October 25 – Henneth Annûn
Boots in hand, Sev glanced back toward the bed before easing the guest chamber door closed. A mop of curls above a blanket cocoon was all to be seen of Erin. Undoubtedly the hobbit would rise soon in answer to the aromas beginning to emerge from the kitchen; but for now, best to let her dream. In spite of Halbarad's assurances that the hearing would be a simple matter, Sev fully expected the day to be wearing on all of them.
Determined to avoid civilised conversation for at least half an hour, she walked quietly across the passageway, past the kitchen and out the door leading to the yard. On the step, she paused to pull on her boots and frown at the tall figures blocking her path to the lane. A solitary ride or stroll to the village being out of the question, she turned toward the barn. The men and lads there should be too busy with morning chores to engage in polite exchanges.
Within the barn, the familiar warm odours of horse and hay embraced her, together with the comfortably rhythmic grinding of animals munching their grain. Every so often, a dusty sneeze broke the quiet, and as she passed the stalls, long tails idly twitched in contentment. Occasional scuffles and clanks marked the stable boys at their work, mucking out stalls, raking the aisle, or grooming the horses that would be worked that day.
Alfgard had also set two of the boys to brushing the horses belonging to Sev's party, assuring that the last trace of sweat and road-grime was curried away, leaving hides that gleamed with a satin sheen. A thump and muffled yelp, however, hastened Sev's pace towards Biscuit's stall. There she found a wiry lad pinned to the wall by Biscuit's heavy hip, while the old horse obliviously crunched his grain.
"Get - oof - OFF me!" the boy gasped, but shove though he might, the big grey merely leaned his weight more firmly. "Mistress - Sevil - help!"
"Biscuit, for shame!" Sev exclaimed, fetching her horse a smart slap to the rump. With a longsuffering snort, Biscuit stepped aside and the boy scrambled out into the aisle. Trying not to smile, she added, "I'll finish with him, lad, if you'll let me have the brush."
"Thank you, Mistress Sevil," the boy sighed. "I thought Master Alfgard would find me still mashed there at lunch time! Wicked old thing, if you don't mind my saying so."
Chuckling softly, Sev took up grooming where the boy left off, briskly scrubbing away the last flecks of dirt. She briefly wondered why Alfgard himself did not appear to oversee the morning chores, but soon lost herself in the homely task that occupied her hands. When done, she peered over the stall to assure herself that the boys were busy with other things, and then slipped one of last night's raisin rolls from her pocket. Immediately Biscuit bent his big head towards her, and his rubbery lips smacked as he eagerly took the treat.
"Now, missus, you shouldn't cater to his whims."
The rolling accents of Rohan softened the rebuke, so Sev responded to the bow-legged ancient with a laughing, "He's earned a bit of pampering, don't you think, Raberlon? Almost twenty years of devotion to the family must be worth something."
"Wouldn't know about that." The man's grey hair swung down to cover his face when he tipped a measure of oats into Biscuit's manger. "Swore my oath nigh on sixty years ago, and I don't see that it's brought me the amount of attention you and those pet orcs of yours are giving that beast."
Sev's jaw tightened as the morning's brilliance dimmed. Mindful of Raberlon's long service to the family, she strove to maintain her hold upon her temper and counted backwards from twenty before saying, "They are not pets, but free people under the law."
Raberlon snorted. "Yer can call a duck a swan, missus, but it's still a duck. And don't yer go stickin' yer nose in the air at me. Ain't saying they ain't people. Just saying that big one trails along behind yer, and that little one does the same with that giant. Like a pair of lap dogs, they are."
"Lap dogs?" Sev repeated with a hint of iron.
"Aye, though mebbe more handy. Found 'em this morning polishing up yer saddle and that of yer man's. So shiny I swear I can see my face in the leather." Raberlon gave Biscuit's shoulder a solid thump. "Little one even took it into his head to put a plaster on Alfgard's mare."
"He what?" Knowing the value the stable master placed on his breeding stock, Sev had immediate images of those blasted Gondorian guards being forced to protect the little uruk from his host.
"Set a plaster on her foreleg. Said he heard her pacing about last night and found the heat in her leg. Told some tale of that big hairy fellow teaching him how to do it." Raberlon shook his head. "Fancy an orc learnin' anything useful."
"Yes, fancy that," Sev replied faintly. "What did Alfgard have to say about it?"
Raberlon rubbed at his scraggly beard. "Well now, we all expected to see the master do a right fine imitation of Mount Doom; but he's using company manners and just got a bit pokery."
Sev winced. "Where is he now?"
"The master?" Raberlon frowned. "Last I seen, the three of them were on their way to the second pasture."
"Which three?"
The old man flapped a reassuring hand. "Not the big one. Don't want a repeat of that episode with the pigs. We got him out back stacking grain bags. He insisted on helping, and his boss said he'd best stay away from the mares."
Blessing Gubbitch for channelling Lugbac's desire to prove his usefulness into a relatively safe occupation, Sev asked, "So it's Nik and Russ with Alfgard?"
"What I said, isn't it?" Raberlon answered querulously. "Been out there a bit. Saw yer man go haring off after them while I was fetching the oats."
There was a thought to give one pause: Anardil stepping into a potential explosion between a ferociously private Beorning and a horse-proud Rohirrim.
"Thank you, Raberlon," Sev said, and walked out of the barn, suppressing the urge to run.
What she found proved far different than she feared. True, Alfgard stood frowning with his arms crossed on his chest, one hand stroking his bearded chin. However, Russbeorn rocked on his heels placidly watching while Nik guided a docile grey horse by its lead rope. The horse, she realised in surprise, was Anardil's own gelding, Gomelfaex, which she had given him not long ago. Anardil himself mirrored Alfgard's pose as well as a one-armed man could, and nodded silently to Sev's arrival.
"Teach told me it's not just looking, it's listening, too," Nik said, turning to watch the horse plod behind him. "An animal that is well walks the same with all four feet, at least when it's on flat ground. See, listen to Gomel."
Thud-thud, thud-thud. The steady pace continued, and Nik looked up, grinning. "But your mare wasn't walking with the same beat on all four. One of her steps kept dragging, sort of, as if her foot was too heavy. So…" He shrugged one knotty shoulder. "I made her a plaster like Teach showed me."
Abruptly the little uruk halted, gazing at the stern Rohirrim in disconcertion. "She is better this morning, isn't she?"
"Aye." Alfgard let his hand drop and nodded grudgingly. "That she is. The dressing was as good as any I'd have done."
Russ continued rocking, and a faint rumble that might have been humming echoed in his great chest. Nik grinned broadly once more, a most peculiarly cheerful expression for so ugly a face.
"Thank you, Master Alfgard!" he said happily.
Then he walked the grey to Anardil and held out the lead rope. "Thank you for letting me show things with your horse. He's a very nice fellow, just like Teach said he would be."
"Yes," Anardil replied bemusedly, and slipped the rope from the horse's neck to pat the animal fondly. "Though I suspect Russbeorn could charm any creature on earth, if he can convince a Rohirrim warhorse to let an uruk - even a little one - put him through his paces."
"No need for charms," rumbled Russ. "Good beasts know creatures of good heart when they meet."
Nik reached up to mimic Anardil's caress, and Gomel stood drowsily beneath the touch. "I think all horses are good beasts. I like how big and warm they are, so strong but willing to work for us, just because we're kind to them."
"Not all horses are kind," Alfgard corrected. "Any more than all men are. One must be on their guard when meeting those unknown to them."
Pausing, Nik looked up at the Rohirrim, and his brow furrowed with thought. "But … if a horse is unkind, then someone must have taught him to be that way. Don't you think so? I don't think a horse wants to be mean, unless someone made him that way."
For an instant Alfgard simply stared at the little orc, his blue eyes opaque as twin shards of sky. Then he, in turn, looked up to meet Russbeorn's deep gaze and after an instant shook his greying head.
"Men live their entire lives and never learn that," he said.
A twinkle in Russ' eyes formed the Beorning's only reply, but once again, Nik grinned from ear to ear. He patted Gomel's shoulder as if greeting an old friend.
"You are lucky to have him to ride, Master Anardil." Casting a quick glance at the former Ranger's face, he added, "There were no horses at Isengard, of course, but I used to wish I was big enough to be a warg rider."
"Did you?" Anardil asked softly. "Did you wish to go to war?"
Sev sincerely contemplated stomping the man's foot, but Nik answered with a quick shake of his head. "No, it wasn't that. It was … it just seemed that if someone could ride, they would be free."
"Free from what?"
Misshapen dark fingers pulled imaginary tangles from the grey gelding's mane. Nik looked only at the strands slipping through his hand.
"I'm not sure," he answered quietly. "Maybe just free from who I was."
Sev could not read the look on Anardil's face, the grey eyes shuttered and his features still. The emptiness of his pinned-up left sleeve abruptly seemed to shout a thousand bitter memories of war.
But then Anardil slipped the lead rope back over Gomel's head and about the horse's neck, and flipped a smaller loop around the horse's nose to create a crude halter. He held the trailing end of the rope out to Nik.
"If Russ can convince this beast to bear you, then you may ride. Use Alfgard's training field, there; Gomel will stay in that area."
Before Nik could stammer a thank you, Anardil faced about and marched away. In his wake, two stunned Rohirrim, an amused Beorning, and one delighted Uruk-hai watched him go.
Stepping closer to the horse, Russ spoke softly. The gelding's attention fixed upon the towering man, and then it whinnied quietly, snorting a time or two.
Alfgard's eyes narrowed at the exchange, and in jest, he asked, "What did Gomel say?"
"That Nik smells more like grass than blood, that his hands are warm and gentle…" Then the Beorning grinned widely. "And that Gomel would much rather Nik rode him than I."
Choking upon a cough of mirth, Alfgard creased at the waist. Fortunately, the quick reach of Nik's hand stopped Russ from patting the Rohirrim's back, a remedy that would have undoubtedly propelled the man across his own paddock.
For those few moments, Sevilodorf remained rooted to the spot, torn between her partner's hasty exit and the strange events unfolding before her eyes. Recovering, she murmured, "Excuse me," and hastened after Anardil.
Almost trotting in her effort to catch up with his long legged stride, Sev wondered how far his emotions would carry him. His road through grief and despair had been so much longer than her own. Though he seldom admitted it, heart-quickening nightmares of that final battle before The Black Gate continued to haunt his sleep. Worse yet were those moments when he had to acknowledge there were things a one-armed man must ask for help to accomplish.
She saw him abruptly vanish around the corner of one of the men's bunkhouses, and increased her pace. Pleading silently that he had not chosen to retreat within the building, she rounded the same corner almost at a run, only to slam full into his very solid form.
Staggering from the impact, she exclaimed breathlessly, "You did that on purpose!"
"If you track a King's Man you must be prepared for anything; we are rather devious."
"I wasn't tracking you…" Sev's voice trailed off, "…only following you."
Anardil arched an eyebrow but declined to comment. Sev gritted her teeth; he had used that silent stare on her before. Moments passed and neither spoke. From the direction of the main house came the call of, "Breakfast" and the ringing of a deep-toned bell. Biting the inside of her cheek, Sev refused to break the silence. She would not beg for his confidences.
A clumping of many feet answered the call, and then faded until only the shrill twittering of finch punctuated the morning.
With a soft sigh, Anardil reached up to trace a finger along the pale scar running beneath her left eye. "You are too accustomed to my tricks, meleth nin."
Clasping his fingers, she answered, "You have no need for tricks with me. If you do not wish to speak, I will not pry. I ask only that you remember you no longer walk alone."
A wry grin twisted his lips. "Alone? Nay, I walk in the company of orcs and elves; hobbits and wargs; balrogs and beornings. The stuff of both dreams and nightmare fill my waking moments."
Though he spoke the words as a jest, Sev sensed the truth behind them and tightened her grip before whispering, "I amar prestar aen."
As it always did, the oddity of hearing Elvish spoken with the accents of the Mark brought a smile to his face. Only it slipped away to be replaced with a veiled weariness that wrenched Sev's heart.
"Aye, my love, the world is changed. The question is can I change to fit it?"
Yet before she could properly gather her wits, a quick, soft patter of feet preceded the appearance of Erin's cheerful features. "There you two are! Good gracious, if you dillydally there'll be nothing left! Come, come! Your food is getting cold."
"By your command, little mistress," said Anardil, offering a wry grin that nonetheless did not dispel the trepidation in Sev's mind. However, without further comment she allowed them to lead her to breakfast.
xxx
As host to Lord Valthaur, Captain Tarannon felt obliged to join the Justice and his two minions for breakfast. The pained expression that the cook threw at him, when they passed in the corridor, made the Ranger's spirits sink from his boots to somewhere far beneath the cellar.
In the barrack's mess hall, every seat remained vacant, except for those at the top table. Tarannon's men had either eaten early, or possessed sense enough to find alternative venues for their morning meal. And just as well - judging by the burden on the main table and its serving stands - every item of food in the pantry must have been dished up to please the massive but fastidious appetite of the law lord. Less appealing were the twin shadows of gloom also at table, Valthaur's clerk and Lord Faramir's errant chamberlain.
"Good morning, Captain." Valthaur paused from sniffing a jar of sauce and looked up as Tarannon took a seat. "Your cook is excellent, if somewhat basic, which is understandable. I owe a debt of gratitude to Willelmus, here, for thinking to bring a selection of condiments. You must try this."
Tarannon peered at the small vessel gliding towards him under the propulsion of podgy fingers. It contained a pale green paste shot through with black specks.
"Thank you," he ventured.
As discreetly as he could, he glanced at the plates of his companions to determine where the substance should be applied. Khint's bacon wore a dollop of green, so Tarannon helped himself to egg, bacon, sausage and mushrooms then spooned the paste onto the plate's rim. Tentatively, he dipped a small piece of sausage into the sauce and forked it into his mouth before any qualms could stop him.
Smiling with surprised pleasure, the Ranger swallowed the morsel and remarked, "Very tasty … oh … and keen. What is it?"
Valthaur's sudden grin set several of his chins atremble. "Better not to know. Just enjoy."
A gulp of air followed the sausage and fiery paste down Tarannon's throat, but he put aside imaginings and began to tuck into his breakfast with zeal. That zeal soon fizzled out when a question issued from beneath the black moustache of Valthaur's bald clerk.
"The Uruk-hai has been attended to?"
At the Captain's frown, Khint went on, "You did take him into custody?"
Carefully setting down his fork, Tarannon looked across at Valthaur. The law lord showed no interest in the current exchange, reaching for another jar and pouring red liquid upon a mound of mashed, fried potato.
Thus obliged to respond to the clerk, Tarannon explained with clipped precision, "The Uruk-hai and his master declined our invitation. We have no authority to arrest … Nik, considering that he has held to his oath. I did post a guard on their quarters to ensure no one could get in or out."
Spiky brows rose like raven's wings on Khint's forehead, and a glance that spoke volumes sped between clerk and chamberlain. Tarannon felt like a naughty child; he seethed that such irritating, uninformed nobodies dared to chastise him. When his attention returned to the food on his plate, it seemed grey and unappetising.
"Let us hope there is someone to answer to the hearing this morning," Willelmus commented, pinched nostrils paling.
Dipping a chunk of bacon deep into the green sauce, Tarannon shoved it into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and felt sparks ignite on his tongue, all the way down his throat then into his stomach. If fate dictated indigestion, he'd rather earn it from the condiment than take it from the likes of Lord Valthaur's officials.
xxx
In the narrow confines of The Whistling Dog's third best parlour, the slanting rays of the autumn sun fell unwelcomed upon Ham and Tom's uncombed heads. Squinting in the brightness, the two men swayed unsteadily while their attempts to look apologetic faded into grimaces of incipient nausea.
Exercising the control his father long ago insisted the future Lord of the Silverbrook develop when dealing with those under his command, Darien clenched his jaw.
Gaze sternly averted, he muttered, "Bevin, Carrick, get them out of here before they disgrace themselves even further."
"Aye, sir." Thick-set Carrick rose from his seat with a gruff, "Had a hard night, did you, me lads? Let's find out if ol' Cameroth, here, has some hair o' the dog that bit ye."
Signalling Bevin to follow with Ham, Carrick wrapped one beefy arm about Tom and deftly guided him to the door.
When Osric puffed up at such highhanded treatment, Darien regarded the third man with disgust. "Until this matter is settled, all of you are representatives of my holding. You will not appear in a court of Gondor looking as if you had just emerged from a three day drunk."
The bleary-eyed sneer the shorter man attempted did nothing to endear him to the Silverbrook lord, nor did his slurred speech. "Look a sight better now than we did last winter when we was following you about the hills. You didn't object to us then, did you, your lordship?"
Darien heard young Evan's sharp inhalation, but bit back his own desire to lambaste Osric. There was some truth in what the man said. Not everyone could change long-held beliefs, even in the face of compelling evidence. While all his men avoided mention of their final orc-hunt, at least in front of Darien, the impending hearing must have hung heavy upon each of them; heaviest of all, perhaps, on Osric who only agreed to bear witness after much persuasion.
"No, Osric, I did not object to even Grady until it was far too late." Darien paused and exhaled slowly, firming his resolve once more. "But I have learned better since then, and those who wish to remain in my company must do so as well. Do I make myself clear?"
"Clear as a bell, Lord Darien." Then to the discomfiture of Horus, who had watched this exchange with his hand resting lightly upon the curved dagger at his waist, Osric snorted in derision. "I'll manage well enough without your company, 'specially as you reek of orc these days. Me, Ham and Tom'll find real men's work - plenty of it about."
"You are free to collect your quarter's wage and do as you will … after the hearing." Jaw tightening, Darien turned to one man both loyal enough and physically capable of handling matters for him. "Neal, take him to Cameroth. See what you can do about making him presentable. We've less than an hour before the hearing begins."
"Yes, sir." Rising, the apprentice blacksmith blinked at the sour smell rising from Osric, but took a place at his elbow.
Osric shrugged off the young man's hand and turned toward the door on his own grumbling, "I don't understand you, Neal. What sort of example are you setting for your brother? I know that shape shifter had you by the throat once, but you're with friends now. Friends who'll protect you from his sort."
Neal's look of repulsion changed to a hastily disguised grin when Evan called out, "I saw a bottle of hangover remedy under the bar in the common room, Neal. Ask Cameroth to pour them all a dose. It will fix them right up."
After the quick snick of the door closing, Horus fixed the youth with a stern eye. "'Tis unwise to poke weasels."
"Yes, sir," Evan said without the slightest remorse.
Darien looked from the youth to his Haradrim friend. "Would one of you explain the joke?"
"The cure our young man suggests is produced by Mistress Sevilodorf."
Though unable to prevent a snort of laughter, Darien soon sobered. "Let us pray Osric never discovers the fact, or he'll proclaim himself poisoned and force us all to wait for him to recover."
xxx
Hair still damp from extended dunkings in cold water and dressed in shirts borrowed from Carrick and Bevin, Ham and Tom descended the steps of The Whistling Dog in studious silence. Not so, Osric; his exclamations of delight concerning the effects of that magnificent elixir so prosaically named "hangover remedy" caused Evan to dissolve into a coughing fit.
"Now Cameroth, he was playing it close to the chest; but he'll see the sense in my suggestion soon enough," Osric proclaimed.
"What suggestion was that?" enquired Bevin in an effort to humour the oaf.
"To sell me the recipe."
Bevin frowned. "Why would he want to do that? If you're selling it too, he won't make as much money."
Osric bestowed a withering look upon the other man. "You don't think I plan to stay around this backwater, do you? I'd take it to the City. All those highbrow lords would pay right well."
"But…"
Puffing his beefy chest amidst visions of the wealth he already imagined in his hands, Osric added, "'Course I told him I'd send him a share of the profits for a while. To help sweeten the deal."
Darien bit his cheek to prevent himself from remarking that Cameroth impressed him as a man much too intelligent to become involved in long distance ventures with the likes of Osric.
Meanwhile Ham, not possessing such control, asked innocently, "Does that mean you'd be paying me back what you borrowed to buy your new saddle?"
As all eyes turned upon him, Osric blithely changed the subject. With a loud snort of disgust he pointed to a group blocking the road ahead.
"Not freaks enough in this farce, they've brought more."
Indeed, the company thus indicated turned numerous heads, composed as it was of a hobbit lass, three gnarled orcs, one massive Beorning, a silver-haired elf, two Rangers, a Rohirrim man and woman, and four Gondorian guards. Such diversity could only be the folk from the infamous Inn of The Burping Troll, and the whispers of bystanders clearly spoke of this realisation. Nonetheless, Darien's temper simmered again.
"If you cannot speak with courtesy, Osric, it is best that you hold your tongue," he snapped, as the raised eyebrow of the silver-haired elf signalled at least one of the party had heard Osric's rudeness.
In a soft whisper, meant only for Darien's ears, Horus murmured, "If a man has good manners and is not afraid of other people he will get by, even if he is stupid."
"Which leaves no hope for Osric," retorted the Silverbrook Lord before making his way forward to greet those from The Burping Troll.
His uneasy smile found quick welcome when he faced Erin the hobbit and Sevilodorf of Rohan. Captain Halbarad likewise presented an air of brisk friendliness, although Darien understood the coolness of Sev's one-armed mate, Anardil, and Russbeorn's stern silence. He would not expect either man to hold the architect of this whole fiasco in any great regard.
Of more interesting if dubious cheer were the snaggle-toothed greetings of the three orcs, Gubbitch, Nik and Lugbac.
"Hey-up, lordship!" cackled Gubbitch merrily. "Tha looks fit as fiddle, tha does. Travel must agree wi' thee."
Darien's discomfort over how he should respond was lost amidst realisation of just how huge Lugbac really was. Thankfully the expression in those yellow eyes remained docile as a pet ox, but he did wonder where the enormous creature fit into the scheme of affairs.
Knowing the question behind the oh-so-careful nods and widened eyes, Sevilodorf hastened to explain, "Lugbac will not attend the hearing. Gubbitch will, of course, as Nik's chief, but Lugbac has some friends to visit."
"Friends?" echoed Osric disdainfully. "What friends does an orc have?"
Sev drew breath to respond then caught herself when Anardil touched her elbow to remind that her tendency to react impulsively must be kept under careful rein. The emotional vagaries of a Beorning were more than enough for this event.
In a chilly tone, she replied, "Lugbac likes to make himself useful, so he has many friends. A lesson that would benefit many of us." With a stiff bow to the others, Sev said, "If you will excuse me, gentlemen, Erin and I will escort Lugbac to The Black Cauldron."
At another touch to her elbow, Sev rolled her eyes and added, "If Master Alfgard would be so kind as to lend us his countenance?"
Anardil remained beside Russbeorn and the elf, but his grey eyes twinkled fondly while his lady turned away. His grin hidden by his beard, Alfgard agreed and the foursome headed down the winding lane leading toward the river.
As the small group passed out of sight, one of the Gondorian Guards stepped forward hesitantly. "Your pardon, my lord, sirs, but Master Willelmus was most insistent that everyone arrive in good time."
Anardil controlled his groan at the mention of Lord Faramir's chamberlain, sent here as personal assistant to noble Lord Valthaur. Though, he thought, it might be somewhat amusing to watch the renowned stickler for protocol deal with this assortment of personalities. Indeed, it might prove to be the one humorous point of the day.
With a glance at Captain Halbarad, Anardil nodded in reply. "By all means, lead us on. Eru forbid we keep our lord's chamberlain waiting."
Wiry little Nik glanced up at his Beorning companion anxiously as the party set into motion once more. What Russ thought, however, he did not say, and Nik sturdily matched his stride to that of his friend and teacher, and the company soon passed from view.
xxx
TBC ...