Chapter Fifteen
October 28
The next day dawned grey and dreary, and a freshening breeze brought the scent of rain. As the morning grew older, the lowering sky swallowed the craggy tops of the Ephel Dúath. Drawing her shawl over her head, Sira cast an aggrieved look up at the blanket of rain-heavy clouds. Her mind distracted with worry that a downpour would prevent her from meeting her beau later, she failed to notice the man standing in the doorway across from the apothecary's shop.
His eyes, however, followed her down the lane. A rather unremarkable action; after all, Sira was an attractive young woman and more than one pair of male eyes noticed her trim ankles and swaying hips. Except, no one getting a close look at the expression hidden beneath the multicoloured scarf the man wore wrapped across the lower portion of his face could mistake it for anything other than loathing. As the barmaid hurried toward the marketplace to complete her errands, the man swathed the edges of his finely woven cloak more tightly about him and strolled purposefully across to the apothecary's door.
A bell hanging about the knob jingled musically when the man entered, yet other than the meowing of a large grey cat stretched across one shelf, no inhabitant of the shop responded. The man threw back his hood and unwound his scarf to reveal a head of thick wavy hair and a smoothly trimmed beard of steel grey, though his thin muscular body and finely featured face did not appear to carry sufficient years to match this colouring. Likewise, his poised and princely bearing suggested he would look well in clothing even finer than the tasteful quality he wore now.
The cat watched unblinkingly as the man studied the shelves lining the walls. Jars and bottles of ointments, lotions and elixirs stood neatly arranged and dust free, while on the lower levels, baskets and crates gave off the musty smell of stored herbs. Additional bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling in various stages of preservation. In the alcove, beneath the steps leading up to what were most certainly the living quarters of the apothecary and his assistant, a sturdy table bore the only sign of disarray: an abandoned pestle with its mortar's bowl half filled with a sticky green paste. From the stairwell came a soft murmur of voices punctuated with the occasional thump of wood upon wood.
Satisfied as to the location of the shop's occupants, the visitor took advantage of their absence to assure himself that the door to the left of the stairs opened upon a small cellar, and the one to the rear of the shop opened only onto a narrow storeroom with slits of windows covered by heavy shutters. Ignoring the cat's steady gaze, the man focused his attention on the thick bound ledger lying open upon a tall desk near the front door. Locating the final entry, he took particular note of the purchases made by the maid who had only just exited the shop. After a pause to listen once more to the sounds overhead, he turned the page back to study the entries from the previous day. With a nod and a satisfied smile, he tapped one entry with a single elegant finger.
Aligning the ledger with the edge of the desk, he returned to the door and gave the bell several sharp jerks. A voice from above called, "Coming," and he heard the soft thud of feet upon the stairs.
"Yes, sir, how may I assist you?" In the face of the man's quiet elegance, Eberle wiped unsuccessfully at the stains upon his apron.
"Is your master about?" inquired the stranger with a pleasant smile. He hooked his thumbs in his belt, the pale light gleaming on an ornate pewter buckle which Eberle silently admired.
"I'm sorry, sir. He is unavailable today." Then for no reason he could name, the apprentice found himself smiling back and adding, "The damp has made his arthritis particularly painful today."
"I am most sorry to hear that. I had hoped to speak with him on a rather delicate matter." The man gave a small frown then looked up thoughtfully. "Perhaps you will be able to assist me?"
Beneath the steady silvery-green regard, Eberle straightened his thin shoulders and replied with a confidence that would have astonished his master. "Of course, sir."
"Good man." The nod of approval brought a pleased expression to the apprentice's thin face. "But first, forgive my curiosity, would you tell me what you are mixing together? I recognize the mullein, but…"
In response to the man's knowledgeable questions, Eberle gave a detailed description of the poultice he was preparing. Reacting to the attentive interest, the gawky, normally tongue-tied apprentice continued with an accounting of the circumstances requiring such treatment. At mention that the patient was Haradrim, Eberle was troubled to see his audience of one look dismayed.
"My word, I do hope it is not some strange Southron fever," his listener exclaimed.
Eberle paused and glanced up the stairs before replying, "Master Banazîr has assured Lord Valthaur that such is not the case."
The stranger pressed long fingers to his chest. "My dear man, having travelled extensively in Harondor, I know too well the dangers of such virulent fevers. What assurance can your master give that the Haradrim will not bring a plague upon us?"
Distressed at having caused such a reaction, Eberle attempted to reassure. "I know not, sir, but the gentleman is recovering and no one else has taken ill."
"Recovering? So quickly?"
"Yes, sir." Eager to regain this smooth man's trust, Eberle rushed on. "Mistress Sevilodorf stopped here not half an hour ago on her way to the marketplace with word of the patient's improvement. My master would have gone to examine Master Horus himself, but he is in too much pain today to move further than his chair by the fire."
At the sound of the Rohirrim healer's name, the silvery gaze sharpened; and a chill curdled Eberle's stomach. Who was this man? Why was he asking so many questions?
Suddenly aware of the way his tongue had wagged about matters that should have remained private, the apprentice asked, "What was the problem you wished to see my master regarding?"
Recognizing Eberle's retreat, the stranger leaned forward inviting his confidence once more and said softly, "'Tis most embarrassing, but I require a liniment. One suitable for the most sensitive areas."
Blushing furiously, the apprentice hastened to one of the shelves and stammered, "We … ha-have j- just the th-thing, sir. Most soothing, I as-sh- sh-sure you."
xxx
The bottle of liniment landed in the alley with a soft clink as Margul wrapped the knitted scarf once more about his throat and lower face. Though not up to his preferred level of style and comfort, these garments were a decided improvement over those provided by the missing Odbut, and gave him the appearance of conservative prosperity. Besides, their previous owner no longer had any need of them.
Not being the first or third Saturday, the Henneth Annûn marketplace looked a dreary place. Only those merchants maintaining regular stalls or shops about the square had bothered to set out wares beneath the forbidding clouds; and the gap-toothed hawker of hot meat pies alone appeared to be in the way of making a profit for the day. Accepting his own purchase with a silent nod, Margul positioned himself beneath the canopy of an empty stall to watch and listen. To a passer-by, he would seem only a peaceful gentleman enjoying a bit of lunch out of the weather.
The information gleaned from the apothecary's apprentice proved correct. There before the dressmaker's shop stood two with whom he most desired to converse. Unfortunately, such discourse would be frowned upon by the pair of muscular young men flanking the Rohirrim healer. Further objections could be expected from the brightly garbed youth engaged in heated discussion with the red-haired barmaid. Deliberately letting his seemingly inattentive gaze wander elsewhere, Margul nonetheless listened keenly.
"Cameroth is my employer, not my owner, Jasimir," Sira declared with a sharp stamp of her foot.
Crossing his arms and glaring, the youth retorted, "I'd be quite happy to go back to Dad and tell him you refused to come along, but Captain Tarannon was most upset to hear you were wandering about without an escort. Told Dad that as your closest kinsman, he was responsible for you. Personally, I think it would serve you right if Margul did find you."
Any fear Sira felt upon hearing the name was brief for she drew herself up and said with the barest hint of a quiver in her voice, "What possible trouble could I find here in the marketplace? Sevilodorf is here."
"She had the sense not to come alone." Jasimir gestured to Neal and Evan, and the swords hanging at their sides.
Exchanging glances, the brothers politely refrained from relating the rather strident conversation which had taken place between Sevilodorf and Lord Darien before she was allowed to leave the stable yard.
Eyes snapping with indignation, the barmaid drew breath to argue the point further; but Sevilodorf stepped between the combatants. "For once, I agree with the Captain, Sira. Tarannon's men, along with Halbarad and Anardil are searching for the culprit, but until he's found we all must take precautions we don't like." Pointing at Neal and Evan, she added, "I've been saddled with two guards."
Evan snorted and dared to mutter, "Only because Anardil left strict orders."
Sev resisted the urge to reprimand the brash young man and offered an alternative plan regarding the kid gloves that Alfgard had found for her. "Is there any time this afternoon when we could meet? It would really be best if I checked the fit of the gloves. Too tight would be as bad as too loose. I am very sorry that I did not bring them with me, but my mind has been focused on Horus' illness. Or might you go back with me to the stable yard and try them on there?"
Sira frowned as Jasimir removed his bright blue hat and shook his head. "My father was most insistent that I walk her back immediately."
With another stamp of her foot, the barmaid exclaimed, "I'm not foolish enough to go walking the back lanes without a chaperone, but I certainly don't need one in the middle of the village."
From his position at Sevilodorf's side, Neal said, "You do until this Margul is found. Captain Tarannon and your kinsmen are only concerned for your safety."
Laying a hand on the girl's arm, Sev said, "I know it's hard to accept the restrictions, but it is only for a short time."
"Oh, very well," Sira replied. "I am going walking with my gentleman friend this afternoon by the smith's. He will be collecting some wagon hardware for the garrison. I could meet you on the bridge."
Jasimir rolled his eyes. Sira's constantly changing procession of male admirers was something he took frequent amusement in. "It will be pouring rain by this afternoon. The two of you won't be walking anywhere."
"To get away from you, I'd walk to Minas Tirith in a blizzard," retorted Sira.
Frowning Jasimir into silence, Sev said, "Be certain you have someone walk you to the bridge, Sira. About four o'clock?"
Sira nodded, then jerked her elbow from Jasimir's grasp and flounced away. With a beleaguered sigh, the young man followed her.
"You will be certain to have someone walk you to the bridge as well?" Neal asked Sevilodorf.
"And just how do you think I'd get away without having someone trail after me? I count myself lucky that Warg did not make the trip with us or Anardil would set her to dogging my every step."
"So we are an improvement?" questioned Evan.
"Decidedly," Sev replied firmly. "You two can carry things. Warg usually just gnaws on everything. Come along, boys, I have several more errands to run."
Chewing the last bit of crust carefully, the thin man watched as the woman and her youthful guards departed. By this afternoon, Grom would have completed his latest errand, and arrangements could be made to meet with Mistress Sevilodorf and the delectable Sira. It was past time for the loose ends to be tied.
xxx
The first drizzling advance of the storm made itself felt not long after noon, and the streets of Henneth Annûn grew quiet and still. Were it not for the drifting of smoke from chimney tops, one might almost assume the entire village slept. Only the distant clang of the blacksmith shop revealed any signs of industry on a day turned grey and cheerless.
Beyond the village edge, beyond the nearby fields that bent in tussocks of yellow straw or in stubbled rows stripped of their harvest, two lean figures walked in soft-footed silence. The greys and browns of their clothing blended with the barren trees and the last rustling leaves of autumn. Soon a twittering birdcall sang from a grove ahead, and was repeated twice more.
Halbarad touched Anardil's sleeve and pointed, and the two of them turned that way. Moments later Captain Tarannon's tall form separated from the trees. He shook his head to their inquiring glances.
"No sign," he said quietly, as the three met and halted. "If Margul has been lurking around here, my lads have been unable to find a trace." He grimaced and added, "Though between Farmer Tom's cows coming in for milking, Farmer Will's escaped pigs on the road, and old Sam ploughing his peas under, a regiment of Haradrim could have tromped through here, and we'd be none the wiser."
Halbarad nodded ruefully. "Aye, this close to settlements and with so many strangers in town for the novelty of the hearing, there are simply too many tracks and signs to sort out a single man. If Margul is to be found, it must be further out."
"So I am thinking," Tarannon replied, casting a glance back into the shadowed forest. "Let us hope he continues to keep his distance, too, since Sira's sighting."
"A hope," Anardil said, "that we dare not cling to."
"Anything from Drath at The Black Cauldron?"
With a sour face, Halbarad replied, "Other than a dissertation on his business woes, and how nobody appreciates what he must endure, no. He claims that orc, Grom, disappeared during the night and he has no idea where he went."
"And the message Lorgarth mentioned?"
"He flatly denies receiving one. Claims Lorgarth is mistaken. And before you ask, no, I haven't managed to locate anyone who can substantiate Lorgarth's story of Willelmus becoming a delivery boy."
"And before you ask," Tarannon's repetition of Anardil's phrase earned him a pair of grins, "I have been equally unsuccessful at interviewing Willelmus. He's yet to leave his room today. Given the fact that he is Lord Faramir's steward, I'm leery of actually demanding he present himself for questioning. My authority does not reach quite that high."
As one, the three men exchanged troubled looks and sighed.
"At least Lord Goldur is on his way," said Hal. "The sooner the hearing is under his auspices, the better I'll feel."
"Aye," agreed Anardil. "We all want this finished."
"Come." Tarannon tilted his head towards the forest. "We'll cast further out. Perhaps we and the lads will find something before the rain sets in."
"Confound the rain." Anardil glanced sourly at the lowering sky. "At least Sev and our folk are snug indoors." Casting a lopsided grin he added, "I believe Erin has planned some hobbity parlour games to keep everyone's moods from growing too bleak."
Together the three searchers disappeared into the whispering wood.
xxx
Willelmus, chamberlain to Lord Faramir, was not happy. In fact, one could describe him as disgruntled. Here he sat in a drafty little room so unlike his own comfortable cell at Emyn Arnen, and now even the man he had ostensibly been sent to serve had no further use for him. Not that Lord Valthaur ever made him feel terribly useful. That priggish fop, Khint, had long since bowed and scraped a solitary place for himself at his master's heel, leaving Willelmus' organisational skills unrewarded and unappreciated.
Perched on the edge of his bed, the thin chamberlain sighed, and interrupted himself with a sudden cough. Wincing, he pressed a hand to his breast.
"Oh dear. I think I am getting a sniffle."
Patting himself consolingly, he glanced about the room. Only four books lay on his bedside table, all he had been able to find of merit in this wretched place. How he missed Lord Faramir's marvellously stocked library. He glanced next to the small, neatly stacked sheaf of papers on the table beside a quill and a tightly capped inkwell. Frowning, he reached for the topmost page and drew it to the pallid light from the window.
As he read his own writing, he tapped a finger to his pursed lips. Then he lowered the page to his lap and stared thoughtfully into space. Finally, he blinked and leaned to set the paper back with its mates.
"Something is not right, here," he announced.
With that, he stood – and immediately burst forth in an enormous sneeze. Three times, he sneezed, after which his eyes watered and his nose ran. As he dabbed with his handkerchief, his thin face sagged in lines of gloom.
"Oh, mercy," he whimpered. "I just knew that horrid place was filled with evil humours and foul vapours – Ah-TCHOO!"
Yet he wiped his nose, gathered his wits and the hem of his robe, and took himself out the door. Once outside, he accosted the first Ranger-ish person he saw and faced the man with rigid self-importance.
"See here, my good fellow. I must speak to Captain Tarannon or Captain Halbarad, as soon as they may be found. It is most urgent, and may be germane to the case currently under scrutiny. Will you pass that message?"
The Ranger eyed the chamberlain in confusion, but nodded nonetheless. "Of course, Master Willelmus. As soon as possible."
"Thank you." Abruptly Willelmus sucked a huge breath, and turned away to blast a truly heroic sneeze. He spoke next through the folds of his handkerchief. "Blease dell theb I will be id by roob."
xxx
Driven inside by the wet weather, the Rohirrim stable hands found themselves at the mercy of a smiling hobbit lass. Having decided that it was patently ridiculous for Alfgard's men to continue pretending The Burping Troll folk did not exist, Erin took matters in her own hands. And as the tale of the Ringbearer and his faithful Sam proved, there was nothing more determined than a hobbit.
Being a hobbit, she began her strategies in the kitchen with the cook and serving maids stirring up a batch of gingerbread cookies. When the men and lads were reduced to sniffing the air like hounds, she invited them to partake of her hospitality and made certain those from The Burping Troll and Silverbrook were well interspersed amongst the Rohirrim. Any trepidation on the part of a man of Rohan to sit near the orcs, Gubbitch and Nik, or the Beorning, was swiftly countered by the hobbit's smiles, or the chatter of little Nora. When invited to join the group, Nora rushed immediately to the shape-shifter's side, and began sweetly pestering him to tell all about talking to animals. Not to be outdone by their younger sister, Alfgard's twelve-year-old twins hastily took the bench opposite the Beorning and sat alternately munching cookies and hesitantly interjecting their own questions amidst Nora's.
Flitting from table to table, pouring cider and seeing the platters of warm cookies remained within easy reach, the hobbit set about breaking down the barriers erected by war. After an hour of non-stop bustling, Erin plopped happily into a cushioned chair and smiled about the room at her handiwork.
A tall, silver-haired presence settled beside her, and Erin smiled at him. "I think we've done quite well, don't you? So many odd folk under one roof, and all that grey and gloom outside."
"Yes," Celebsul said, smiling. "You have worked your hobbit magic."
Erin tossed a shrug and said, "It really did not take much. Gubbitch is such an old character, and Nik has never been able to play with children before, and who wouldn't love Horus? He's so kind and he's handsome." Seeing the elf's rising eyebrow, she blushed and protested, "Well, he is! I should think all the ladies back in Silverbrook watch when he and Lord Darien pass."
Chuckling gently, Celebsul relaxed to enjoy the camaraderie around them. In all, the hobbit's plan had worked quite well. Now Horus and Darien sat at a table facing two of the stable hands, engaged in a particularly noisy game of knucklebones - which Horus knew as fivestones - while Nik and little Nora with Alfgard's boys played pass the slipper. Nearby, Russ and two more of the Rohirrim men discussed the best types of grains for brewing beer, even as Neal engaged Alfgard's farrier in deep discussion. At the same time, young Evan sat with Linnet and her toddlers exchanging recipes and anecdotes for healthful remedies. And lastly, Alfgard and Gubbitch had cornered three of the stable hands for a dice game - with gingerbread cookies as the wager.
"Gingerbread and parlour games," Celebsul murmured with a smile.
A cheering shout went up as Horus' deft brown fingers scooped all five stones from the table, whilst the first tossed was still in the air. A pretty bit of dexterity for a man who just hours before had lain on his sickbed. Even now, Darien kept a close eye on his friend, reminding him at every chance of Sev's strict orders not to exert himself. Horus' revenge for the coddling seemed to be winning that round handily, to the glee of their Rohirrim opponents.
Then beyond the merriment, a soft sound of footsteps up the stairwell caught Celebsul's ear. Quietly he rose and made his way around the room towards the front door, where he posted himself with arms crossed on his chest.
Looking upwards, he said pleasantly, "Hello, Sev. Do you find it a good afternoon for a walk?"
Seeing the elf leaning against the door, Sev sighed and descended the stairs quickly. Handing him her cloak, she said, "Don't start. I'm not going alone. Lugbac is coming too. He's waiting outside."
"Which does not fulfil your promise to Anardil," the elf stated and draped her cloak over her shoulders.
Sev laughed. "I am not so removed from sanity as to dare break my word to him. Raberlon has agreed to accompany me as well."
Faint concern darkened the elf's expression. "Is it necessary?"
Opening the door and frowning out into the wet, Sev said, "I did say I'd meet Sira and her soldier boy. I should have seen to it that the gloves were sent to her before now. Alfgard found them for me yesterday."
The coppery scent of rain on cobblestones wafted in on a chill gust of air.
"You have been otherwise occupied, Sevilodorf." The elf nodded to Lugbac outside, who stood head back letting the rain fall upon his face, and to the bowlegged Raberlon who splashed across from the men's barracks adjusting the sword at his hip. "Perhaps you should select another pair of escorts?"
"Why? Who would be foolish enough to bother me, with a mountain of an orc at my side? I have my knives as well." Sev slid the cuff of her sleeve up to reveal the sheath strapped to her forearm. "Raberlon's quite capable as a swordsman. We will be fine."
"Then at least let me come along," Celebsul suggested.
Sev sighed and rolled her eyes. "Don't you start fussing as well. I'm only going briefly to the bridge by the smithy. It's daylight. The village is teeming with soldiers and Rangers and officials. I have, as I said, the biggest person in existence, aside from Russ, plus a fine Rohirrim veteran as escorts."
At her words, Lugbac broke into an alarming grin while Raberlon's back straightened in pride despite the drumming rain. Sev knew that the polite elf would not insult her companions further by insisting they were replaced or reinforced. Still, she added one further safeguard.
"And you must keep an eye on my patient. Horus may seem much better, but he might relapse at any moment. Watch him at all times. Make sure he does not over-exert himself."
With a smile, she drew her hood over her head and stepped outside. Celebsul paused by the door while she led her ill matched pair of escorts down the lane towards the decidedly damp-looking Gondorian soldiers, who still stood on guard in the soggy greyness of late afternoon.
A faint sense of unease touched the elf as he watched the woman lift a hand before turning toward the village. Then she and her escorts disappeared behind the curtain of rain.
"It's a foolish thing for me to think," Celebsul murmured, "but she has not always had the best luck in the rain."
With a quiet sigh, he stepped back inside and closed the door.
xxx
Soft footsteps in the corridor preceded the arrival of three cloaked men at Willelmus' door. One of them knocked quietly.
"Come," spoke his voice from within.
Halbarad opened the door to see a small table, a basin, and a cloth-covered blob seated on the bed behind it. Long fingers lifted the edge of the cloth to reveal Willelmus' doleful face, poised over a basin of steaming water.
"Are you ill?" Halbarad asked in surprise, not entering.
"No … or perhaps." Willelmus sighed and sat back, letting the cloth slide to his shoulders. "I am hoping to expel the evil humours of The Black Cauldron before they can make me ill. Dreadful, vile place."
Halbarad glanced over his shoulder at Tarannon and Anardil, and stepped inside. Anardil closed the door behind them.
"The Cauldron does not seem your sort of establishment," he said.
Willelmus levelled a glance that could have pierced glass. "Hardly. I delivered a missive for Lord Valthaur yesterday. I've only one chair, but any of you gentlemen are welcome to it."
After an exchange of gestures, Tarannon took the chair while Halbarad crouched on one heel beside him and Anardil propped himself beside the door.
"We are here, as requested" Tarannon then said, and crossed his arms on his chest. "Pray tell us why. Has it to do with The Black Cauldron?"
"It most certainly does." Willelmus scooped a piece of paper off a stack of several on the bed beside him. "I have kept notes of everything I have done, here - which, I dare say, has been little more than redundancy. That Khint fellow is a fawning carbuncle on the posterior of administrative efficiency, but Lord Valthaur seems to have use for him. I've been little more than a clerk's boy this week."
He lifted his beak-like nose haughtily as he snapped the paper stiffly between his hands then held it for scrutiny. "At any rate, there is this. Not an hour after you gentlemen delivered Lord Faramir's orders, Lord Valthaur requested me to convey a message to one Master Drath, proprietor of The Black Cauldron. Such duties I regard as demeaning to my station, but Lord Valthaur presented it as a trifling matter which had slipped his mind."
Willelmus paused to cast a stern glance over his paper. "It is not my place to question my superiors, you understand. He is, after all, one of the highest lords in the land. However -." The paper received another snap. "Upon further consideration, I find this matter beyond the pale. You see, Khint and I were privy to all Lord Valthaur's papers, and I can promise you, every one had to do with the hearing. He did not bring any files or papers pertaining to Master Drath or The Black Cauldron, or any other case, or I would have seen them."
Tarannon blinked. "And this means what?"
The chamberlain's expression became even more severe. "It means that I cannot imagine one single reason why a man of Lord Valthaur's stature would have any association with a creature like Master Drath, unless it was in the course of a legal proceeding. Since no such case exists, at least amidst the course of this venture, I find myself quite at a loss." He laid the paper down and clasped his fingers primly in his lap. "Therefore I cast the matter into your hands."
Tarannon frowned. "Then you did deliver a message to Drath for Lord Valthaur."
Willelmus frowned back. "I just said I did."
"Well." Halbarad idly rubbed the back of his head. "That backs up Lorgarth's report."
"Who?"
"The head orc who works at the Cauldron."
"Oh." Willelmus' mouth shaped itself in a moue of distaste. "Yes, one of them greeted me when I first arrived. I dare say I find little comfort in having an orc vouch for my veracity, but I'll take it as it comes. Is there any question I am telling the truth?"
"Only from Drath," Halbarad replied, and cocked an eyebrow. "We spoke to him after Lorgarth's report, and he denied you had been there at all."
Willelmus opened and closed his mouth twice before sound emerged. "Why, the very nerve! Of course, I was there! Good heavens, I'm scarcely inconspicuous – if only as the only man in that tavern who had bathed in the past month."
Tarannon leaned forward and loosely clasped his hands between his knees. "Do you have any idea what the message was about?"
"I'm afraid I do not. I took it sealed and carried it as such."
"And it was from Valthaur's own hand?"
"Oh, yes. There was no writing on the envelope and the wax seal was plain, but it bore Lord Valthaur's sigil. The hand-written cartouche he uses to mark all his correspondence. I'm sure you've seen it on correspondence from him?"
"Yes." Tarannon nodded slowly. Noticing Halbarad's questioning look, he added, "It's a very ornate script design that he draws as a sort of seal, unique and unmistakable."
Anardil stirred beside the door to add, "And virtually un-forgeable. Only the most skilled forger could ever come close to duplicating it. Which, of course, is why he uses it."
"Precisely." Willelmus gave a short nod. "Thus I am certain he was the note's author. Unfortunately I have no further clue as to its content."
"How large was this letter?" asked Tarannon.
"Oh, quite small, little more than a note."
Tarannon and Halbarad exchanged troubled glances, while Anardil rubbed his chin. Willelmus pursed his lips before speaking again.
"I am sorry, gentlemen, that I cannot tell you more. But in light of recent affairs, I felt you should possess this intelligence, sparse though it is, in hope it might prove a small piece in a greater puzzle." His eyes suddenly narrowed as he added, "That clerk, Khint, is a conniving creature, of that I am convinced. His master indulges him far too much – imagine being missing from an entire day of court! And his manner is altogether suspicious. Mark my words, he is up to no good!"
"Besides your professional differences," Anardil observed dryly, "have you anything else suspicious to note about Khint?"
The chamberlain's lips thinned. "Only that several times he managed to find free time for himself, whilst I was still transcribing and annotating and sorting. Things that should have been his job, I dare say! Lord Valthaur clearly has spoilt him."
Tarannon sat back in his chair, while Halbarad ran a hand through his hair.
"Thank you, Willelmus," said Tarannon. "Though we cannot know the import of your news, it is, as you say, a small piece in a greater puzzle."
He stood and added, "You will of course keep this conversation private?"
"Upon my word," Willelmus briskly replied. When the three men turned towards the door, he added, "It is a matter of correctness, you see. Certain things a person simply must not do."
Which undoubtedly included associating with uncouth tavern owners. Tarannon almost ventured the hint of a smile, ere he let himself and his companions out.
Back outside the barracks again, Rangers and former Ranger faced each other.
"What do you think?" asked Halbarad.
Tarannon squinted up at the heavy clouds that now decapitated all view of the Ephel Dúath. "I think I wish we could find Margul soon."
Anardil snorted. "And I wish I had two good arms and five minutes alone with Khint. He is our connection to Margul. Margul is connected to Grom. Grom shows up to work for Drath - then vanishes two days later. And Lord Valthaur sent a note to Drath. I am certain we have the pieces, friends. We simply have not learned how they all fit."
A soft pattering sound grew louder, and scattered fat raindrops splattered on their heads and shoulders. In a swirling rush the first gust of rain came.
All three flipped their hoods up over their heads, and Tarannon said, "Come, let us go to my office and run through the pieces again. Something has to shake out of this."
In long hasty strides, the three men disappeared.
xxx
The blacksmith shop stood in a small dell on the eastern edge of the village, the first structure a traveller saw when approaching on the King's road from the south. Here a merry stream passed from the forest to skirt the village's margin, churning strongly down the dell and over tumbled stones. Nearing the bridge that carried the road over the rain-swollen stream, Sevilodorf strove to ignore her companions' grumbling. Raberlon's predictions, concerning the probability of Sira not keeping the appointed meeting, too closely mirrored her own thoughts for comfort, while Lugbac's frequent halts to peer into the brush along the road and mutter to himself grew increasingly irritating.
"It would've made a heap more sense to leave the gloves at The Whistling Dog," the aging man complained in the broadest Rohirrim. "No need for you to be traipsing around in the rain tending to the likes of that girl."
Sev snorted. "Be honest, Raberlon. It's the lost chance for a pint of Cameroth's ale that has you more upset than the fact that I'm getting wet."
"No," the old man responded sourly, "'tis the fact I'm getting wet as well."
The hold on her temper frayed and Sev snapped, "You didn't have to come. I would have found someone else." Then as Lugbac came to another sudden stop, she switched to Westron and exclaimed, "Whatever is the matter, Lugbac?"
The orc peered intently toward the east, but all that could be seen in the dim light were the dark, dripping branches of trees. From here, they could just hear the muted, steady thump of the blacksmith's bellows and the intermittent clang of his hammer.
Nonetheless, Lugbac grumbled, "There's something out there."
"Probably a Ranger search party," Sev rationalised.
"Don't smell like Rangers." The large orc inhaled deeply. "Smells like battle."
Raberlon stepped quickly between Sev and the road's edge with one hand upon his sword. In his native tongue, he said softly, "Best we turn back, missus. Creature's got better sense than we do."
Sev slipped one knife free of its sheath, but stood undecided looking into the darkness. "I don't see anything, and it's closer to the smithy than it is to town."
"Aye, that it is." The man drew his sword and waved her toward the bridge. "Go on with you."
Any protest Sev thought to make was cut short by a calm voice from the woods.
"One moment if you please."
Lugbac's reverberating growl did as much to freeze the hearts of the Rohirrim as the five leering orcs creeping from the brush. Following them walked a tall man with one arm wrapped tightly about Sira's throat. A silver-handled knife glinted at her breast and the girl's terrified eyes pleaded for help.
Raberlon spoke swiftly. "She's done for, missus. No sense you wasting yourself as well. Run!" On the final word, the old man charged forward with a war cry, Lugbac only a step behind.
Everything became far too late. Snarling orcs plunged while Raberlon roared with each swing of his sword and Lugbac slung his great fists and howled. Like wolves they came, leaping and tearing. Sev threw a knife to impact an orc's arm as Raberlon's swift blade severed its hand. Lugbac seized one of their foes by the throat and flung another orc slam against an oak, while Sev scrabbled for her second blade – and Raberlon buckled with a choking cry. When he hit the ground, Sev ducked and dropped to her knees, the jagged scythe that felled him thrumming over her head. She caught the old man's sleeve, but his last words were lost in blood. Backwards she scrambled, desperate, breath seizing in her chest as Lugbac yowled anew, enemy orcs hanging from his great frame as he struggled and fought. Another orc leapt after her, rusted blade swinging back and up –.
"HOLD!" a man's voice shouted. "I want her alive."
The orc snarled and swung hilt-first, aborting the desperate slash of her second knife with stunning force. Her blade flew aside as she scrambled again, and the orc's backhand sledged her to the muddy road. His stinking weight slammed upon her, driving the scream from her chest before she could give voice, and a hard knee pressed upon her throat. Lugbac went abruptly silent.
Everything went silent.
Sev heard the rasping breath of the creature whose weight crushed her into the muck, but she dared not open her eyes. Rain splattered in her upturned face. Above the watery tumult of the nearby stream, she could just hear the dull thumping of the blacksmith's bellows. She turned her head in an effort to breathe past the orc's knee against her throat, and a gurgling growl sounded somewhere nearby. Then a slow tread of squelching footsteps came towards her.
She opened her eyes to rain, slate sky, and a man's leg. Her gaze travelled upwards, over clothes such as any town merchant might wear, and halted at a neatly trimmed grey beard and almost colourless silvery eyes. Held in the circle of his arm like a lover, Sira sagged white-faced behind the knife he still pressed to her breast.
"Really, my dear," said Margul, "what did you think to accomplish?"
Sev coughed against the pressure to her throat, wishing she could spit. Margul merely chuckled and turned away, dragging Sira with him. From her lowered vantage point, Sev watched him fling the barmaid about and shove her reeling towards the orc Raberlon had maimed. Sira shrieked as the creature caught her with its good arm and crushed her against its chest. A trembling moan escaped her tightly contorted lips.
Margul walked on to where Lugbac still heaved and growled beneath the weight of three other orcs. As Sev watched, one of the orcs struck Lugbac a blow that would have crushed the skull of an ordinary man. Lugbac's great arms sagged slowly, fists clenching and clenching.
With a dry chuckle, Margul knelt to peer down at the huge, fallen orc. "Now you are interesting." Lugbac's eyes blinked blearily open and the man spoke on. "Done a bit of damage, that you have. A pity to see it go to waste."
Indeed, as the orcs who held him snarled, Sev realised all three of them bore the marks of barehanded combat, black blood smeared from bites, gouges and torn ears. Margul cocked his head as he regarded the captive.
"But you've grown weak living with the tarks. Would you like a chance to be strong again?" Lugbac growled his reply in the Black Speech, but Margul only laughed.
"Fool," he said. "She is not your friend. Orcs have no friends. They need no friends, only a master."
He stood and announced, "Bind him boys. We will try to show him the error of his ways, and if he won't listen, it will only be more fresh meat."
Margul turned to Sev. "Grom, let the lady up." Casting a glance aside, he observed blandly, "Pity about your friend. An old family retainer, I suppose."
As her orcish captor stood, Sev sat up and heaved for a proper breath. She coughed before rasping, "What do you want, you scum? Filth - warg dung - bloated maggot -." She lapsed into Rohirric when Westron failed her.
Whether Margul understood the words, he could not miss her intent, and he clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "Such language from a lady. I simply want to talk to the two of you. We have business to finish.
Terrified and hating, Sev grated, "I have no business with you."
Beneath the sodden edge of his hood, Margul's eyebrows rose. "Ah, but you do. Come, let us find a bit more privacy than the open road. Grom, bring the lady. Ursak, gag that one and bring her. The rest of you, bind and lead our new friend and try not to maim him overmuch."
As Grom's taloned hand seized her arm, Sev found herself heaved upright onto her feet and into the stark, stomach-clutching realisation of despair. She cast a desperate glance towards the smithy, but it remained shuttered; the muted sounds of bellows and hammer continued - the smith himself apparently deafened by his own labours. The village, though only a couple hundred yards away, lay beyond a rise of the stream's bank; nobody could see her or her captors, and those shut indoors from the rain probably had heard nothing. Avoiding Sira's stricken eyes, she swallowed hard against the choking rise of panic.
She watched Margul lean down to Lugbac and clamp long fingers on the orc's skull, forcing his head back to face Sev, standing firmly in Grom's clutches. His next words were the seal of doom.
"Listen to me, big fellow, and listen well. I'll give her to the lads to play with if you don't cooperate. Understand?"
The fury of battle spent, Lugbac's eyes were wide and frightened as he met Sev's look and nodded beneath Margul's grasp. Thereupon Margul turned to roll Raberlon's body over with one toe.
"And bring this. We don't want to leave any traces behind."
While the gloom of evening descended early beneath the weight of rain, captors and captives disappeared into the forest. Soon the only signs left were some rapidly vanishing pools of blood, and a single kid glove, trampled into the muck. In their wake, the thump and clang of the blacksmith continued.
xxx
TBC ...