Chapter Twenty-three
The Inn of the Burping Troll
November 1st
The bittersweet wake for Raberlon, and the following morning's journey home, were at last over. Sevilodorf and Anardil settled gratefully into their cosy room behind the workshop at The Burping Troll. The young, black-and-white cat, Tac, plagued them both, insistent they make up in full for their desertion.
At last, Tac curled up on the hearth atop the spoils of battle – a pair of socks – while Anardil walked to the inn for some mint for tea. The season had begun to take a chilly turn of late, and for now the former Ranger enjoyed the little comforts of home. In his absence, his lady sat pondering the events of recent weeks.
Lifting her chin, Sev frowned at the image reflected in the mirror before her. The bruising upon her cheek had reached its most unattractive stage and did little to enhance her appearance. Considering the outcome of her abduction by Margul might have been far worse, she judged her soreness and mottled countenance a small price. However, Anardil's eyes tightened every time he looked upon her face; and Sev knew the sooner the bruising faded, the greater her chance of avoiding further limitations upon her freedom.
Accepting there was no escape, Sev stoically agreed to Anardil's request that she refrain from leaving the grounds of The Burping Troll for an entire seven days. In truth, the prospect of a week of doing nothing more strenuous than concocting a winter tonic, cleaning out the cellar, or finally restitching the hem of her green skirt seemed rather appealing. Whether that appeal would withstand the test of time, she doubted she would be forced to discover. Within three days, Anardil would be pacing the floor, waiting anxiously for the arrival of the next messenger, poring over Hal's reports and suspiciously studying the merchants enjoying their hobbit-sized dinners.
Dipping a handkerchief in tincture of arnica, Sev murmured, "Three days. If that long."
The splatter of rain upon the window drew her gaze as she applied the cloth to her cheek. Watching the drops run down the pane, Sev wondered if she might convince one of the elves to carry an arnica-based liniment to Henneth Annûn. The lavender-like scent of the herb would appeal to Sira, and the remedial properties of the arnica and comfrey would promote further healing of the girl's scarred hands. Thankfully, Alfgard had found another pair of gloves without having to send to Minas Tirith.
The thought of the Stone City sent a shiver down Sev's spine. If there were one place to be avoided, the White City was the place. Anardil, she suspected, would have preferred to go and sit in the Council Chambers. Denied the pleasure of seeing to Margul's end, he had quietly requested that Faramir allow him to present a personal grievance against Lord Valthaur. Though the Lord Steward's refusal set Anardil to muttering dire imprecations against protocol, Sev had been silently overjoyed. It was never wise to give an oliphaunt a second chance to step on you. The farther she and those she loved were from Minas Tirith, the better.
"Maybe a trip to the Borderlands?" she mused aloud, dousing the cloth again.
The faint rumble of thunder caused Tac to open one eye sleepily; but when no more followed, he resumed his slumber. Sev nodded then reapplied the handkerchief to her face. It would be best to go now, before the real storms of the season began. The weather-wise hobbits had assured one and all that this evening's rain would hurry past; leaving clear skies for several days to follow.
The rattle of the door latch interrupted her musing and in came Anardil bearing two parcels, one small and one medium-sized, clamped awkwardly under his arm. A chilly gust of rain-scented wind came with him.
"Loof!" she exclaimed, and she sprang to her feet. "I would have gotten the door."
"I know." Anardil's wry grin conceded acknowledgment of his own stubbornness when it came to his physical limitations. "Perhaps you would instead rescue these before I drop them?"
With an exasperated sigh, Sev caught the packages as they slipped from his one-armed grasp, whereupon Anardil closed the door. Tac raised his head to cast both humans a slit-eyed glare when the cold draft wafted past him, but neither paid heed.
"What are these?" Sev asked, taking one in each hand. Both items were wrapped in paper and string, but only the larger one possessed any weight.
"I've no idea," Anardil replied, as he shrugged out of his damp cloak. "Erin found them in the bottom of her pack."
Sev snorted. "Erin's pack has a bottom?"
Both chuckled, recalling the hobbit's extravagant notions of travel, complete with every memento and convenience of home. Anardil then fished in his pocket and pulled out a small envelope.
"There is a note that goes with it," he said. "Addressed to you."
"Really?" Sev set the packages on the table and took the letter. "Hm, handwriting doesn't look familiar. Maybe Linnet or Nora slipped us something, do you suppose?"
Opening the envelope, she scanned the page within. Her eyes widened when she read the signature. "Oh my. These are from Sira, of all people." Squinting suspiciously at him, she added, "Did you know anything about this?"
"Not a thing, dear lady. This once, I promise I am completely innocent."
Anardil smiled as he sat down to watch Sev open the mysterious gifts. The paper removed from the first, it became visible as a plump sack containing an abundant supply of horehound drops. Sev laughed suddenly, realising for whom these were intended.
"Lugbac?" asked Anardil with a grin.
"Yes," Sev replied with a rueful shake of her head. "Which I will hold and dispense over time. One episode of the purgative effects of a large quantity of horehound upon the intestinal capabilities of an enormous orc is more than enough."
The second, smaller parcel proved to be a soft leather coin purse. Adorning it was the cleverly embroidered rendering of three green leaves and a purple thistle blossom.
Seeing this, Anardil winked and asked, "Do you suppose she's trying to say something?"
Sev looked at him and picked up the note to read aloud. "Sev: I noticed the disreputable state of your purse several days ago. May this serve you well. The embroidery is done by the local woman who sews my shifts. Sira."
She paused to study the needlework, which really was quite fine and artfully executed.
"Well, well," chuckled Anardil. "Sira is almost being polite. Will wonders never cease?"
"Doubtful," Sev replied dryly, "in a place inhabited by orcs and hobbits, balrogs and elves, Beornings and the most outlandish beings of all… rascally Rangers."
Anardil's smile widened as he reached for her hand. "You do meet the most interesting people in the rain."
She let him pull her to his side, where he wrapped his arm around her waist and she stroked his dark hair with one hand. "Though your life would be much simpler and more peaceful if you had never gone into that alley in Pelargir."
"Peaceful?" he asked, looking up at her with gentle eyes. "Or simply empty? No, Sevi. You are my guide in a changing world, and with you, I can face the changes."
"Loof," she said, but softly. "I think you have that backwards."
"No." Her hand fell to his shoulder as he solemnly shook his head. "The world is changed, Sevi. You and I will live to see many more changes; I feel the shape of things moving even beyond what our lives will know. Though I wonder what will come of all our dealings with laws and judgements and such."
"It's hard to say," Sev mused.
"Aye. I think, in the end, we won't have made that great a mark. Most orcs would curse our rulings for peace, if they knew of them at all, and when the last orc dies, the world will not mourn his passing."
Frowning, Sev tapped him atop the head as if to dislodge such maudlin thinking. "Perhaps. But at least we bought Gubbitch and Nik and their friends the freedom from strife they wish for. That alone was worth the trouble, I think."
"Yes." A small, thoughtful smile touched his lips. "It was. There is one other thing, and I hope you'll remind me, should I lose sight of it."
He looked up at her, and she waited for him to continue.
"The truth endures," he said. "And past weeks have reminded me that truth should be the star we steer by, if we're to meet our future with open eyes."
Sev brushed her fingers over his brow, then lightly under his jaw. "Yes. Though I have learnt that it is sometimes necessary to conceal the truth from others, we must never hide it from ourselves. A wise man once said, 'Truth is a point, the subtlest and finest; harder than adamant; never to be broken, worn away or blunted.'"
Anardil cocked an eyebrow. "Would that be a Celebsul-ism?"
"Actually, that's a Horus-ism."
"Of course. If not an elf, then it must be a Haradrim."
They laughed softly together and Sev's fingers brushed his hair again. Their smiles softened, deepened to something else and she leaned to brush her lips on his. He slid his hand beneath her long braid, finding the warm skin of her neck – then both of them jerked upright at a sudden rapping at the door.
Exchanging rueful smiles, Sev stepped to the door, and opened it to yet another gust of damp wind and two hooded hobbit lasses who beamed wide smiles.
"We saw Anardil fetching the tea," said Meri.
"And we thought you'd need something to go with it," said Erin.
"So we fixed you a little basket to tide you until supper." Meri smilingly held up the proof of their endeavours.
"Just some nibblings," Erin added.
Meri nodded emphatically. "Since you Big Folk never eat enough, anyhow."
Sev took the basket and glanced over her shoulder at Anardil grinning and shaking his head. "Thank you," she said, and paused to mull a sudden thought.
Abruptly she stepped back from the door and gestured inside. "Would you like to come in and join us? The kettle isn't hot yet, but it won't take long."
An instant babble of replies echoed.
"Oh, we wouldn't want to keep you."
"We shouldn't be an intrusion."
"We have to start supper soon."
"We can't stay but a minute."
"But if it's no bother -."
When the door closed, it left the cold and bluster of October's end outside. Inside, there was only the comfort of a cosy hearth, the warmth of friendship, and plump, steaming honey-currant buns fresh from the oven.
xxx
Minas Tirith
5th Circle
November 6th
"Do you know the greatest kind of fool, Claremon?" asked Lord Valthaur.
The grey-haired servant glanced up from pouring his master's wine. However, he knew better than to answer what was, after all, a rhetorical question, and simply tipped the bottle upright without speaking.
"The greatest fool," said Valthaur, picking up his cup to swirl the crimson liquid within, "is he who seeks to topple better men." The rasp of his breathing was the only indication of the corpulent law lord's ire. "There are those who would see me fall, Claremon. There are those who delight in crowing over the bones of giants and hurling stones from the safety of the crowd."
Valthaur's eyes glittered coldly in afternoon light that slanted through the open doors of his terrace. His gaze fixed on some point out there as he lifted the cup for a judicious sip. Claremon watched and recognised approval from the absence of censure. With a silent bow, he left the bottle on the polished table in front of his master and backed away.
"But they will not have me," murmured Valthaur, and sipped his wine again.
Claremon disappeared behind a discreetly closed door, but not so far that he could not answer the summons of the bell pull. For a time Valthaur sat thus, unmoving and unblinking. The lengthening rays of autumn, nearly winter, poured in pale silence through the open doors and upon the white pavestone floor. Behind his chair stood nooks graced with statuary and shelves of books, the library of a lifetime's collection. Through the doorway, Valthaur could see his small, walled garden and even without rising, he knew the view beyond. There below his garden wall, the lower levels of the White City lay exposed to his scrutiny from garret to post, each bending lane and narrow way.
"Forty years," he said, his fleshy jowls tightening as he sucked a sharp breath, "and this is how they thank me!"
His hand smote with ringing force upon the documents at his elbow: heavy, elegant papers adorned with ribbon and an equally heavy seal. Upon the broken seal's face could still be seen the imprint of a tree and seven stars.
"How dare they summon me for their contemptible investigation?" Valthaur rasped, spots of colour mottling his cheeks. His fingers tightened about his cup, knuckles whitening below the hard glint of the adamant stone of his ring. "Thankless, clodpated, imbecilic, cretinous, idiotic fools! For forty years, I labour to hold back chaos, and now they would undo it all. And for what?"
His lungs wheezed harshly, he clenched his jaw, and a sudden sweep of his hand dashed the summons upon the floor.
"Heaven help me, that I ever lived to see such days!"
In a second swift gesture, he tossed the rest of his wine down his throat – and an explosion of coughing bent him double. He hacked, wheezed and gasped with rib-cracking force ere he pushed himself upright in his chair once more. When he looked up with watery eyes, Claremon stood gravely beside him.
"What may I bring you, lord?" the servant asked.
"My cough remedy," choked Valthaur, podgy fingers pressed to his chest. "And pour me more wine."
"At once, lord."
Claremon bowed and deftly refilled the cup. Then on silent feet, he swept from the room, to return a moment later with a small packet in hand. The glass of wine stood untouched at Valthaur's right hand.
"Leave it," said Valthaur, flicking his fingers in dismissal.
With a second prim bow, Claremon set down the packet and left the room. For a long moment Valthaur simply sat, waiting for his breathing to steady. Then he absently opened the packet and shook a practiced dose into his cup. A fine powder sifted to speckle the surface of the wine.
"Hollyhock extract. My beloved plants at least have never failed me."
He paused, staring into the cup as if seeing it for the first time. The powder drifted in tiny motes, among which his face lay reflected in the little pool of crimson fluid - distorted, malformed, a caricature of his true features.
"Who is the monster?" Valthaur whispered. "The monster himself, or he who elevates the monster to the proper place of men?"
Abruptly he pursed his mouth and swirled the wine about to dissolve the powder. That done, he lifted the cup – and hesitated one last time. But only for a moment, before he upended the little packet to dump its entire contents into the liquid. A smooth motion dissolved the powder completely, whereupon he downed the wine in one steady draught.
Carefully he dabbed at his lips, set the cup aside, and composed himself in his chair facing the open terrace door. Out in the last sunlight, the tall stems of hollyhocks nodded in the late afternoon breeze, some still bearing the last tattered blooms of summer in hues of crimson to near black.
"No," said Valthaur quietly. "You shall not have me."
Some while later, Claremon entered on slipper-shod feet. A chill breeze whispered through the open doors and fluttered the papers scattered on the floor. Claremon bent to pick them up, barely looking at his master's sleeping form. The servant set the papers neatly on the table, took the empty wine cup and made a step towards the doors.
Then he paused, his bland gaze lifting to Valthaur's motionless, expressionless face. No sound did Lord Valthaur make. No sound at all.
The cup hit the floor in clangour of pewter on stone and Claremon's eyes popped open wide.
"Oh, mercy!" he breathed. Then he flew to the door at a dead run, wrenched it open and fled down the hall at full speed.
"Help us!" his frantic cry rang in the corridor. "Oh, come quick, Lord Valthaur is dead!"
xxx
November 19th
Far out upon the broad expanses of the Wetwang, pools of water mirrored the fiery hues of a November evening sky, while chill breezes whispered through the rushes. Beneath ribbons of purple cloud and crimson sunset, a solitary hawk tilted a wing and slid downward on currents of air. As he soared, the land subtly rose until the plain bristled with grass and shrubs, and twilight rather than water filled the dells. Further yet he roamed, until several shadowy buildings came into view, alone and serene amidst the broad expanse of wilderness.
There two dogs stood with their noses to the door of the sturdy house, tails wagging hopefully. Suddenly it opened to let them in and let Nik, the little Uruk-hai, out. Glancing up at the fading glory of sunset, he made his way across the yard to the barn, where the animals stood dozing contentedly in their stalls over the remains of their supper. Nik smiled and went back outside.
At the stone granary he paused to study the roof, where the thatching lay firm and even, ready for the rains of winter. Then he walked towards the root cellar and jiggled its sloping door to make sure it was firmly sealed. Finally he went to the henhouse, stepping quietly amongst their warm scent and drowsy clucking where he counted heads to make sure all the chickens were in for the night.
As he turned to come out, a sudden voice spoke.
"Can I have one?
Nik looked up with a grin already on his face and saw the massive dark grey bulk of a warg. The great creature offered a toothy grin in return, her eyes glinting in the gathering twilight.
"Why, hello, Warg," he said. "How are you? And can you have one what?"
"A chicken."
"Of course you can't!" He shut the henhouse door firmly behind him. "They are for eggs, not eating."
"Aw, c'mon," she wheedled. "Can't I have just one?"
"No, Warg."
"Just a little one?"
"Warg, no!"
"Pretty please?"
With a sigh, Nik reached into his pocket and pulled out a solitary egg. "Here, catch."
The egg vanished in a crunching, slurping gulp. Warg belched before speaking again.
"So what are you doing?"
"Oh, just checking everything. Teach is in taking a nap."
"How long this time?"
"Two days."
"Ah. So what do you do when you're done checking?"
"I don't know. It's almost dark, so I'll go to bed soon, I guess."
"Bed? You'll be wasting the best part of the day."
Nik looked up again, where the colours of sundown quickly burned away to purple ash, leaving a sky deepening to cobalt and flecked with the first stars. He breathed in and smelled damp earth, deep roots, and the sleeping places of buried stones.
"Maybe I'll just sit out here for a while," he said. "Until I feel sleepy."
"You work too much," Warg observed. "Since you came back from that thing in Henneth Annûn, what have you done that's fun?"
He looked at her, seeming to loom greater now as twilight thickened upon the land. "Oh, I don't know, Teach and I have been busy. When we got back from Henneth Annûn, we still had lots to do to get ready for winter."
"Hmph."
Warg sat down and scratched behind one ear – a scratch so good that it quite occupied her attention for several seconds. Then she stood and shook her heavy coat back into place.
"So what did you get in Henneth Annûn?"
"I didn't go there to get a thing, Warg. I went there so people would know I kept my word to tell the truth. And now Teach doesn't have to worry about me any more."
Warg lifted her long muzzle to delicately taste some passing scent on the breeze.
"You walk between worlds, Nik, half here and half there. I don't think I could do that." Then she looked at him, eyes agleam with the last flame of sunset. "Let's just be here, tonight. Look, the Moon is coming up."
The little uruk turned and saw it was so. The huge pale disk of the Moon loomed behind the distant spine of the eastern horizon, where its emerging glow dimmed the first stars. Even while he watched, the Moon's face swelled where it clung to the skyline, its silvery light spilling into the deep blue of dusk left by its retreating sister, the Sun.
Behind him, Warg said, "Where shall we go tonight, Nik? Where should we run?"
And it dawned on him that, finally, he was truly free to run. Lies and hatred no longer bound him to the borders of Russ' land. Truth had thrown back many boundaries, and suddenly he wanted to see what lay beyond.
"That way," said Nik, and pointed at random. "That way until we get bored and want to go somewhere else."
Warg chuffed with approving laughter and stood while he lightly swung astride. Then Nik, a runty Uruk-hai formerly of Isengard and once deemed too small to be a warg rider, clung to his warg-friend's back and flew.
Away they sprang into the silver-blues of twilight and across the grassy marshes. Away they fled before the broad silver face of the fat and rising Moon, away and away, faster and faster, until the great warg's muscles bunched and stretched at a mighty, tear-inducing pace. Amidst moonlight and twilight, the waning day and rising night, they passed as shadows on the grass.
Then down the wind, far, far away where chimneys sleepily smoked and the last lamps went out in the cosy houses of Men, perhaps a keen ear might have heard. To the ageless night and timeless earth, Warg sang nature's oldest song.
"AWWWWWOOOOOOOOOOOOO," she called, "AWWOOOOOOOOOOOOO," until the echoes of perfect freedom sang back.
xxx
TBC …