Anor had reached her zenith for the day and was burning down on the White City. The company had stopped in the shade of the Second Gate to get some water from the local well and refine their battle plan.
"The Ugly Mug is right there around the corner," Erchirion pointed out, "but even if it's open I doubt anyone will want to speak to us without bribery. Also, might I suggest the ladies sit this one out? It really isn't a pleasant place."
Éowyn huffed. "Neither was the Pelennor. I daresay after the Witch-king a few crooks and ruffians seem quite manageable."
Éomer exhaled deeply. "Thank you for reminding us of your deeds, Sister, I was worried people might forget."
A very unladylike snort-laugh escaped Lothíriel. She tried to mask it with a cough but still earned a glare from Éowyn and a nod of appreciation from the king. "Who would have thought it, she has a sense of humour."
"What I have is three brothers, in constant competition over the most valiant deeds and the wittiest banter and…" She noticed Éowyn's disheartened face. "Oh, I'm sorry, dear, I didn't mean anything by it. It's just… you do bring it up quite a bit."
The shield-maiden crossed her arms. "Fine! Next time there's an ancient evil to slay, one of you can have a go!" She started walking towards the tavern, but Amrothos jumped in her way. He pointed down the street where five riders were just turning the corner – riders in blue cloaks, donning the swan emblem.
"Ulmo's gills, not that as well," Erchirion muttered. "Is there anywhere to hide?"
But alas, they had already been spotted. The leader raised his hand to signal the other riders to halt. His stern look wandered from one adventurer to the next until he finally said, "Good gracious, what in the name of Elbereth has befallen you? Did you encounter a pack of stray Orcs at the taverns?"
"No, Father," Elphir took it upon himself to answer, mustering whatever princely demeanour he had left. "We are…"
But Imrahil had a more pressing question. "And you, Lothíriel, what are you doing here? You shouldn't be prowling around the city with six men. No offence, my lady," he added towards Éowyn. "Elphir, what is the meaning of this?"
"We are looking for F…"
Amrothos stomped on his brother's foot before he could reveal too much. "The, uhm, the dog," he blurted, but that was as far as he got.
"Yes, indeed!" Lothíriel jumped to the rescue, "Lynx ran away. We're looking for him."
Imrahil's frown deepened with every word his offspring said. "I know you are fond of your dog, my dear, but do you really have to look for him yourself? With all your brothers and our guests? Go home and send the kitchen boy instead. Amrothos, will you see to it that your sister gets home safely?"
"Of course, Father," the youngest replied dutifully. He knew as well as everyone that Imrahil was merely humouring them.
"Very well then," said the commander. "By the way, do you happen to know where Faramir is? Last night some fool went up the White Tower and set the flag post on fire, can you believe it? The guards swear they did not see anything. I would like to have a word with Faramir about that. If I can find him, that is." He scanned the group for the smallest sign of weakness, or at least that was what it felt like to them.
"I believe he went to the archives," Erchirion improvised, "to investigate the soil quality in Emyn Arnen. He wants to grow… goats there. Breed. He wants to breed goats."
The corners of Imrahil's mouth twitched ever so slightly. "Goats? I see. Well, in that case I shall not disturb him. If you see him, I trust you will send him to me." He gave them all a polite nod and got ready to ride on, but on looking at Lothíriel he hesitated as if he had just remembered something else.
"This reminds me," he addressed Éomer, "there is a matter I wish to discuss with you some time soon, perhaps after your sister's wedding."
Before the king could do much more than nod, Imrahil signalled his riders to move on. Three of the soldiers followed him, whereas the fourth lingered behind for a moment.
"Amrothos!" he hissed. "Berion is looking for you, he says he needs to speak to you urgently. Something about last night." With that he kicked his horse into a trot and caught up with the others.
The company collectively held their breath until they thought Imrahil was out of earshot, then they all turned to Amrothos.
"Interesting," was all he came up with. "Apparently someone knows more than us, so I say we change the plan and go find my friend Berion. He works at the counting house by the granary."
No one could disagree with that, so they started their ascent back to the Fourth Circle.
The counting house was busy at this time of day but they did eventually find Berion. He seemed equal parts relieved and embarrassed when he saw Amrothos and his entourage, and quickly made up an excuse to slip away from his work. He ushered the visitors out of the building and down a quiet alleyway that led to a patch of grass with a few cherry trees. Only when he had convinced himself that no one else was listening in did he start talking.
"I'm so glad you came, I was worried you might be suffering the aftermath of last night."
"If by aftermath you mean forgetfulness, then yes, we are indeed," Amrothos admitted. "Were you with us?"
"I'm afraid so," the young man replied, looking more and more deflated as his eyes wandered from Éomer's black eye to Erchirion's bruises and eventually to the ladies' judgemental faces. "I should never have gone there, and I swear I'll never go back!"
"Hold your horses, young fellow," Elfhelm weighed in. "Go where? The Ugly Mug?"
Berion shuddered. "Precisely."
THE NIGHT BEFORE
"Whoever named this place must have been a prophet," the Lord of the Mark pointed out, eyeing the tavern across the street with mild disgust. "I've seen dung heaps cleaner than that."
"We should have worn our stable clothes," Éothain added.
Faramir scanned the surroundings for any more hooded figures. They had already seen two of them disappear behind the creaky door of the tavern. The steward would never have admitted it and blamed it partially on the Rohirric ale, but in a way this quest intrigued him. After spending months upon months trapped first on a sick-bed and then in dusty writing rooms and audience chambers, infiltrating an underground society sounded like a welcome distraction.
"Righto! Listen up, troops!" he joked, "The goal is to find out what the hoods are doing, nothing more. We go in, we gather intelligence, we leave. Any questions?"
Erchirion raised his hand. "What about our brother dearest?" He was still propping up Elphir, who had stopped chuckling and was now cradling the bundled up dress like a baby and admiring the stars in the night sky.
"He'll blend right in," grumbled Elfhelm.
Faramir just shrugged. "We can't leave him here by himself, and I don't suppose any of you want to play chaperone and miss the action…? Well then, in we go! And remember: don't draw attention to yourselves." He smirked as he marched towards the tavern, leaving the others to deal with Elphir. Oh yes, he was enjoying this quest very much!
Four noblemen and three foreigners walking into the Ugly Mug was not a sight the regulars were used to. All eyes were on them from the moment they entered until they sat down. There was not much light in the room and the few tallow candles gave off a rancid smell that mixed with the aroma of beer and sweat. There were soot stains on the walls and the floor was covered in straw – straw that had not been changed in at least a couple of months. Now and then something small and grey could be seen scurrying from one hiding spot to the next. The patrons ranged from unassuming workers to noisy drunks to the sort of people one would not wish to meet in a dark alley. Behind the bar they could see the innkeeper drawing pints, and a red-faced tavern wench was shuffling from table to table collecting dirty plates.
"Charming establishment," Amrothos observed, poking at a mysterious stain on the table that might have been the remnants of a candle or spilled soup or a bodily fluid or perhaps some unholy mixture of all those things. He wiped his fingers on his breeches.
In the meantime Faramir had spotted the target. He nudged Éomer and pointed at two hooded people sitting a few tables away and three more who were just leaving the main room through a doorway covered by a curtain.
"Should we follow them?" Éomer asked, but before Faramir could answer the innkeeper caught them looking at the doorway. He whistled at the servant woman and signalled her to attend to the newcomers' table.
"Good evening, my lords," she greeted them. "What can I get you?"
After a short pause Éothain asked, "What are the options? Any… beer?" He looked at the others for reassurance.
"Of course," the woman said with a half-hearted smile, "I'll be back at once."
Lo and behold, soon she returned balancing a large wooden tray with seven cups of beer, and also seven smaller ones filled with some sort of spirit.
"Excuse me, we did not order those," Erchirion protested, but she waved him off.
"No, no, these are from the fellows over there. They paid for your beer too." She gestured at the hood people's table. Everyone turned around, only to find one of the strangers waving at them.
"Amrothos Imrahilion, my man!" he shouted, "Long time no see!"
A baffled Amrothos squinted and leaned forward, as if that would help him identify the man. "Is that…" he whispered, "I think it's… what's his face… Thondir! We went through Basic Training together."
"Was he the one you broke into the stables with and painted that poor horse blue?" Erchirion asked, at which all three Rohirrim turned to gape at Amrothos.
"It was his idea, I swear," he mumbled, "besides, we were sixteen!" He waved back hesitantly.
The two hooded men got up and dragged their chairs over to join the party. When Amrothos recognised the second one, his face showed genuine surprise and a hint of relief.
"Berion! Good to see you. What are you doing here, what is all this hood business?"
The young man smiled nervously. "I'm not sure, really, it's my first time. It's, uhm…"
"It's a secret society!" roared Thondir at the top of his lungs, with his little cup of fire water raised high above his head, making poor Berion shrink in his seat and Faramir bite his own fist to stifle his laughter.
"Not the sharpest arrow in the quiver, is he?" Éothain whispered at no one in particular.
Thondir, completely unaware, put his arm around Amrothos. "Look at you! I can't believe it's been a decade. And all of you," he waved his cup at the others, spilling some of the contents on Faramir, "I say, it was fate that brought you here tonight."
"How so?" Faramir decided to humour him.
"It's initiation night," Thondir proclaimed. "I brought Berion along to see if he had the guts, but now you can all have a go." He leaned in, generously blowing his alcohol breath in their noses. "The Order of Thuringwethil admits new members once a month, and tonight's the night."
Éomer put up his hands. "Wait a moment! Thuringw…, that rings a bell. It's the bat lady who had her magical cloak stolen and then supposedly got mauled by the giant dog named Dog, right? Or was that a different obscure Elf poem?" He snickered at Elfhelm and Éothain's clueless faces.
"Surprisingly, that sums it up quite well," Faramir replied. "But what on earth is this so-called order?"
Thondir just grinned. "There's only one way to find out, my Lord Steward. Drink up, and then you can see for yourselves." He emptied his own cup, and Berion hesitantly took a tiny sip from his but spat it out again. The others eyed the clear liquid sceptically.
"Not for me, thank you, I quite value my eyesight," Faramir declined, "you can have mine." He pushed his cup towards Thondir, who downed it in one gulp.
"Go on, it's not poisonous," he laughed. "At least not as bad as the stuff we used to drink back in the day." He elbowed Amrothos in the ribs.
"Well, I suppose if he's drinking it…" Erchirion pondered. "It might make this whole affair more enjoyable." He emptied his cup, grimaced, and shuddered. "Bend me over and call me Niënor! This is… not too bad at all."
Thondir burst out laughing and encouraged the others to follow Erchirion's example. Eventually they all drank the cursed concoction, and when they had recovered Thondir ushered them towards the curtained doorway.
It led to a narrow corridor with a trapdoor. Thondir opened it and voices and music could be heard from downstairs. He was the first to climb down the ladder, the others followed one by one.
The basement was a small, damp and stuffy room with a crude stone floor and unfinished walls that had been blackened. A large woven banner depicting a bat was hanging from the ceiling. Candles and torches were burning, not helping the air quality in the slightest but at least shining some light on the two dozen or so people moving around in a delirious dance. Someone was playing the fiddle in the corner; either too intoxicated to hit the notes or purposely playing a screechy cacophony to suit the occasion.
When the new arrivals were noticed, several hooded men and women came to welcome them. Thondir drifted away to join the dance, whereas the others kept a wary distance.
"What possessed you to come here?" Amrothos shouted in Berion's ear.
The poor boy could only shake his head. "Thondir wouldn't leave me alone until I agreed. If I had known what this is… By the way, what brought you here?"
"Faramir's last night on the town before his wedding," Amrothos enlightened him, gesturing at the groom to be who was clearly having the time of his life trying to keep his eldest cousin from falling over.
"Speaking of which," he shouted back at his companions, "would you consider this quest fulfilled?"
Éothain, being the one who had proposed it, nodded vigorously. "By Béma, yes! Let's get out of this hellhole!"
Faramir, feeling responsible for his flock, checked that everyone was there. Three Rohirrim, Berion, two cousins… "Wait, where is Erchirion?"
They scanned the room and spotted a flicker of russet linen in the midst of all the black robes. Erchirion was being dragged into the dance by two women. To be fair, he was protesting a little, but not nearly as much as he should have. Faramir could not resist rolling his eyes.
"He just can't help it, can he?" he muttered, and Amrothos groaned in frustration. Both of them started moving towards him, careful to dodge the dancers and not lose sight of him, which was no mean feat in the general chaos.
Suddenly the music stopped and the dance came to a halt. The crowd parted to allow a man and a woman to get to the centre of the room. They stood hand in hand, holding a small knife each. A bad feeling rose in Faramir's stomach, and this time he could not blame it on the ale.
"Friends," the woman started speaking, "She of the Secret Shadow welcomes you to this sacred gathering. We honour Her by giving our blood so that we shall receive Her blessing. Let the ceremony begin!" She raised her knife and in a sudden movement she cut into the man's palm, and he simultaneously did the same to her. They then raised their bleeding hands to each other's mouths and licked off the blood. Faramir held his breath and looked at Amrothos in disgust.
All of a sudden the crowd erupted in cheers. The people now pulled knives of their own out of their cloaks and turned on each other to engage in the bizarre ritual.
Faramir spotted Erchirion, who stood dumbfounded, staring at his two ladies who were coming at him with their blades.
"Nonononono, don't you even…" they heard him shout, but it was too late. One of the women managed to cut his arm and the other simply bit him in the hand. "Ow! What in all the accursed names of Morgoth is wrong with you people?" He tried to fight them off, but it was two against one and the alcohol was not doing him any favours.
Faramir and Amrothos pushed and shoved their way through the crowd to get to him, but before they could reach him, a deafening battle cry resounded in the small basement.
"Forth Eorlingas!" boomed both the Lord of the Mark and his loyal captain. Éomer lunged forward to come to Erchirion's aid, but Elfhelm, who still had some common sense left, grabbed him by the shoulders. Éomer's muddled brain somehow decided this was a hostile assault, so he turned around and tried to push the marshal off. Elfhelm however, after everything he had been put through this evening, had run out of patience. He threw one punch, leaving it up to Béma to decide where it might land – it happened to land right above his liege lord's eye. Éomer stumbled backwards, collided with Éothain, and they both fell on the floor.
Most people in the room had stopped their mutual bloodsucking to watch the commotion, which gave Erchirion a chance to free himself. He made for the ladder, grabbed hold of his brother, and fled the scene, followed by the rest of the company.
Berion nervously picked a piece of fluff off his sleeve just to have something to do. His story had provoked all sorts of reactions ranging from utter shock and disbelief to amusement.
"So, was it the fire water then?" asked Amrothos. "Is that why we don't remember?"
Berion nodded. "I believe so. I heard Thondir call it a magic potion, but then I was sure he just meant it was strong liquor, or else I would have warned you. Maybe there was some sort of herbal concoction in it? I personally didn't like the taste, so I left it."
"Bloody Thondir," Amrothos growled. "Always bad news."
Erchirion was examining the bruises on his arm with mild disgust when something suddenly occurred to him. "Faramir didn't drink it! So his memory should be fine. What happened after we left the basement?"
"Well…" Berion glanced at Elphir. "We tried to get out as quickly as possible, and you were a bit under the weather."
Elphir cringed. "Here it comes. Go on, it can't get any more embarrassing – can it?"
"I'll let you be the judge of that," Berion snickered. "Sorry! What happened was that on the way through the taproom you bumped into the serving wench and she spilled about three pints of beer all over you. You were absolutely drenched, not to mention the smell! So you decided – at your brothers' suggestion and encouragement, I might add – to take off your wet clothes and put on the dress you were carrying around."
Elphir exhaled deeply and rubbed his temples. "Sometimes I wonder if I should have pushed you two off a cliff when we were children," he said as politely as those words could possibly be uttered. "But I guess I should also thank you for not abandoning me in my sorry state, so we're even."
"No hard feelings," Erchirion gave back. "Oh, and I'm sorry about putting you all into the predicament in the basement, it was thoughtless of me. I do feel partially responsible for…" He pointed at Éomer's eye.
"Not your fault," the king reassured him. Instead he glared at Elfhelm. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
The marshal gave him a blank look. "How about 'You're welcome for preventing a diplomatic scandal'? But you're right, I might have been a bit harsh, and I apologise." He held out his hand and Éomer shook it.
"Excuse me?" Éowyn interrupted them. "This is all very touching, but would you mind focussing on the main issue? Where did you say they went next?" she asked Berion.
"I'm not too sure," he replied. "I went straight home. But there was talk about a flag and the Citadel, I think."
"Imrahil!" Éothain exclaimed. "He said some moron lit the flag post on fire!" At that all colour drained from the three brothers' faces.
"Please, just this once, let it not be our fault," Elphir prayed to the universe at large.
Lothíriel was not even fazed anymore. "Well, what are we waiting for? Onwards and upwards!"
