from his father's anger, Cullen watched as a tall man approached. The youth's ale-bleared eyes struggled to focus. There was something … His mouth fell open then it twisted savagely.
"YOU!"
This is going to be hard, Darien thought. His last encounter with Cullen was when the youth had led the hunters to Rablot, an orc who worked for Tiroc. Apparently he had not expected Darien to execute the creature. 'You said you were only going to talk to him. He wasn't hurting nobody.'
No time to ponder. Tiroc was also staring at him.
"And who are you?" the ruddy-faced farmer demanded.
"We need to talk …" This was certainly going to be hard. Maybe he should have waited for morning, but he was weary of waiting. "… Let me get you some drinks."
"The lad's had more than enough already," Tiroc growled as his bushy eyebrows creased into an expression, both angry and worried. "He always does recently. And I don't want to be in this place a moment more than I need to."
"Please." Darien tried to stress the importance of his request. "I'll get Cullen a tea. I've been on the road all day and need to wash the dust from my mouth."
"The blood from yer 'ands … " Cullen slurred.
At this, Tiroc straightened his back and schooled his face. The stranger and his son knew each other somehow and Cullen's words seemed ominous.
He said to the tall man, "Whoever you are, fetch the drinks. We will talk."
When Darien returned with a tray containing tankards of ale and a mug of tea, the farmer and his son were sitting quietly, Cullen slumped scowling and slack-jawed beside the stern figure of his father. Darien placed the drinks on the pitted table then, dragging a nearby chair, he sat down facing them.
Tiroc stared at him coldly and stated, "You killed Rablot."
As Darien nodded, struggling to compose a reply, Tiroc's fury was curbed by a measure of relief. Since the orc's murder, Cullen had been increasingly moody and withdrawn. The farmer had begun to worry that his son had been involved somehow; even that maybe he had killed the orc. Tiroc listened in silence as the stranger began his explanation.
"My men and I have spent most of the time since the war hunting down orcs, wanting to cleanse the land of their evil."
"Rablot wasn't evil!" Cullen hissed, but his father's sudden hand on his arm bid him to keep quiet.
Darien grimaced. "I know. I know that now. There are some orcs who are not evil, a few who deserve to live in the peace they seek, but there is no law that says killing them is criminal."
Ignoring his father's wishes, Cullen cut in. "Well there should be. You forced me to lead you to Rablot then you sliced off his …"
The youth fell silent as unspoken words burnt in his throat and the memory of the orc's lifeless eyes staring back at him threatened to call up the contents of his stomach.
"No, Cullen. Do not paint me blacker than I am. We did not force you. We paid you. And you did not ask why we were seeking orcs."
Tiroc mused on this. His boy had taken coins to lead men to their orc. Greedy and stupid, Cullen didn't question their reasons until it was too late. No wonder his conscience was eating away at him.
But the farmer was puzzled. "So why come back? Why seek us out? Are you here to apologise? If so, you are wasting your time. The one you should ask pardon from is dead."
"I'm here to find witnesses and evidence."
Blowing air sharply through his teeth, Tiroc frowned. "For what?"
Darien explained and the farmer listened with growing interest. By the time the tankards were empty, Tiroc had agreed not only to be a witness that some orcs could live and work alongside men, but also to keep an ear open for any other examples in the area.
"In fact, there's a few orcs that work here; they seem decent enough. Other orcs, and orc-like men, come here once in a while - they're not allowed in at The Whistling Dog - but I'd not give most of them the time of day. They'll do anything to earn money to drink and gamble. And I mean anything. Though truth be, they are little worse than some of the men in here."
"You know that many people will not be pleased about what I'm doing," Darien warned, "and what you are proposing to do."
Tiroc snorted. "No need to tell me that. I had enough snide comments when Rablot worked for me. But that didn't stop people from being shocked at what you did to him. Not many round here would take their dislikes that far. Most of us have left pasts behind that we would just as soon forget. We don't ask each other about what went before, we judge on what we witness now."
Throughout this conversation, Cullen had sipped at his tea and remained gloomily silent, now he spoke up. "You're not really going to help this murderer, are you, Dad?"
"Aye, I am, son. He made a mistake and now he's trying to put it right, and it's going to cost him an acre of grief. Besides, it's a worthy cause and one I want to play a part in. It's only fair, hard though it'll be."
"Well, I won't forgive him so easy." Cullen sneered as he turned his gaze towards Darien. "You broke my sister's heart. She liked Rablot."
"Did I ask your forgiveness?" Darien stared evenly back at the youth. "If you need to forgive anyone, I suspect it is yourself." He had heard similar words spoken when he had been wracked with guilt.
Tiroc rose to his feet and pulled his son up with him. "There's some truth in that, Cullen. Let's get you home." Before leaving, the farmer paused and asked the stranger, "You've got our names. Do you have one of your own?"
With the first slight smile since arriving, the tall man stood and said, "Darien. And thank you for your offer to help."
"I'll bid you good night then, Darien. And my help is not so much for you as for the likes of Rablot."
xxx
Outskirts of Emyn Arnen
'Orders are orders,' Odbut told himself, as he crawled along in the night-darkened grass. So he was to kill another man. What of it? He had killed many before. That he could see no reason for it - no war - no threat - no apparent gain - was neither here nor there. Just follow orders. That was the way for an orc to keep a full belly. That was the way to avoid the whip. He served a lesser master now, but it was better than having no master at all. Odbut shivered at the thought, to be alone, to fend for himself, to try to think what course to take. He couldn't do that. He lived for orders and followed them blindly.
Thus he shuffled on his belly towards a dimly lit hut in the midst of a small wood. Stealth was not a skill he possessed in any measure, nor did he enjoy it. He preferred the exhilaration of open battle, the charge towards a seeing enemy, the joy of demonstrating his dominant strength to each dying opponent. But his orders were to stab the man in the back without being noticed. Master did not want the victim to have any chance of escape. Odbut spat quietly. His master had a poor opinion of him if he thought that was a possibility.
But then Master was welcome to whatever opinion he pleased. It mattered nothing to Odbut. He had not understood his previous master either, though he had feared him much more. The one who now ruled his life was nothing in comparison. Odbut wondered what his master would think if he knew the true thoughts of his servant; he despised him. Master was a sneaking, slimy snake that saved its venom for those whom it allowed near. Enemies, or rather anyone who in any way inconvenienced the master, were secretly snuffed out by minions. What pleasure could be deprived from cold reports of death? Were it Odbut who wanted someone dead, he would kill them himself, feel the warm blood splash on his hands, look into the dimming eyes as they watched him laughing.
Shaking his lumpy head, the orc concentrated on his task. He hid behind a bush then mewed softly. This man kept a cat, Odbut had been told. He knew the aging feline was not in the hut, in fact, he had helped it precede its owner into the afterlife. The orc grinned and mewed again.
With a creak, the wooden door opened, spilling pale light across a strip of ground. The figure of a man stood silhouetted in the doorway.
"Tibbles? Come in, Tibbles."
Odbut's face crumpled in disgust - Tibbles! The man deserved to die. Remaining still and silent, the assassin waited for his victim to emerge from the doorway. It was not a long wait. As the man walked slowly out in search of his pet, Odbut leapt from the bush and plunged his blade through the soft tunic, deep into the man's back.
It took a few moments for the life to drain from the body. Odbut spent that time dragging his victim back into the hut. Once inside, he shut the door then examined his work. The man was dead, but Odbut drew his blade again. His orders were to bring back the head as proof of his success. The orc was content to do so but there was no rush, and he saw no reason to waste the remaining fresh meat.
xxx
16th February
Northern Ithilien
The fawning of Sira when he had returned to The Whistling Dog left an unpleasant taste in Darien's mouth. It competed with the stagnant tang of smoke that still tickled at his throat in the cold morning as he rode the ranger's horse towards The Burping Troll. He had given the redhead a few coins to keep her sweet, better that than to become a whipping post for her tongue. But it was probably only a matter of time …
How he envied Farmer Tiroc's concerns, to have family to care for. Maybe the boys and Horus would still be at the inn; they were his only friends in the area. All his other men had returned home to Darien's holding in the Blackroot Vale, but the young brothers, Evan and Neal had been injured and were recovering at the inn. He had left them under the guardianship of Horus, the Haradrim, a man he trusted completely. It would be good to be among familiar faces again.
Making a cheerful clicking sound with his tongue, Darien urged the horse onwards. The miles and the hours passed quickly along the quiet route. He stopped only once for a short while, more to rest his mount than himself. It was a good Rohan gelding, bred for both speed and endurance, but his journey did not require him to make demands on those traits. He had taken the previous long trek at a steady pace. Today's shorter trip he made leisurely to ensure the animal kept his superb condition. Darien's own bay gelding might await him at the inn, but he had entrusted the horse to Sevilodorf and had no way of knowing if it would be available to him.
When he arrived at The Burping Troll, it was mid-afternoon. Meri the hobbit greeted him from the porch and she called for Milo to take care of the horse. Then she ushered Darien into the empty common room and seated him at a table.
"We'll prepare you a bed for later. Meanwhile, you must be famished. What can I get you?"
"Is Horus still here? And Neal and Evan?"
Meri did not read minds. She didn't need to, for she had an understanding heart. Her bright blue eyes studied Darien's face for a moment. This man wanted the warmth of comrades more than food or comfort, but food and comfort were all she could offer.
A frown of sympathy creased the brow beneath the hobbit's golden curls. "Your friends have returned to their homes, they left on the seventh, but Horus said he would come back. It cannot be too many days until he does." Her small hand patted the man's arm. "Let me bring you something special to eat," she said, before hurrying to the kitchen.
Shrugging off the heaviness that had descended on hearing that he would be alone, Darien leant back into the wooden chair, stretching muscles stiff from riding. 'Something special.' It didn't take long to get to know the tendencies of hobbits. Despite the fact that supper was still hours away - so not too much food could be currently cooking - he warned his stomach to expect a mountainous repast of some form or other.
Meri and Erin conspired together in the kitchen. This Darien was a stiff sort of person who kept his emotions schooled, and despite the fact that he had done 'bad' things, the hobbits knew that he was now trying to make right much that had gone wrong. They also understood that he would be feeling like an outsider, as they had when they left the Shire. Meri busied herself cooking a gigantic, fluffy omelette packed with cheese and ham. Erin scraped a mound of cold mashed potato into a sizzling frying pan then set about slicing and buttering doorsteps of bread. When the third hobbit lass, Camellia, appeared, she immediately began peeling and chopping soft apples from the winter store, covering them with spices and honey, then with cream that had been whipped until it was thick.
Darien hardly believed it was possible, but a trio of hobbit maidens appeared within minutes with trays of the most delicious looking food wafting aromatic steam. He grimaced good-naturedly at the lasses with an expression that attempted to convey delight, gratitude, hunger, and apology in advance for anything that he might be obliged to leave. He knew these smiling hobbits were doing their best to make him feel welcome and at home. As they left him to eat, Darien's heart warmed and his appetite awoke, eyeing the table with zeal.
He had just taken the first bite of fried potato when a slight scent of sulphur drifted under his nose. Before he could contemplate the source, a deep and very unhuman voice behind him enquired, "What would you like to drink with your meal, sir?"
Darien paused before turning round to answer. When he had first visited the inn, the infamous balrog bartender had not been anywhere to see, so he and his men had doubted its existence. On his second visit, however, he had caught sight of the creature. Slowly twisting in his chair, Darien looked across to the bar. Yes … there was the balrog … standing patiently waiting with wisps of smoke curling off its black, scaly hide.
As his mouth had opened of its own volition, Darien decided he might as well reply. "I'll have cider, thank you."
"Coming right up," the bartender rumbled.
Darien thanked the balrog when it … he … placed the tankard down on the table. As the sulphurous fumes followed the creature out of the room, Darien took a deep gulp of the golden drink and resumed eating.
A while later he realised he was reaching the point where his stomach would accept no more. Then Halbarad strode into the room. The aquamarine eyes of the Ranger captain met those of the landholder, and both men exchanged nods. Halbarad detoured from his intended destination, seating himself opposite Darien. Seeing that the man was struggling to finish a bowl of apples and cream, the stern face of the Ranger relaxed into an amiable grin.
"Do you mind if I deprive you of that last slice of bread?"
"Please do," Darien granted thankfully.
Halbarad reached between plates, gathering up the unanticipated afternoon snack. "Faramir has allowed the petition?"
"To a degree," Darien answered. Then went on to outline what had happened since Halbarad had escorted him to Henneth Annûn.
He concluded, "I guess the best starting point is with the local orcs and the residents here. I'd really like to talk to Sevilodorf first."
Halbarad shook his head. "That won't be possible for a while. She and Anardil are on a trading venture to the dwarves of Ash Mountain. I don't expect them back for at least a few days."
With a long sigh, Darien admitted, "So far all I've been able to do is kick my heels. All the waiting around has been frustrating. I'll see if I can speak to the orcs then, and I might need to hire another horse if Sevilodorf still has mine."
"She doesn't. She's taken her carthorse. Your bay is out in the paddock. He's grown accustomed to the other horses and is very good natured."
Halbarad didn't voice his thoughts on how this contrasted with his own evil-tempered stallion. Instead, he suggested, "You ought to ask Celebsul whether Gubbitch is coming over tonight. He tends to visit two or three times a week."
"I'll do that. Is the elf likely to be in his workshop?"
Halbarad smiled wryly. "That's where he can usually be found when he is not off on some jaunt or another, which he's not, or at least wasn't this morning."
"Thanks, I'll go and look." Darien piled the now empty plates and bowls together. "Should I take these to the kitchen?"
As Halbarad pushed back his chair to stand up, he warned, "Not if you value your life. The hobbits clear tables, or they bribe a young elf to help out. Guests are strictly forbidden to do anything resembling work." He grinned. "On pain of death. You understand?"
Allowing a brief laugh to escape his lips, Darien moved both hands well clear of the crockery. "I'll leave them here."
The ranger departed into the back of the inn while Darien went out to the porch. There he found the hobbit lad, Milo, who cheerfully informed him, "I've put your bag in room eleven. Camellia's up there now getting things ready."
Darien thanked the hobbit then went around the south side of the building towards the workshop. The door was standing partially open but no noise emerged, so Darien rapped on the wood with his knuckles.
"Come in," a familiar voice called.
At the invitation, Darien opened the door and stepped inside.
The silver-haired elf was sitting on a stool, head bent examining a small piece of wood in one hand. His other hand held a slender steel file.
Without raising his eyes, Celebsul said, "Take a seat, Lord Darien."
Putting aside the question of how the elf recognised him by some sense other than sight, Darien requested with emphasis, "Please, no formalities. I've had plenty of those in Emyn Arnen." He pulled over a stool and sat before the elf.
"You wouldn't be referring to a certain chamberlain, would you?" Celebsul asked, glancing up with a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"You've met him? The kind of man who, if asked to polish the silver, would watch his own house burn down rather than interrupt his official duty," Darien summed up the chamberlain then went on to explain, "I am rarely addressed by my title and prefer it that way. Besides, I do not know the correct manner in which to address you. I've heard it rumoured that you are one of the Eldar."
"My name is all I own title to," Celebsul replied, then changed the subject. "Is there some way in which I can help?"
"I hope so. Prince Faramir has asked me to gather evidence on the likely numbers and trustworthiness of orcs living among or alongside men. I thought the best place to start was here. Halbarad said you might know if Gubbitch was likely to be at the inn this evening."
"Oh yes he will." The elf grinned broadly. "I won four coins from him at cribbage a couple of days ago. He'll be back to take his revenge tonight, I'm certain."
"Don't you always win?" Darien wondered, still unsure of the nature of the orcs that he had sworn to help.
"By no means. Gubbitch's appearance and manner may be strange, as are his thought processes sometimes, but he has a clever mind and a deep wisdom."
"You trust him completely?" Now was as good a time as any to explore the relationship.
"Yes, I do," the elf responded without need to ponder. "As much as I trust the Rangers and the hobbits."
"Would you be prepared to vouch for him and his band in front of the Great Council?"
"Of course. Though this is really a matter for men and orcs. But if men are prepared to hear my opinion, I will gladly give it."
The elf's eyes kept straying to the piece of wood in his hand, as though it were a magnet to his attention.
Darien had the information he needed for the present. He allowed his own curiosity to be drawn.
"What are you making?" he asked.
"You have the obsidian I sent you?"
"Yes, right here in my pocket."
"When this carving is complete, it will house the stone and you can wear it on your belt."
Darien leaned closer to examine the object. It was pale, and looked smoother and more flexible than wood, though wood it was. Intricate, filigree patterns wove fluidly around an empty space at the heart of the carving. "How will you ever place the stone inside it?"
"Much more easily than you will convince the Council to accept the rights of orcs."
xxx
TBC ...
