In An Age Before – Part 187
Now in the South Kingdom, it seemed mid-Gwaeron came all too soon, and at Pelargir, Linhir, and Edhellond, Men boarded ships. So many were they that once filled, the vessels were forced to stand off from the quays as other ships took their places. So numerous was that host that the boarding continued without respite for three days and nights. Men, horses, livestock, wagons, supplies, and weapons, all ascended the gangplanks to find their places on the decks, or in cabins, and holds. The armada comprised almost nine hundred ships of all sorts, and behind the expeditionary fleet of the navy of Gondor came smaller and more doubtful craft, launched from town docks and river landings, and bearing the supernumerary hangers-on that followed the army for the sake of their own profit.
Last to board, and therefore forced to wait the shortest span of time prior to debarkation, were Prince Eärnur, his cavalry, and the Northmen. Royalty had its privileges. By the time their ships weighed anchor, almost four hundred vessels lay in the lee of Tol Falas, clear of Ethir Anduin. Another two hundred floated at anchor in the mouth of the firth leading down from Linhir, whilst 'nigh three hundreds were gathered in the Cobas Haven offshore of Edhellond.
On 17 Gwaeron, the prince's flagship Annúnhûl¹ cast off and started down Anduin the Great whilst a fanfare of trumpets rang from the waterfront of Pelargir. The king's heir was sailing to war. With the last vessels of the royal squadron, Eärnur sailed out of Ethir Anduin, joined the flotilla lying off Tol Falas, and led them southwest. The count of the armada increased almost immediately as it passed the firth of Lebennin, and Annúnhûl led six hundred ships through the broad channel 'twixt the coastal isle and the shores of Belfalas. ¹(Annúnhûl, West Wind = annún(west) + sûl(wind) The –s becomes –h at the partition in proper names. Sindarin)
They rounded the southernmost cape of Belfalas on the 18th and turned north northwest. For another day, they sailed up Belfalas' western shore, and on the 19th they were joined by the three hundred ships from Edhellond. Complete now, the fleet made their course west and sailed along the coast of Anfalas, making for the Cape of Andrast.
From Ethir Anduin to Mithlond, the way ran sixteen hundred sea miles, and the armada would make a conservative four knots in deference to the transports and cargo ships that were the slowest craft a'sail. On all sides, fore, aft, and to landward and seaward, swift scouting sloops would keep watch for any hostile parties upon the waves. Barring bad weather, breakage, or other unforeseen delays, the voyage would take sixteen to seventeen days, with landfall expected on the 3rd or 4th day of Gwirith. At last, the might of Gondor would come to Arthedain.
In Lindon, it seemed mid-Gwaeron came all too soon. During a great storm in the Ice Bay of Forochel, the Elvish ship Nennores bearing King Arvedui and his last surviving soldiers had been crushed by wind-driven pack ice and sunk. The king and all hands aboard were lost on 5 Gwaeron, along with the Palantíri of Amon Sûl and Annúminas, though none in Lindon knew it then. By the 14th, the ship was deemed o'erdue and doubt began to grow. A fortnight had passed since Nennores had sailed from Mithlond, and her voyage had been expected to take ten days. T'would be long ere any tidings came to the ears of the royal family. In the meantime, days passed and 'naught was heard.
In the Lord Círdan's halls, Queen Fíriel grew somber, and in private, anxiety o'erwhelmed her so that she was visited by spells of weeping, lack of sleep, and a deepening depression. Her appetite failed and she suffered a nervous stomach and an irritable bowel, whilst her alternating periods of hope and despair were increasingly ruled by the contemplation of dark possibilities. She spent hours seated alone in her chamber, staring out the windows and searching the sea with red and swollen eyes.
Prince Aranarth's mood too had grown grim and he took to pacing the high courtyard 'nigh the Lord Círdan's chambers, staring out o'er the harbor and biting his fingernails as he fretted. The habit had at least spared him the cuts from clenching his fists so tightly that his nails had bitten into the flesh of his palms. At times, he also searched the sky, hoping to see an Eagle bearing Helluin hence with new tidings. Indeed, he would have welcomed such despite the Eagle's horrifying conduct aforetime, for any news would have relieved the terrible doubt and tension of not knowing 'aught. The suspense was killing him, and had he been a lesser Man, he would have taken to drink.
As for Princess Artanis, she spent most of her time abed, weeping and clutching Cooper the puppy in a death grip as he licked the tears from her cheeks. Prince Artamir spent much of his time eating comfort food, stews and baked goods mostly, and he began to gain weight at a rate of roughly five pounds a week as the days passed without word of his father.
All this the Lord Círdan saw, and yet his heart was saddened for many causes. The growing likelihood of the king's demise, the growing despair of the royal family, and the growing certainty of some fatal mishap having befallen his mariners all contributed to increase his sorrow. Though he had had little choice about sending a rescue mission to save King Arvedui, still the mariners were his people. He had known them all for many centuries, millennia in some cases, and he was their lord. Their welfare was his responsibility, and though he had not the power to rule the weather, still he felt that he had failed them. If Nennores was indeed lost, he might ne'er know the tale of her fate, nor 'aught of the fall of the sailors. When the sea took, it took all. He sighed and shook his head as he watched Prince Aranarth pacing the courtyard outside the windows of his study. By force of habit, the fingers of his right hand absentmindedly mimed rotating a long absent Ring 'round the base of the index finger on his left hand.
In the fortress of Gondmar, it seemed mid-Gwaeron would ne'er come at all. The remaining Hillmen and Easterlings had expected to starve whilst the Yrch had expected to feast on their cadavers. This proved true to some extent, though these Men were unlike those to which the Yrch had grown accustomed. In the east, Tindomul had recruited the most violent, desperate, and degenerate of the Younger Kindred, and as winter deepened, they were quite willing to slaughter and eat 'aught that moved, including other Men and Yrch.
Narbeleth of 1974 had seen the failure of foraging companies sent forth to acquire provisions, whilst those victuals taken as spoils in the conquest of Fornost had run out. A subsequent and more desperate scavenging of the city gleaned some previously o'erlooked foodstuffs that lasted just o'er a week. Whilst the Nazgûl raged o'er his strategic o'ersights in the throne room of the Barad-hald, his underlings quailed in fear and did their best to avoid the citadel and the tower all together. By month's end, the Ringwraith had heard 'naught from the messengers he had sent to the blocking forces and his host was starving. Tindomul had no attention to spare for them though, and so he paid their suffering no mind.
During that month, most of the Ringwraith's crows vanished into stewpots. The city's rats and squirrels fared no better. Finally, with the month of Hithui, the mortals exercised more desperate measures. In back alleys and lanes, ambushes were set. Easterlings hunted Hillmen and Yrch. Hillmen lay in wait to dispatch Easterlings, their remaining horses, and Yrch. Yrch hunted them both by night. The mutual predation ne'er ceased for the rest of the winter months of Girithron, Narwain, and Nínui, and then into Gwaeron, so that some count of each kindred survived and many died.
'Twas not uncommon to see a building in the city set aflame, smoke pouring from windows and choking survivors staggering into the streets, there to be clubbed or speared or stabbed and carried off to gritty and cheerless banquets. All of the kindreds smoked prey out of their lairs, the Men preferring to work during the daylight hours, the Yrch preferring the night shift.
Deep in the bowels of the fortress, Tor lumbered through dark passages, hungry, ill tempered, and bent on the murder of any foolish enough to stray 'nigh their lairs. Indeed, this was not at all out of character, and of all those serving the Witch King, they were the least changed by that winter's experience. As the months passed, the Trolls hunted closer and closer to the surface, taking at unawares any caught asleep as their warrens were invaded. They supped indiscriminately on Yrch, Men, and horses, relishing all equally in their dull-witted gluttony.
Grim as life in Gondmar had become, death provided no surcease of their sorrows or horrors. Tindomul had laid the city 'neath vast and potent gûlin¹, and these enchantments provided for their own perpetuation. Now, any who died within the city escaped it not, even into oblivion, but rather were trapped and transmuted into wights. Their baleful yet pitiful spirits roamed the same streets and understories that they had become accustomed to in life, terrifying all who came upon them. Oft did such dispossessed souls revisit their comrades, scaring the bejeezus out of them regardless of their kindred. They were invariably vengeful and accusatory in temperament, poor company indeed. Only the Tor were unimpressed, and once they ascertained that such wights could not be eaten, they paid them no mind. ¹(gûlin, sorceries pl. of gûl Sindarin)
Therefore, though few amongst the host had expected to see its arrival, Gwaeron did indeed come to Gondmar. 'Twas indistinguishable from the end of Nínui and most marked it not. They were too busy striving to catch 'aught to eat and to avoid being eaten themselves. Levels of stress and anxiety exploded right through the roof, whilst thoughts of all else, including war, were far from their minds.
Meanwhile, beyond the walls of Gondmar, the wolves who had fled the fortress the past autumn fared better than any of those who stayed. For the first time in many centuries, they had free and unpersecuted run of all Arthedain. No farmers shot at them for poaching livestock. No hunters sought pelts and trophies. No soldiers slew them for sport. They roamed the land in packs, chasing down and taking 'aught that they found, be it deer, abandoned livestock, or the occasional human. They were free and happy, living their lives as they had been created to live, and despite the cold of winter, in their lifetimes, they had ne'er had it so good. Even ere Gwaeron opened, they knew they would not go back.
Now early Gwaeron passed, and in the Barad-hald, the Witch King ruminated. With his Wraithship had come a disconnection from time and space. He sensed not the world, or its attributes as he once had whilst still a living Dúnadan. The perception of mundane reality required much concentration, for his vision was hazy, his hearing fraught with the whispers from the aether, and his sense of taste totally absent. Smell and touch remained, and a peculiar sense, not quite sight, which revealed surroundings by their outlines and auras. As Helluin could when viewing the fëar of surrounding life forms, he could mark mortals and immortals and discern their kinds from the illumination provided by their living tissues. A creature revealed its size, shape, position, and movement as a body of light and dark colors. To a certain extent, he could 'see' their moods with that manner of 'vision' as well. Pain was a pleasing red, fear a sizzling yellow, and despair a vaporous green. Thus, a terrified Orch appeared distinct from a despairing Man or an animal in pain.
Time too passed not as it doth for the living. Tindomul could spend a day occupied by a single thought. He had spent ninety-seven years recuperating after his defeat in 1851, and it had passed in a single, long planning session, the time consumed with the refinement of his schemes. A two-hour tongue lashing from his master seemed far longer to him. Time was indeed a frail and subjective construct to the Nazgûl. Being for all practical purposes immortal, he counted not the hours and days, nor the seasons and years. So 'twas that when spring arrived in 1975, he was at first surprised that the winter had already passed. Then he arose from his purloined throne and went to take the measure of his surviving host. Thereafter he would contemplate resuming the war.
From atop the Barad-hald the Ringwraith surveyed his city. He marked that several dozen buildings in various parts of fortress seemed to have burnt. 'Twas many an isolated mansion in sundry residential districts, shops and taverns bordering disparate market squares, stables and workshops in various neighborhoods of craftsmen, all unconnected, unrelated, and suggesting no logical association. He saw the ruins of a smithy, a brothel, a bookshop, and a minor lord's row house, each burnt as if by chance, and yet he knew such phenomena were seldom truly random. He shook his head, recognizing another mystery.
Having taken an o'erview, Tindomul descended to ground level and exited the tower. He walked through the grounds of the citadel, marking the regrowth of a few tenacious plants that he would have to assign someone to destroy. Such suckers and shoots would eventually lead to flowers, he just knew it. 'Round him was only silence. None of his troops could he discern within the isolated royal quarter. Indeed, they had all fled the Wraith's presence several months aforetime. Now none tarried 'nigh, for their fear of him was unabated.
Eventually he passed the wall and gate of the citadel. It emptied onto a broad avenue lined with the stumps of trees hewn down the previous summer and official buildings of the royal bureaucracy. These appeared intact. As Helluin had done when she infiltrated Fornost with Meneldor, the Nazgûl was required to travel some blocks ere he perceived any evidence of his host.
Now what Tindomul came upon first was a building burnt and partially collapsed, its façade tumbled into the street, and the interior walls thereby revealed were blackened with soot. 'Round the rubble lay the skeletons of a half-dozen Hillmen, stripped clean of meat, their skulls leering up through the rind of desiccated fascia and tendons that still articulated the bones.
The tableau caused him to pause so that he could view it from different angles, for 'twas pleasing to him. Then he wondered whyfor such had occurred. If 'twas the aftermath of a battle, he had marked it not. Had there been an assault on the fortress? Had some Dúnedain hidden all that time and then come forth in the depths of winter to embattle his troops? And just where were his troops? He had seen none thus far and that perplexed him.
The Ringwraith stood before the crumbled masonry heaped in the street and gave thought to the absence of his soldiers. They had been an unreliable lot to begin with, he had to admit, more valuable for their numbers and violent impulses than for any semblance of military acumen or loyalty. He suspected they had deserted, but whither then could they have gone? If hunger had driven them from Gondmar, leaving would have been mass suicide, for there were no better options open to them. They had already sought for victuals throughout the surrounding lands and found 'naught of sustenance in Arthedain. Still, one possibility came to mind.
He cast his thought upon the Hillman chieftain that he had appointed regent of Carn Dûm and found him busy cowing a company of Yrch using the powers the Ringwraith had given him. Tindomul nodded in approval and then constrained him in thought with the gentleness of a brute hoisting a lesser Man off his feet by the neck.
Have any come to thee of late from Gondmar, my servant? The Nazgûl demanded.
The Man's aura flushed a livid yellow, the fear flowing from his spirit in gratifying waves.
Nay, Master! None have come from the west. Only have come those conscripted 'neath thy command, Hillmen from the Ettenmoors and Yrch from the Hithaeglir, some eight thousands, the descendant of Rhudaurim kings reported in a mental whimper.
Lead them hither at once then, and well done. He gave the Man an ethereal pat on the back that left him shivering in terror from the icy touch of an invisible hand.
The Hillman knew that his master's eye was upon him and he had no way to know when or how oft the Ringwraith had looked in on him. He hoped that his secrets remained secret, for he suspected the Nazgûl might feel that he had enjoyed his lordship o'erly much during the months of winter. Lust rekindled in his loins as he recalled the children of both sexes whose flesh he had enjoyed several times ere turning them o'er to the Yrch for a final enjoyment of their flesh. He had just begun to breathe a sigh of relief when his master's presence returned and commanded, and bring hence all foodstuffs and victuals. Now make haste!
The Yrch had watched as the new Lord of Carn Dûm froze in terror and whispered replies to commands they could not hear. Some of them had seen such aforetime, when the Witch King questioned his servants at a distance. They were quite relieved not to be singled out for such attention themselves. When the Hillman returned to himself, they cast him questioning glances and he ordered them to pass word that they were to march post haste to Fornost, bringing every scrap of food.
Now having secured what reinforcements and provisions that he could, Tindomul continued through the silent streets of the fortress city. He spent hours at it, 'til the day failed and evening drew down. During his wanderings, the Ringwraith saw repeated the scene of a burnt building and dead stripped of flesh, their skeletons left behind. At the sixth such site, he perceived a handful of wights standing 'round, groaning and bemoaning their status. They were quite recent additions to the haunting of the fortress, he deemed. By then, full night had fallen.
With his will, Tindomul constrained them and sought to question them for tidings. There followed a wailing and rattling of ethereal trappings, garments, and arms, with much sorrow and indignation voiced in hollow and echoing wails. Finally, Tindomul was forced to silence them for to have a moment's peace.
One at a time for Sauron's sake, lest I wring your vaporous necks and commit ye to daylight!
That shut them up, and then for good measure he made them form a line that they submit to his questioning one after another. The Nazgûl demanded of them their full tales, and the wights could not but comply.
A rider of Rhûn I was upon a time, but I took service with a dark sorcerer and came west. Starving and freezing, I met my death when my refuge was set afire. As I staggered out into the fresh air, I was cruelly slain, then eaten by Yrch I had allied myself with 'neath the sorcerer, curse his name.
Had Tindomul still eyes, he would hath rolled them. It seemed the wight had utterly forgotten who it had served and now recognized the Nazgûl not at all. He made a gesture of dismissal and questioned the next wight in the line.
A rider of Rhûn I was upon a time, but I took service with a dark sorcerer and came west. Starving and freezing, I met my death when my refuge was set afire. As I staggered…
Tindomul hissed and gestured the wight to silence. He had heard its tale aforetime, literally moments aforetime. With an ethereal groan, the Ringwraith dismissed the second wight and beckoned forward the third. With a nod, he prompted it to speak.
A rider of Rhûn I was upon a time, but I took service…
Enough! He roared, throwing up his hands in exasperation.
Either they had developed a sense of humor, a thing he had ne'er seen aforetime from a wight, or they had all met the same fate and were remarkably unimaginative in explaining it. The Yrch had been eating his Easterlings! Already few, he began to wonder if any had survived.
Then on to the next burnt ruin the Ringwraith hastened, and when he had come thither, he commanded forth whatsoe'er wights that might linger 'nigh. A sullen group of them slunk out of the ruins, darker in character than those met aforetime, but no less annoying and whiney. Tindomul demanded of them all that he had demanded of the prior group.
A great warrior of the Glamhoth was I, yet as I slept, some backstabbing, yellow-bellied, slime licking, spittle-sucking Men of the Hills came upon my company and set our den afire. Barely had I escaped the flames when I was set upon by a hundred cowardly snakes and slain. They ate my body, but one day I will kill them all!
I see, said the Nazgûl, believing about a quarter of what had been said. Even as a wight, the Orch lied and exaggerated, and Tindomul realized that some things even death changed not. He dismissed the Orch wight and beckoned forward the next, expecting a repetition, word for word.
The greatest warrior of the Glamhoth was I, and soon to depose my slovenly captain, yet as I slept, some backstabbing, yellow-bellied, slime licking, spittle-sucking Men of the Hills came upon my company and set our den afire. Barely had I escaped…
Yes, yes…the Hillmen killed and ate thee, the Ringwraith said with little sympathy, receiving a nod of agreement and an exclamation of Skai! from the wight. Save for a greater measure of grandiosity, this Orch was the same as the first. Simply to hear its claims for his curiosity's sake, Tindomul gestured the third in line forward. It drew itself up and began to declaim.
A hero and my master's handpicked commander of the Glamhoth was I, yet as I slept, some backstabbing…
By that time, he had heard enough and he shooed the wight away, but then he thought better of it and asked a further question.
Most illustrious captain of the Glamhoth, hast thou or thy minions e'er partaken of a firing and feeding upon any others in the fortress?
The wight gave him a cunning grin and cackled, and then boasted, me and my boys ate Hillmen, Easterlings, their horses, and even a few snaga from other companies. None can fault us for enjoying a good fire, and we had to keep up our strength to serve the Great Eye.
Tindomul shook his head and waved the wight away. His troops had been eating each other for months, each kindred indulging in predation on the others.
On his way back to the citadel, he realized that he should ne'er have left his mortal chattel unsupervised, especially whilst they were bored and starving. Even though he had spent millennia dominating such unsavory types, his expectations of their conduct were still based on his own time as a mortal. 'Twas a shocking revelation to him, comprehending his flawed and subconscious appraisal of others.
They are the dregs of the mortal world, scarcely better than animals really. Whyfor should I have assumed they would restrain themselves as did the Númenóreans I once knew?
In doubt and disgust, the Witch King spent the third week of Gwaeron sitting upon his throne, ruminating on his miscalculations and his current personnel shortage. Good help was hard to find.
The last week of Gwaeron opened and Tindomul rose from the throne and climbed the stairs to the top of the Barad-hald. The day was new as he again swept the fortress with his wraith vision. In a few places, faint pricks of light had appeared from doorways as the shadows of night retreated to their daytime haunts. Some of his Easterlings or Hillmen had indeed survived, and now a few dared climb from their strongholds with the withdrawal of the Yrch 'neath the streets.
With the same power that he used to grant them unnatural prowess in battle, he invaded their hearts and demanded they attend him. A gurgling chuckle escaped him as he saw their faint lights blossom yellow with fear. The citrine speckles began to multiply as more Men revealed themselves and moved towards the citadel. Employing a stronger projection of his powers, Tindomul could mark the approach of others through tunnels and cellars. 'Twas the Yrch, glowing the faint green of despair, and avoiding the sunlight as they answered his command. With the equivalent of an ethereal 'squint' he probed yet deeper still, and there marked the movements of Tor converging on the citadel through passages deep 'neath the fortress. They would not reveal themselves whilst day lasted, but they had attended him as ordered.
Now by noon, the mortals had massed in the courtyard inside the gates of the citadel for the Ringwraith's review. There stood twenty thousand sorry excuses for soldiers, all which remained of his host of thirty thousand. It seemed that two of three had survived the winter by eating the one in three who had not. It also appeared that no one race had been more successful than the others had been. Now they clove to their own kinds, standing together in groups whilst warily and hatefully regarding the others. Teeth were gritted, jaws clenched, lips curled in snarls, and faces wore masks of aggression. Hands grasped sword hilts and fingers checked the sharpness of blades. He wagered one wrong word or action would trigger an all-out melee. To the Nazgûl, the aroma of fear and hate that wafted from them was intoxicating and he was tempted to constrain them thus for several days, simply for his own gratification, yet he had greater concerns.
"The year turns and the time for war approaches," he said, marking the groans and shaking of heads that greeted his announcement. Had he still lips and a face, t'would have borne a grin.
"From Carn Dûm shall soon come reinforcements," Tindomul declared, "and…victuals."
The word 'reinforcements' was greeted with a licking of lips and an increase in the mortals' attention. The word 'victuals' brought a whole-hearted cheer. At last, the Ringwraith's sorry lot showed some enthusiasm.
"By the start of Gwirith, ye shall be ready to win glory and plunder in the ruins of Lindon," the Witch King told his troops, and now they well 'nigh danced as they cheered. "Ye shall feast on Elves and Men!"
Tindomul knew how to rouse his rabble when the fancy took him. In the courtyard, the Men and Yrch began chanting, "Gondmar! Gondmar! Gondmar!" Weapons were raised o'erhead and shaken, feet stamped, and the Yrch hooted.
Spoils they crave and comforts, so why then did I even bother to mention glory? They care 'naught for it. Yet I find 'tis still a thing of value to me, to conquer for my master's glory and my own. Do I bear still an old flaw unchanged even in death?
During the final days of Gwaeron, the Ringwraith's soldiers drooled in anticipation of plundering Lindon and slaughtering Elves and Men. Yet for the present, they were still starving and the elevation of their morale filled not their bellies. So 'twas that on the following day, the ambushing and smoking out of other kindreds continued, and by day and night fires were set and smoke billowed into the sky. Another couple hundreds met their ends as rations. The Witch King hampered them not, for he was concerned with philosophical questions and anyway, he understood that mortals had to eat. The reinforcements and supplies came not from Carn Dûm 'til the very last day of the month.
After a season of internecine predation, the occupiers of Gondmar watched from the eastern parapet as the host from Carn Dûm approached through the North Downs. Many schemed and calculated what count of fresh meat might vanish from the ranks ere their master marked their disappearance. They eyed the wagons of supplies, wondering how they might abscond with the contents for the sole benefit of their own kindred. Almost none thought of camaraderie and commonality of purpose. Having been charged for so long with personal survival, the necessities of war had well 'nigh become abstractions. They stood watching the march of the new host whilst licking their chops and fingering their blades.
Ere any gruesome caprice could occur, Tindomul appeared at the gates, eager to inspect the new troops and the provisions they had brought. He found the eight thousand reinforcements to be in far better condition than those in Gondmar, in almost all respects. Contained in the wagons he marked supplies sufficient for eight thousands for a month, or for twenty-eight thousand for a span of nine or ten days. He nodded in approval, much to the relief of his regent.
"Master, we came as quickly as could be," the Hillman said, a trickle of sweat running down the side of his face in the chill air. He exhibited a nice yellowish cast to Tindomul's 'eyes'.
"Enter the fortress, my regent," the Nazgûl said. "We shall billet thy troops together. Guard well thy provisions, and be wary of the other soldiers. They are starving and have taken to feasting on their comrades. Now settle thy host and tonight we shalt distract them with a feast."
The Man eyed the gaunt and grim host of Yrch, Hillmen, and Easterlings lining the walls. They looked down upon his troops with the lust of hunger kindled in their eyes. He shivered.
"All shall be as thou command, Master," he said, bowing deeply to the Ringwraith in thanks for his warnings.
Tindomul nodded to him, enjoying the brightening of the yellow fear emanating from his aura.
The Regent of Carn Dûm ordered forward his columns and wagons. They followed him as he followed the Ringwraith through the gates, down the outer avenue, past the inner gate, and along the streets and ways of the city. Men from small hamlets and Yrch from mountain caves marveled at the strength of the fortifications, at the height of the buildings, and at the breadth of the market squares. They watched in amazement as the grand tower of the king drew e'er closer.
Eventually, Tindomul led the new troops into the citadel itself, whither they were to encamp in what had been the royal gardens. They were thus protected from those without by a wall and gate, and would not be forced to roam unfamiliar avenues where many would disappear. Outside the citadel walls, the soldiers of Gondmar carped and cursed, denied the opportunity to hunt the new troops. They felt betrayed by their master who obviously favored the newcomers.
Inside the citadel, the host of Carn Dûm set their camp and unloaded their wagons. Provender for a feast was selected, and in the evening, 'twas brought forth to the inner courtyard within the inner gate. There the host of Gondmar was distracted, gorging and drinking all set before them 'til they lay on the pavement bloated and besotted, all thought of hunting having fled from their minds. There many passed out cold and others slept the sleep of the glutted, and for the first time since autumn, they rested together as a host.
The Nazgûl nodded to himself in approval. The desperate tendencies of his Men and Yrch had been thwarted for the time being. They would feast 'til the new supplies were gone and then, strengthened and seeking for more, they would march eagerly to the destruction of Lindon.
To Be Continued