Title: The Web of Darkness

Author: Soledad

Author's note: The layout of ruined Laketown is based on the picture in Karen Fonstad's Tolkien atlas. The boys were imprisoned in which had once been the Town Hall, in the southwestern corner of the town, near the quays.

PART 21

They had been left alone in the ruined town for days by now. Razar had tired to keep track of the time by scratching marks with the sharp rim of his iron handcuff on the rotting log of the wall, but hunger and thirst, together with the lung fever he had begun to develop, made it hard for his clouded mind to make a difference between day and night.

In his few lucid moments he realized that he was going to die, soon. He was now the oldest of Master Turcail's "lads", having spent almost eight summers in this wet and rotten prison. He had seen the others, older and stronger ones than him, become sick and fevered and waste away. Soon after their strength had begun to fail, they were gone, and so would be he, too, in no time, even though there was no-one to throw him into the water as useless ballast now. He was nineteen and would turn twenty in two moons, although he knew he would not live long enough to see that day. Neither of them would.

There had been eleven of them a few days ago, when "Uncle" Prostr – for so were they supposed to call their overseer – left them behind to die. Three of them were dead already: taken and devoured by the creatures of the Lake, and a fourth one, a little boy of barely ten, horribly wounded. One of those… things had tried to eat him alive and bitten off one of his legs, right under the knee. Razar, whose chain was barely long enough to reach the boy, had managed to chase the creatures away by rattling his chains and howling as loudly as he could – for some reason, the things seemed to suffer from loud noises – and bound off the stump with the last rags he wore on his body. But they all knew the boy would not last long. He had lost a great deal of blood, they had naught to eat and could not reach the water to drink, and soon Razar would be too weakened to protect him any longer – to protect any of them.

The storm in the morrow had not helped things. Razar had seen his fair share of storms on the Lake but never any that would come even close to the last one. The first violent wind had torn away a great part of the roof of the battered house that was their prison, and the heavy downpour of icy cold rain and lightning, as if it had rained both fire and water at the same time, rattled the pylons of the house dangerously. They had been charred by dragonfire once and had been rotting in the decades gone since then – after the storm they would not hold out much longer.

Unfortunately, the boys were chained to the still strong and stable beams of the building, the ones that had not given in yet. If what was left of the house collapsed, it would take them to the bottom of the Lake. That was all right with Razar, personally. He would prefer death to the return of "Uncle" Prostr and the continuation of those endless, trite days, kept in chains and half-starved and regularly beaten like an animal, diving for the jewels in the Dragon's rotting corpse ten, twenty, forty times a day. Besides, he knew his lungs would not bear it much longer. A quick and merciful death would be preferable to starving… or being eaten by the creatures in the water.

But the others were still so young, barely more than children; and they were not sick yet. They could still have a good life, could they only free themselves and escape into the woods. Unlike the bleak, grassy hills of Rhûn, the forest around the Lake would surely be rich in berries and mushrooms and small animals that they could ensnare. If only he could teach the others how to make snares, as his eldest brother had taught him, back home, many years ago!

But he knew he would not have the time for that. Even if they could free themselves – which they could not – he was too far gone already to be of any use for the others.

In his fevered dreams, he sometimes saw his lost family. Not his parents, he could not remember them, for they had died by the hand of their Khimmer master when he had been but a small faunt. But he could still remember his eldest brother, thirteen summers older than him, who had raised him, two other brothers and a sister in their parents' stead. One by one, their siblings had been sold to other masters, so that in the last two years only the two of them remained, for Kali, his brother's wife, had been taken by their master and never returned. They had become very close… 'til Razar, too, was sold and brought to this cruel place to die.

It would not take long, not anymore. The storm had departed over the Lake, and the creatures would return, soon… and they would be hungry, very hungry. He could almost hear the wet tap-tap of their large, webbed feet and the low, gurgling sounds with which they talked among themselves. From the corner of his eye, he thought to see their small, sleek bodies, dark and shiny and sinuous like eels, wriggling onto the slippery foundation of the house. It seemed to him that more and more large, bulbous eyes were gleaming hungrily in the shadowy corners, as the creatures slipped through the trap door cut in the floor that led directly to the water.

Strangely enough, though, they did not approach… not yet. They tarried in the shadows, their eyes searching for some unnamed threat, their long-fingered hands twitching as they leaned on them like leapfrogs, ready to attack and yet not moving so far.

It took Razar a moment to understand why they were hesitating. There were voices outside, voices of men and at least one woman, speaking what "Uncle" Prostr called the Common Speech. They were still a little farther away, by the sound of them, but Razar was suddenly overcome by wild hope.

"Shout for help!" he called out to the others. "Rattle your chains… make as much noise as you can, quickly! There may be help out there."

It had been by the grace of Gandvik alone – whom, Yrsa was told, the Elves called the Lord Ulmo, ruler of the waters – that Iskjald and his men had managed to steer the small ship free of the pitfalls of rotting wooden pylons under the foaming waters and somehow reached the south-eastern quays of the abandoned town where the ships had once moored. Even Yrsa and Gitte had grabbed the nearest oars to bring their vessel into the safety of the canal that passed under an arched tunnel that pierced the walkways and even a large building that had likely been a warehouse and led to the Market-Pool, a wide, near-rectangular circle of quiet water that had once served as the central marketplace of the old town. Many of its small jetties were broken or completely gone, but – protected as it still was by the half-ruined wooden buildings from all four sides – it was the safest place they could have hoped for, with the storm still raging on around them.

Outsiders would never have found the entrance of the channel and even less a safe path through it. But all Lakemen knew what the old town had been like. Even though thrice – or more – as big, Esgaroth had been built in the same manner… just on a different scale. If one knew his way around Esgaroth, he would find them around the old town as well.

The boatmen did their best to secure the ship to one of the still intact jetties with whatever rope they still had, and then Iskjald helped his Mistress and her maid onto the wet wooden platform upon which the entire town was built. The beams were dangerously slippery but solid enough; there was no need to fear that they would give in under their weight.

"We need shelter!" shouted the captain, so that he would be heard in spite of the thunder and the prattling of the heavy rain.

Yrsa nodded in agreement. "The Great Hall!" she called back, gesturing towards the largest building on the northern side of the Market-Pool. It seemed still strong and stable enough, although part of it had been smashed by the Dragon, and most of its roof was gone. They were some places left intact, though; they could sit out the storm there.

They sought refugee in the more or less intact part of the former feasting hall, soaked and shivering, but at least no longer exposed to the wrath of the storm. The men sat there with resigned faces; they were used to sit out bad weather conditions with little to no protection on their ships. Though the storm was worse than anything most of them gad ever faced, having a roof above their head was still an improvement.

Gitte, on the other hand, was miserable, simply miserable. She might be an indentured servant whose entire family had skittered into thralldom two generations earlier, but she was used to the comforts of serving in a wealthy home. Slavery, as it was practiced in the lands of Khand and Harad, was heavily frowned upon in Rhovanion, but thralldom was generally tolerated, more so if the thralls got into servitude for financial reasons. Such thralls – mostly born into their status already – had a much better fate on a rich farm or in a wealthy merchant's or craftsman's house, even though they had to work hard for their keeping, than they could have had on their own. 'Twas a way to support the poor, and while it was not perfect, it had worked for the Lakemen and for the town of Birka well enough for hundreds of years.

So aye, Gitte, albeit a mere thrall, was fairly spoiled as a maid of the household, and thus decidedly – and very vocally – unhappy about her personal situation. She bemoaned her ruined clothes that might never be the same again, not even after going over them with the steaming iron. She complained about hunger and thirst, and even more about the cold, although Eitri had generously offered her his heavy woollen cloak. She whimpered every time lightning cracked across the darkened sky above them, and curled up wailing whenever the thunder rolled over the house.

For a while, Yrsa tolerated her antics with the patience of an adult towards the hysterics of a frightened child. 'Twas not Gitte's fault, after all, that she had been so spoiled; her Master, and later her young Mistress, had always liked her, for she was pretty and cheerful and agreeable, if a bit daft sometimes. One could not expect from her to behave like a responsible adult in such a crisis when it had never been asked of her before.

Besides, Yrsa had other concerns at the moment. The drafts or the wall-hangings – the detailed patterns for the next two years' work – were still in the belly of the ship, which was most likely filled with water y now. As long as the storm raged on, they could not risk trying and ladling it from the vessel the charcoal drawings were perchance already ruined. She hoped she would be able to redo them from memory; Nykvest Oddvarrsson wanted rather well-known Khimmer legends depicted on the walls of his future hall and seemed to prefer the traditional representations. It was doable, although it would require time and would delay the actual work. She would have to work late hours to catch up.

What concerned her even more was the shape of her ship. Hopefully, there would be no irreparable damage; but even so, it would cost a considerable amount of coin. Just replacing the lost oars and ropes would be costly, and she remembered having seen the mast snap near the root. If her strongbox got lost with the broken piece of the mast, that would be disastrous. She was wealthy, but not so rich that she could have easily given up on half a year's earnings; even less so if she had to sacrifice most of her savings to have the ship repaired. Unless they managed to retrieve the strongbox somehow, the next few moons would be very hard on her and her household.

'Twas strange how one's good fortune could turn into the opposite in a mere few hours.

Gitte was still moaning and whining next to her, and finally, burdened by her own concerns, Yrsa snapped.

"You are not the only one who is freezing and hungry," she said in such a harsh tone that the men looked up in surprise, not used to it from their even-tempered Mistress. "Be quiet already, or so Gandvik help me, I will send you to my father's smallest, dirtiest farm to work with the calving jakk cows and spend the rest of your life cleaning up the blood and gore after them!"

Her icy tone revealed that she was not making empty threats, and Gitte shut her pretty mouth in horror, curling up under Eitri's heavy, though wet cloak, making herself as small as possible. The men exchanged worried looks, and Iskjald rose and walked over to their Mistress, crouching down before her.

"Are you all right, Mistress?" he asked in a low voice, and for the first time since they had known each other, there was honest concern in that question.

"Nay," replied Yrsa with the same honesty. "I am cold and I am hungry and very frightened. In near forty summers, I have never seen a storm like this. I am worried about the ship, and I am worried that the strongbox might be lost, and I would not be able to give my workers their well-earned payment. I cannot bear Gitte's childish whining right now. 'Tis time for her to grow up a little."

"She is just scared," said Iskjald placatingly.

Yrsa gave him a bitter look. "And pretty girls are so endearing when scared, are they not?" she asked. "Unfortunately, I cannot afford to whimper in a corner, waiting for someone else to help me out of my tight spot. As soon as the storm lessens, we shall have to look what we can do for the shop… or how to get help, if it is no longer fit to dare the Lake."

Iskjald nodded. "Mayhap one of the faerings can be salvaged," he said. "They were secured deep within the ship, well-protected. If at least one of them is still there, we can send four men to Esgaroth for help – should the ship not be seaborne."

"We should take a look around here, too," suggested Eitri, joining them, "and set up watches. Who knows what kinds of creatures have made this place their home since it was abandoned."

Iskjald rolled his eyes. "I doubt that either Wargs or Giant Spiders would choose to make their den here," he said, "and Orcs, should any of them find their way here from Dol Guldur, are known to hate water."

"Aye, but they can cross it if they have to," said Guthri, one of the oarsmen; a wiry, rugged-faced Woodman with a shaggy brown beard. He was a rather wild fellow who preferred the rough green garb of his own people to the clothes usually worn in Birka where he came from, with leg-wrappings and an iron helmet that had a mask-like frontpiece to protect the wearer's nose and eyes. He was also superstitious beyond measure, which was understandable from someone who had spent his youth hunting Giant Spiders.

"And forget not about the creatures as are said to live in the Lake itself," reminded them Eitri who also had a hang for believing in such things. "Small, slick things that swim like eels but can climb the walls of your house from the outside to steal the bairns from their cradle through the open window."

"Those are but old wives' tales to frighten small children," dismissed him Yrsa impatiently.

"Oh, but they are more than just that, Mistress," insisted Guthri gravely. "They took me little sister when she was less than a year old, they did. We still lived in the forest back then, ere moving to Birka, and had a cottage near the river where me da would fish. Those creatures stole my sister one night, while the door was barred. Me mum never left us sleep with open window again, no matter how hot it might be."

"Well, I have lived on the Lake all my life, and yet I have never seen any such creatures," said Yrsa reasonably.

"They never go into a crowded place as has many folks living there," explained Guthri. "They suffer from loud noises, my grandda always said, as they have no proper ears, just some sort of thin membrane covering their earholes. 'Tis like the membrane on drums, it is, and makes all noises twice as loud for them. That is how they hear under water… how they hunt for fish. They dwell in caves under the Lake, where it is quiet, for the world of Men is too loud for them, too loud. But this place here… they would like it, as it is abandoned and quiet, too. 'Twould be perfect for them to hide and to watch out for enemies."

"Or for victims," added Eitri grimly. "They are always hungry, 'tis said, and though fish is their main food source, they would eat just about everything: worms, beetles, bird's eggs and fledglings, small rodents… even carcasses of larger beasts. And they hunt in groups, the water goblins do, which makes them so dangerous, despite their small size."

"How big are they supposed to be again?" asked Iskjald, clearly doubting the whole tale.

"Smaller than a Halfling, even," replied Guthri, "or so my grandda told me. Yet a dozen or so of them could bring down a strong Man if cornered; and they have weapons, too!"

"Barbed spears, the likes of which some of our folk use for fishing," explained the Woodman. "And they bite… they would gnaw off all your limbs alive, they would."

At this point Gitte began to whimper with fear again, despite the previous threats of her Mistress. Yrsa shot the men a baleful look.

"Can we cease telling tales of horror for a while, you think?" she said primly. "We cannot do aught as long as the storm goes on; if you want to go goblin-hunting, you will have to wait, and I for myself would prefer to wait quietly."

They had to wait several more hours 'til the storm finally lessened and the wind drove the towering grey clouds further down along the Lake. Esgaroth will get her fair share of it, thought Yrsa worriedly, when they emerged from the Great Hall – or what was left of it – and spread their cloaks on the broken walls to let them dry in the sun that as now directly above their heads. 'Twas a wonderful thing to feel the warmth seeping into their half-frozen limbs. She loosened her bun and wrung out her long, reddish-blond hair, then combed through it with her fingers to have it dry faster. She longed for a comb and towels and dry clothes, but she knew they were fortunate to be alive, so she did not complain.

The next step was to stay alive, and Iskjald distributed his twelve men to the different tasks that served that purpose. He sent Eitri, Guthri and two other men to search the town for any possible dangerous creatures. He sent two men to try and catch some fish for them to eat; and he went down to the Market-Pool with the rest of them to see in what shape their ship was. He left behind one man, though, to protect the women – not that Yrsa could not wield an axe if she had to, and the mass of her body could give her strikes considerable impact. But Gitte was fairly helpless, and besides, it was their duty to keep the Mistress safe.

Thus Keir, a large, straw-maned Northman of the Harbour Guard, remained with the women. He was young and adventurous and an excellent axe-fighter, so when Yrsa suggested to look around for a building that was in a better shape, in case they should be forced to stay here for some time, he was willing and eager to do so. The riches of the old town had become something of a legend in both Birka and Esgaroth, and even though it was known that the inhabitants had taken everything with them to their new home, Keir secretly hoped that they might find something of value that had been left behind.

The houses around the Market-Pool were all beyond repair, it seemed, thus they went down to the southern quays along the tunnelled channel to what had once been the Town Hall: a prominent building in the southern corner, the one nearest to the now ruined Great Bride that had run out to the western shore of the Lake. To their surprise the Town Hall was still in an acceptable shape, its roof of wooden slates battered but more or less intact, and only one or two of the steps that led down directly to the Lake were broken.

"It looks promising," commented Keir, "but we should wait for the patrol ere we enter, Mistress. Whether those water goblins of Guthri's grandda truly exist or not, it never hurts to be a bit cautious.

That was certainly true, and so they waited impatiently for Eitri's patrol to catch up with them. Fortunately, the men had searched the empty, half-ruined houses around the Market-Pool quickly enough and came marching down on the west side of it less than half an hour later.

"So far we have found nothing, Mistress," reported Eitri. "Small wonder, though; those houses would not offer shelter even for a weather-hardened Warg. This one looks well enough, though," he added, giving the former Town Hall an appreciating look, "and is right at the quays, it is. Stay here with Keir, Mistress, while we take a look inside. If anywhere, here we might find inhabitants. With some effort, it could be reached even by the Bride, broken in some places though it is."

"Did the Hall have a back door or a gate opening to the water?" asked Guthri, for such things were not uncommon in towns built upon or close to water.

Yrsa shrugged. "Not that I would know of. But they might have trap doors cut into the plank floor as we have them back home."

"Guthri, take Finn with you and go to the windows on the other side," ordered Eitri. "He is young and limber, he can get in through the window in no time if needs must be. Me and Sheaf, we shall take the front door."

"Wait!" cried out Gitte suddenly, ere they could have made their move. "Can you not hear it? There are voices coming from within the house."

They all became silent and tried to listen. And lo! There were indeed voices from within; weak and desperate voices, like those of frightened women or children, and some strange, rattling noise made by iron chafing on iron. A noise some of them knew all too well.

"Chains?" whispered Keir.

Eitri, who had made close acquaintance with chains in his youth, nodded grimly. "Aye," he answered in a low voice, "those are chains all right. Someone is being kept inside; and they are badly scared, it sounds."

"Shall we summon the others to aid us?" Guthri was already reaching for the hunting horn that hung from his belt.

Eitri shook his head. "Nay, for it would alert the jailers within; if indeed our voices had not alerted them already."

"You cannot go in all on your own, just the four of you," said Yrsa. "Who knows who or what lies in there, waiting for its next victim. Gitte, go back to the Market-Pool and send all men up here, quickly. We might need all the axes we have got for this."

Glad to leave the potentially dangerous place, Gitte scurried away as fast as she could on the wet planks. Yrsa, however, did not intend to leave.

"Give me your spare axe," she said to Guthri. "I shall remain here, but I am not going to let any foul thing escape if I can help it."

xxx

When the voices outside their prison were replaced with silence once again, Razar was overcome with despair. Rescue had sounded so close; and yet they seemed to have been abandoned again, left to the mercy of the ravenous water creatures. Their pale eyes gleaming hungrily, the things began to creep towards them, the membranes where their ears should have been throbbing with effort to listen to the noises from outside. They did not feel entirely safe yet, but they were growing more confident, and Razar knew his fate – and that of the other boys – was all but sealed.

Razar could see how they licked their lips in anticipation, revealing forked tongues and uneven rows of small, very sharp teeth… too many teeth for any decent creature to have in their mouths, even if arranged in two rows. They were sniffing the stuffy air impatiently, and Razar understood that it was poor little Halli's blood that made them so excited. They were predators, drawn to the scent of blood, after all. They would eat Halli and Razar and all the others alive – and Razar had no other weapon than a high-pitched, desperate scream to keep them away.

The creature closest to them wailed and covered its sensitive ear membranes with both webbed hands. But ere it could have recovered from the shock, the front door was unhinged by the forceful strikes of a great axe and bearded, helmeted men into the house with deafening battle cries. Others were jumping in through the windows on the other side, and soon enough, the screeching goblins were running for their miserable lives, terrified by the big men and their sharp, shining axes. Some of them managed to slip into the safety of the water through the trap door, but a great number of them were slain within moments and now lay scattered all over the plank floor, with their spidery limbs still twitching but beyond help. Not even a goblin could last long with its skull split in two.

Razar's awareness dimmed at this sight, and he felt himself slide into darkness slowly, inevitably. They had been rescued. Against all hope, they had been rescued. He could let go now…

"Oh nay, you shan't faint on me now, lad!" grumbled a gruff voice. "Not after all the pain it cost us to find you!" But there was sorrow in that voice rather than anger; sorrow about the shape they were in. If there indeed was any anger, it was not aimed at them.

With great effort, Razar opened his leaden eyelids a split and saw a black-bearded, dark-eyed man with a leathery face, wearing a rough, undyed woollen tunic and an iron helmet. He could have been Razar's father or uncle, given his looks and his apparent age.

Next to the man a very fat woman was kneeling. With her enormous bosom and wide hips she was like a true mountain of flesh, and she wore fine clothes, revealing her as a well-to-do person, but her freckled face was kind and compassionate. Her pale eyes looked down at Razar with sorrow, and her small, fleshy hand was blessedly cool upon his fevered brow.

"He is burning up," she aid in a high, pleasant voice. "I fear 'tis the lung fever. We shall need a healer, and a good one at that… and soon. How are the other boys doing, Guthri?"

"Half-starved and chilled and scared witless, but otherwise not so bad off," answered another gruff male voice. "'Cept the littlest one, that is… he seems to have lost a leg, he does."

"Those things… bit off his leg," whispered Razar. "I could do… so little for him…"

"At least you stopped the bleeding – he is still alive," replied the man outside the field of his vision. "I know not how much longer he will last, though. We must cauterise the stump with hot iron, or he will go into the blood fever and die."

"Should we not rather take him – both of them – to Esgaroth?" asked the fat woman. "It might be too long 'til the healer gets here."

"We cannot, Mistress," answered the man. "Only one of our faerings survived the storm – and not entirely unharmed, either. We must send out men to bring help, and they will manage, I am certain, but I would not risk moving the boy. We cannot send him to Esgaroth in such an unstable boat."

The name struck a cord in Razar's fading mind. "Please…" he whispered weakly. "Send us not… back to Master Turcail… I beg you…"

"Turcail?" repeated the woman in visible shock. "What can the spymaster have to do with these poor boys?"

"I know not," replied the man with the black beard grimly. "But it cannot be any honest business. Keeping these starving lads in chains in such a place, left behind to the mercy of the water goblins… 'tis bad business, Mistress, very bad business. The Master of Esgaroth must hear of this."

"He will, in time," promised the woman. "I sit in the Town Council myself, after all. But first we must free the boys, so that we can threat them as well as we can. Could you remove the chains?"

"The chains, aye, but not the cuffs," said the man. "We do not have the right tools for such work."

"'Twould still be an improvement," said the woman. "Our cloaks might not be dry yet, but we should take the boys out into the warmth of the sun. They are so very pale. They must have been kept in this horrid place for quite some time."

And thus the men hacked off the rusty chains with their axes, leaving the iron cuffs for the blacksmith once they got home; and they carried the weakened boys out to the now sunlit wooden platform upon which the town had been built. The two women then rubbed them down with the still somewhat damp cloaks to warm them up a little. After such a long time in their dank prison, Razar shivered in the light breeze, despite the warm sunlight. The fat woman crunched down next to him.

"My name is Yrsa," she said, "and I am a craftswoman from Esgaroth, a weaver. Where are you boys from and how did you get here?"

"Rhûn…" whispered Razar. "Siltric Jarl… sold us to… Master Turcail… to bring him up… jewels from the Dragon's carcass…"

He was tired, so very tired. He did not feel strong enough to answer any more questions. His heavy eyelids fell closed again, and he drifted out of consciousness.

Yrsa glanced up at Iskjald. "Make that faering ready, Captain. Send your best men. We need that healer, and we need him quickly, for the time of these boys – especially that of the littlest one – is running out."

"Even if they can be helped, what is to become of them?" asked Iskjald doubtfully. "Half of them seem too young to be legally apprenticed; and who would want to take in a lad with only one leg anyway?"

"Let that be my concern," replied Yrsa, "and make sure that the men you send for help will keep their mouths shut. I do not like this news about Master Turcail, and I wish him not to become suspicious and escape. The Town Council ought to deal with him; and we shall need the boys as witnesses."

"What are they supposed to tell, then?" asked Iskjald."

"That our ship has been damaged in the storm and we need a healer as well as a strong knarr to tow us into harbour," answered Yrsa. "That is all they need to know. Fortunately, my house stands in the farthest corner of our Market-Pool; we shall be able to hide the boys 'til they are needed."

Iskjald nodded his agreement and went to select the best oarsmen for the battered faering – an open rowboat with only two pairs of oars, from where its name came. When the Lake was calm, like now after the storm, these light, fast boats were excellent means of transportation for short trips, and Esgaroth was truly not that far from the ruins of the old town.

With the faering on its way, Guthri and one of his fellow Woodmen who had some skill at treating wounds, gathered the necessities for the gruesome task of cauterizing the wounded boy's leg stump. While Yrsa and Gitte tried to warm up the other boys and to keep Razar's fever from rising any more. Neither task promised to be an easy one with most of their things lost in the storm, including the healing bundle they always kept on the ship, but they had at least to try.

TBC