Chapter Thirteen

1st March
Northern Ithilien

Allowing the kitten to capture the piece of string she had been dangling for it, Sevilodorf turned to brush away the remains of the day-old biscuit taken from the kitchen for a hasty breakfast. Undoubtedly, she would receive a scolding from Meri and the other hobbits about such behavior, but it would certainly be milder than the one she would have received for rattling pots and pans about at this hour.

Even Sev, a notoriously early riser, was forced to admit that this was an unreasonable hour to be awake. Beyond the windows, the sky was still black as pitch. However, if she didn't get a start on that mountain of reports, she wouldn't make much headway before it was time to leave for the five-mile trip north to the trading glen. The first shipment of goods bought with the profits from the trade of stones to Etharon, the lapidary of Henneth Annûn, arrived at the Troll yesterday; and she had sent word to Gubbitch and his lads that she would be there by noon.

Chewing her lower lip, Sev's thoughts turned to the puzzling news that had arrived with the shipment. First, of course, the shipment itself should have been organized and ready for her to collect on the twenty-seventh, but then it had mysteriously gone missing. Old Rabelon told a peculiar tale of the items being discovered in a seldom-used shed of the delivery company. He had also conveyed the interesting tidbit that Alfgard had sent a pair of the older lads and a driver back to Rohan. Something about getting involved with the wrong crowd.

For a moment a thought niggled on the edges of her mind, someone else had been talking about the wrong crowd or…nmad, she couldn't remember, and she didn't have time to think on it. She had to do something with all those reports.

Darien's expedition to the tiny village of Deerham had yielded far more than anyone had expected. Gethrod, the captain of the Guard, had included Darien's name in his dispatches of the events and asked that other captains do the same. And they had. On the last day of February, instead of the usual handful of reports, the messenger had staggered in with a sack full. It seemed that every guard station between Deerham and Northern Ithilien, as well as the Rangers and soldiers of Emyn Arnen and Minas Tirith, had dug out every incidence involving orcs for the last two years and sent these on with some urgency. When word spread further afield, the sack full might turn into an avalanche.

Overwhelmed, Halbarad had requested Sevilodorf's assistance, and she could find no way to refuse. The vacancies left by Anoriath and Elros' departures left the remaining three Burping Troll rangers hard pressed to keep up with the necessary perimeter runs and their own paperwork. It would not be fair to expect them to take on the additional burden of reading and sorting the information relating to Darien's quest for orc rights.

Thus she sat in the silent common room in the cold hours before dawn, with four piles of reports arranged in somewhat chronological order. Thankfully, Halbarad had done that. He had also promised to assist whenever he could spare some time, as had Elanna. Sev gave a small smile as she recalled Bob, after receiving a poke in the ribs from his sister, offering to take on additional perimeter checks to free Elanna and Halbarad, but confessing that paperwork made him nervous.

"Well, it's bound to give me a headache," she murmured with a sigh and began reading.

xxx

The kitten purred softly in her lap, its belly full of the third breakfast it had taken from her neglected plate, when several hours later she pinched the bridge of her nose and scrunched her shoulders to relieve the knot that had formed there. Daylight shone beyond the windows now and from the kitchen wafted the aroma of something baking. The four piles were now spread into twelve across the two tables she had shoved together, and there remained yet a handful of reports she had no idea where to put, as well as the two stacks that neither she nor Halbarad had even touched. She had however come to the conclusion that she needed several lessons in the geography of Gondor. Where exactly was the village of Tarlang? And how far from Minas Tirith was Erelas?

Closing her eyes and rubbing her neck, she sighed. Her people were not known for their scholarship. Her own abilities were sadly lacking, though she did well enough with numbers and figures. Save for some rather pathetic attempts at poetry and the making of lists, she had little experience beyond the keeping of household accounts to draw upon. The basics her father, who once aspired to serve as a scribe in the court of King Thengel, had drilled into her head were little used until moving to the Troll. She had even resorted to seeking help from the elves when drafting responses to the letters Anardil wrote to her.

Reaching out, Sev lifted her mug to her lips only to shudder at the taste of the cold tea. She remembered waving off the hobbits' repeated offers of hot food, but thought it had only been a brief time since she accepted a fresh cup of tea from Camellia.

"Mis- mistress Sevilodorf."

She started at Kerwin's voice so close to her side and tea splashed onto the closest report. Resignedly, she set the cup down and rubbed at the paper.

Beside her the youth's wide brown eyes instantly blinked to chagrin. "Oh - I didn't - I never mean to do that - I - I'm sorry."

Before he could launch into a more fulsome apology, Sev held up a hand to stop him. "It is not your fault. It's mine." Trying to soften her tone, she added, "Not enough sleep."

"Ah. Yes. I understand." His brilliant smile as ever flashed and was gone. "Rather like my - ah, incident with the mop bucket the other morning."

"Yes, something like that."

Sev briefly returned his smile then frowned as she switched her gaze to her paperwork. He truly was a strikingly comely lad, if he would simply learn to stand up straight and quit looking like a whipped puppy.

Despite the fact that Kerwin had a natural talent for accidents, he had proven in the last two days that Sev's decision to employ him was not a mistake. The speed at which he had learnt to do the ledgers for the Troll impressed her. The young man even managed to reconcile the hobbits' esoteric scribbles with Celebsul's beautifully scribed but often incomplete entries. Another factor in his favour was that, after the initial episode with the balrog, he seemed to accept the more exotic customers and residents with surprising aplomb, going so far as to spending last evening in a lengthy conversation with Hooknose, Gubbitch's second in command.

"Master Aerio says that you are, ah, going to meet with the orcs today." Kerwin glanced toward the elf in the overstuffed chair by the hearth, lounging with one long leg over the chair arm, a book in his hand and Warg snoring at his feet.

"Yes, I plan to. I honestly don't seem to be making much headway here."

Kerwin nodded. He had watched the Rohirrim woman's perusal of the reports for the past hour and finally gotten up the courage to offer a suggestion.

"What you must do first is to - to establish the summation of all relevant parameters of the situation so that one might organize the information in a more categorical manner with cross-referencing of related paradigms."

That was perhaps the longest, most convoluted, unintelligible sentence he had ever uttered, and Sev shook her head. She would have to forgive him for that; after all he had been sitting with Aerio only moments before.

"Excuse me, but my lack of sleep…" She stopped as Aerio appeared as if by magic at her other side.

The elf's long hair fell over one shoulder as he leaned to scrutinize the heaps of documents. "Yes, I agree. There might even be incidences when some deposition would need to be copied several times as it contains information applicable to various aspects of the case."

As her mind calculated twelve stacks of intelligence against the thought of them multiplying, Sev repeated faintly, "Several times?"

Over her head, Aerio and Kerwin exchanged looks of long suffering patience and gave identical sighs.

"Yes, Mistress Sevi," the elf said. "Multiple copies would aid in the creation of files fitting the assorted parameters."

"They would?" Sev asked.

"Of course. That is an excellent suggestion." Kerwin nodded in agreement.

"It is?"

"Oh, yes." Kerwin went on as if she had not spoken, his dark eyes suddenly agleam. "And I would be most happy to assist you in creating the copies, Mistress Sevilodorf."

"You would?"

Speaking directly to Aerio, Kerwin said, "What do you think of the idea of utilizing several colors of ink to color code the copies?"

Suddenly Sev realized that his habitual stammer seemed to have vanished, but before she could muster a thought, Aerio replied.

"A unique solution. What shades would be most readily available?"

"Black, of course, red is not difficult to obtain." Kerwin tapped a finger on his chin." There is also a certain shade of green that can be easily created."

Aerio tapped his finger on one of the piles. "I believe that Master Celebsul has a variety of pigments in the workshop that -."

"Excuse me, gentlemen…" Sev said rather loudly. "Do you mean to say that the two of you would like to undertake this task?"

"Why yes, had we not made that obvious?" Aerio looked down at the woman with a patient expression. "If you would not mind, that is?"

She laughed, "Mind?" Lifting the kitten from her lap, she stood and waved at the table, "It's all yours, good sirs. I'll just take Warg and go trading with the orcs."

Aerio frowned at her most sternly until she added with a sigh, "I'll see if Gambesul or Celebsul would like to go along, as well."

xxx

2nd March
A Glade North of Osgiliath

Cullen found it hard to hide his anger and disgust. He had ridden for the entire day, as directed by Margul, to deliver two large sack-fulls of various provisions to a secluded glade some miles short of Osgiliath. Here he was told he would meet with Minna, a young woman. The provisions were for her and the folk she looked after.

They were good provisions, Cullen knew, as he was the one who had bought them in Henneth Annûn with the aid of a list and coins, both supplied by Margul. The man also suggested that Cullen and Minna would have to camp out in the glade before heading off in different directions the next day. So, during his journey, the youth had speculated at length on spending the night, under the stars, in the company of a strange young woman.

Strange young woman!

Minna certainly lived up to that description. Short, nay squat, her brown hair was slick with grease, and where it did not cling to her face it hung in lank, matted threads. Her nose was broad and upturned, reminding Cullen of the pigs on his father's farm. The girl's sallow cheeks were rouged with obvious circles of some outlandish red substance, which she had also smeared unevenly upon her lips. He could smell her almost as soon as he saw and heard her, the odour of someone who had not bathed in weeks competing with a powerful, floral scent of overwhelming and nauseous sweetness.

But her voice! She had greeted him from a great distance with a shout that would have graced a cave troll. "THERE YER BE! GET YERSELF OVER 'ERE, LOVEY!"

Now he sat across a campfire from her, while she alternated between picking at a chicken leg and a spot on her snout. She grinned suddenly, white strings of meat woven between yellow teeth.

"Yer a good lookin' lad. Get yerself close to me and we'll have a cuddle. Be a shame ter waste the night."

Cullen had many times imagined his first intimate encounter with a girl, or even a woman. Sira appeared in some dreams, and Pansy, and … well just about every non-grey-haired woman in Henneth Annûn, but never, EVER, had he thought of such a match as this. He shuddered, searching for words to turn down that which he had hoped for all day long.

The girl inched around the fire till she was close to him. Her pale, brown eyes looked up into his with lust, which he fancied was the same look she would give a platter of suckling pig.

"Yer pretty. Gi' me a kiss."

"Who - who -." Cullen sounded like a barn owl. "Who are the 'folks' you look after?"

"Aw, just folks." She leered so that he could see several generations of past meals wedged between her teeth. "Nobody as fine as you."

xxx

Darien and Horus had eschewed the expensive hostelries of Minas Tirith, riding on past Osgiliath even as night fell. Thus The Burping Troll would be in easy reach the next day. The pair now sought for a likely place to make camp, their horses walking slowly as Horus' black eyes scanned the sides of the road. Darien's night vision was less acute, so, despite a bright moon, he relied upon his companion to spot suitable openings within the dense forest.

Suddenly a racket sounded out from those dark trees, an unseen body snapping branches and smashing through the carpet of old leaves and twigs. Both men instantly drew swords and prepared to meet whatever was rushing towards them. A figure burst out into the road and almost charged into Darien's horse before looking up and skidding to an abrupt halt.

Suddenly with both hands full of sword and startled horse, Darien peered down at the dishevelled youth, beside him. To his shock he realized he knew the visibly-terrified lad now gasping for breath and staring wildly about.

"Cullen!"

Hearing his name, the lad seemed to come to his senses somewhat. "Darien?"

"Aye. What ails you?" Darien's quick glance saw nothing in the dark wood, though he noted Horus remained tautly vigilant. "Is there an enemy on your heels? Do you need help?"

Still puffing raw gulps of air, Cullen glanced back into the trees. "I think she … I think they have gone."

Horus nudged his horse several paces closer to the shadowy wood as Darien asked, "What on earth possessed you to be out in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night?"

"An errand. I have a camp in a glade back there." Cullen's thumb indicated the direction. "But two cut-throats set upon me. You must have scared them off."

"A camp," Horus mused, sliding his sword back in its sheath. "That would save us some effort, cut-throats or no. Darien, may I have a quiet word before we escort this lad back to his belongings, if any remain?"

Darien nodded, putting his own blade to rest. Satisfied that he had at least the comfort of companions now, Cullen merely glanced at the forest again. The mention of belongings reminded him that he had abandoned Margul's gift horse in his bid to outrun Minna.

The men rode a little distance from the youth then Horus leant over to whisper to Darien. "Did you catch the word 'she' in the lad's account?" He smiled wickedly, his white teeth flashing in the moonlight. "And there is something I discern as red smeared on his face and tunic. I'll warrant it is not blood. I think Cullen may have fled the wiles of some woman rather than villains."

That was not a visual he was prepared for, let alone the thought of what woman could frighten a young man away, and Darien laughed quietly but deeply, his chest shuddering in mirth. When he regained control, the men dismounted and returned to Cullen, bidding him to lead the way to the camp.

"See?" Cullen said. "I think sh- they've gone. They must have heard you coming."

The glade opened up before them, the shadowy trunks of trees dimly lit by a smouldering campfire. Tied to a low branch, a handsome steed turned its head, eyes glinting firelight as it nickered a relieved-sounding welcome to the two new horses. Unbeknownst to his new comrades, Cullen silently thanked any and all possible spirits that Minna's donkey was gone, and she with it. He gladly sat himself down and rekindled the fire while Horus and Darien unsaddled their mounts.

Soon another meal was cooking over bright flames. Now Darien could see the red smears on Cullen's mouth and neck.

"Your tunic laces have been ripped," he observed mildly. "Must have been when you fled through the trees."

"Yes!" the lad said hastily before looking down.

The imprint of Minna's painted lips was clearly visible on his pale, exposed chest. He set to tying up his broken laces before surreptitiously running the back of his hand across his mouth. Then he looked at that hand and rapidly rubbed the evidence off onto his new britches.

His own face schooled to impassiveness, Darien studiously avoided Horus' glances. He dare not read the humour that he knew was written there.

"That is an excellent horse, Cullen. Who loaned it to you?"

"It is mine." The youth's embarrassment was instantly vanquished by his pride. "I now work for a man of wealth and standing. It is only right that I have the proper tools for the task."

Horus leant back on his elbow, dark eyes glinting with irony. "Did this man of wealth and standing bid you come here where you could be assailed by cut-throats?"

Cullen opened his mouth to give an instant rebuttal, but then the question filtered fully into his brain. Bringing his abused lips back together, the youth wondered how well Margul knew his minion, Minna … and her appetites!

"See here," he said quickly. "The meat is done. You should eat so we may rest and get an early start in the morning."

xxx

3rd March

Cullen said little on the ride to Henneth Annûn. Darien and Horus insisted on seeing him safely back to the village, and he should have been listening intently to the occasional exchanges between the men. However, his thoughts kept slipping back to the humiliating, nauseating encounter with Minna. Somehow it had never occurred to him that any woman who sought his arms could be anything less than beautiful. He would need to ask his master more about the girl.

This reminded him again to make mental notes about the two riding alongside him. If Margul was so interested in Sevilodorf because of her connection with orcs, he would also want to know everything that could be gleaned about Darien. Cullen recalled telling his master about the orc-hunter turned orc-defender who had enlisted his father, Tiroc, as an ally.

For a moment the youth puzzled on Margul's thirst for such knowledge, and on his insistence that this be kept secret. Cullen knew that his master had little liking for the idea of orc rights, but it eluded him how secrecy could serve to oppose that cause. Surely better to be open and frank, and tell the fools how misguided they were? That was certainly what Cullen intended, but not at this moment. He had no wish to antagonise the men accompanying him, not until he was safely back on home ground.

On reaching Henneth Annûn, Darien and Horus took their leave of Cullen.

"We'll not be here long," Darien said, "as we hope to be dining on hobbit fare at The Burping Troll ere long. But I am pleased we were able to aid you in your …difficulty, last night."

The lad's thin smile did not disguise the irritation that still rankled in his mind. "Yes, of course," he replied.

Then he rode off with some haste and no thanks to the men who had gone out of their way to ensure he did not fall again into the clutches of 'cut-throats'.

Within half-an-hour, Cullen was seated before his master, recounting the little that he had overheard from Darien and Horus.

A silver glint washed the green from Margul's eyes and a smile lifted the corners of his thin lips. "So, the evidence-collector is back in the region; what a pity that he is not staying in the village. I've seen that Rohirrim woman is here again. She and he would surely wish to compare notes. I suggest you go and keep an eye on her, and try to discover her plans."

Cullen stood up in instant obedience, but then he paused and frowned. "Why didn't you warn me about Minna?"

Widening his eyes, Margul responded, "Warn? About what?"

"About her being …" The youth realised that there were no words to express his concern, not without sounding feeble.

Margul's earlier smile turned into sly grin. "Ah, she found you attractive, did she? I trust you had an … enjoyable evening."

"NO!" The word issued unbidden from the lad's mouth. "Er, I mean, she isn't my type. But she was very insistent, and I didn't want to hurt her feelings."

"Not your type? Mm, well I'm surprised she found you her type. You missed a chance there, Cullen. She could have taught you many things … never mind. Off you go." The silver-green gaze flicked away as Margul waved a pale hand, thus dismissing the youth.

Seething all over again from anger and embarrassment, Cullen made his way around the busy streets in search of Sevilodorf. Sometimes, it seemed, Margul regarded him as a young fool. He determined to prove that opinion mistaken. As he walked, he began to wonder how his master knew that Minna ' could have taught you many things'. And then he pondered on what Sira would make of such a statement. He decided to keep the information for an opportune moment, should one ever arise.

Eventually, Cullen arrived at The Whistling Dog. The inn teemed with customers. Market day, the youth recalled, as he struggled to get to the bar and buy a drink. Every clod-footed farmer and ham-handed labourer for miles was here, along with their blowsy wives, and it seemed every blessed one of them was determined to get in his way. He wove a tedious path between groups of strangers, all of whom seemed incapable of talking without wild gestures. Fearing to have his drink dashed at any step, Cullen supped deeply from his tankard as he pursued his quest to find the Rohirrim woman. The press of bodies and babble of voices eroded his mood to intense irritation, and he gritted his teeth while elbowing people out of the way.

He finally caught sight of Sevilodorf and her companions seated at a table by the hearth, and what he saw wiped away all unpleasant emotions. Slipping as quickly as he could towards the kitchen, Cullen briefly questioned a bad-tempered Sira, and she confirmed with distaste what his observations suggested. He threw the remains of his ale into his throat and then ran all the way back to Margul's house to breathlessly report the news.

At last a smile of approval and a pat on the arm. His master further rewarded him with warm words and a handful of coins.

"Well done, Cullen." Strange how the man's eyes made him think of pond ice, even when Margul was smiling. "Now I want you to return there and keep an eye on things. Make no mention of me, be sure of that, but then I know I can trust your discretion, don't I?" Margul's sidelong glance suggested a silent warning, before he continued, "I'd go there myself. Unfortunately, I have to take a short trip out of town to meet someone. I'll be gone for an hour or two, so I'm relying on you to be my ears and eyes."

xxx

TBC ...