TA 1347, September 22. Early morning.
The stablemaster's house on the Tanoth Methed estate, Kingdom of Rhudaur
Written by Rian

"Wake up, wake up, it's time to go!"

Caelen slowly opened her eyes. She looked up at her brother, blinking hard and trying to make sense of what he was saying. Callon grinned, despite the tension he felt, and shook her again.

"Sleepyhead! You never could get up!"

"Did I fall asleep, then?"

"Obviously, or I wouldn't be waking you!"

She sat up suddenly as her mind awoke to the situation. She shot an anxious look at her brother, which he answered with a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"He'll be asleep for a while yet," he said grimly, jerking his chin towards the great house. "He came stumbling home roaring drunk just a couple of hours ago."

Caelen was somewhat reassured, but still got up quickly and put on her riding clothes. Her brother waited quietly, keeping watch out of the window.

"I'm ready now," she said, and he turned to her and gently placed the cloak he had been carrying in his arms around her shoulders.

The brother and sister mounted their horses with the ease of long-time riders. Callon took the lead rope of the third horse that was carrying some supplies, and they rode quietly down the lane, away from the great house.

"So, where are we going?" asked Caelen when it was safe to speak. "Not that it matters much, as long as it's away from ...," and she made the same movement with her chin towards the house as her brother had done earlier. She had never liked speaking that name, and liked it even less since the news that her brother had brought back to her that afternoon.

"Well, let's see ... where are we going? Let's just say we're going to seek our fortune, like in the stories of old," Callon answered with an effort to sound cheerful. "How does that sound?"

"Fine with me," his sister replied with a little smile. "It might take awhile to find, though," she continued with a sigh, "we've had very little of it lately! At least the good type," she added grimly. "So, what direction shall we start looking in?"

"Let's ride by our goodbye-hill so we get a good start, and then just give our horses their heads for a bit," suggested Callon, although he had a very good idea of where he wanted to go, and intended to unobtrusively help his horse go that way if it didn't head there by itself. He had faint memories of a sister of his mother who lived near Cameth Brin, and some merry cousins - it would be good for his sister to be around family again.

Caelen nodded, and they rode in silence until they reached the top of the hill that overlooked their former home. There was no need to rein in the horses; they paused there from long custom.

"Good-bye," said Caelen softly, looking down at the charred ruins of the house as if the well-loved family were there again, smiling and waving up at them. She sighed, and then turned towards the tree under whose spreading branches that family now lay. "Good-bye," she repeated, and bit her lip to keep the tears back.

"Good-bye," her brother echoed, and clenched his jaw. He raised his hand in salute, and then turned his horse eastward, heading towards the faint streaks of light that were just starting to break through the darkness.

Two weeks later (Morning of October 5, 1347) in North-Western Rhudaur.
Written by Gordis

Five dangerous-looking men were camping by the bank of the Morva River. Their unkempt hair and long untrimmed beards spoke of long days in the wilderness. Men's clothes were worn and faded, except for the darker spots on their chests and sleeves where apparently some badges were formerly attached. However, their long swords and bows looked to be well tended, and even in camp, each wore a vicious-looking dagger attached to his belt. Three horses were tethered nearby.

Algeirr, their leader, sat with his back to the trunk of an oak-tree, wearily watching his companions. Kvigr and Gunni had a kettle boiling over the fire, while Uffi and Meldun were skinning a young deer the men were lucky to shoot for breakfast. The company were half starved after their long hike all the way from Northern Arthedain. The country they crossed was flat and barren, there was little food to be found and the way-bread they have stolen from their garrison mess was finished long ago.

Algeirr sighted and scratched his scalp. His long matted gray-brown hair was crawling with lice...Perhaps he should wash it with that Kingsfoil plant, which his haughty commanders revered so much. "At least one learns useful things serving those Tarks..." Algeirr thought chuckling.

Their six-year service in the Arthedain army proved a disaster. There was very little to gain guarding the Arthedain border at Rhammas Formen on the North side of the North Downs. No enemy in sight, drills day and night, and haughty condescension from their tall Dunedain commanders. And no girls... the squat dirty Lossoth women not counting. One must be really desperate to go for them...

Algeirr swore and spat, aiming at a little buttercup, but missed.

So, one night, not waiting for the end of their ten-year contract, he and his mates from Rhudaur, quietly slipped away from the camp and headed home across country, making for Nothwa Rhaglow. Algeirr grinned. There they have stolen three horses, not enough for five men, but it still allowed them to take turns riding. Now they traveled faster.

"Come, Algeirr! The stew is ready!" called Kvigr, the youngest and the liveliest of the bunch. He was a fine lanky lad, good-natured and clever for his age.

Algeirr's mood brightened considerably. He rose and joined the company. For a long time all were silent, gulping down the stew ravenously. When their hunger was sated, the one-eyed Uffi got out a half-empty bottle of golden root liquor and sent it around. Old Meldun produced his flute and started a merry tune. The others joined in a chorus, frightening birds and squirrels in the trees nearby.

Algeirr got away and sat on the bank of the stream halfheartedly chewing a piece of meat impaled on the tip of his long dagger. He had led the company home safely, but now he had to decide on a course to take. Joining the King's army was appealing to him little. He had more than enough of the Tarks, curse them. Going home to his native village in Eastern Rhudaur hasn't ever occurred to him. His parents were dead, and he cared little about his siblings. Let them look after themselves.

Finally he decided to stay in the camp till dawn, allowing his men and horses to rest, then cross the Morva and head for the city of Penmorva. Algeirr had been in the fortress several times, perhaps he would find something to do there. He had a buddy in the Count's guards, perhaps he would help. If not, then there were always roads, and there were travelers on the roads, and the travelers had money. Algeirr laughed. One only had to ask...

Broggha's camp at Morva Torch, October 5, 1347, late afternoon.
Written by Angmar

Griss, scout and spy for Jarl Broggha, was just returning to the sheltering trees surrounding the camp where Jarl Broggha had set up his temporary headquarters.

Not that it was even easy getting back to the camp, for the Jarl insisted upon the greatest of security measures. Heggr, who had been hiding amidst the underbrush, had slithered behind him somehow. Unaware of his presence, Griss had been surprised when he had found Heggr behind him, his knife pressed to his throat.

"Why did you do that, Heggr, you fool?"

"Because, you idiot, you were crashing through the forest like a runaway horse. I could not help but hear you!"

Heggr was enjoying Griss' distress. Heggr was tempted to have a little more fun by letting the knife slip a little. Griss' tunic was as filthy as the rest of the men, and a little bit of blood would hardly be noticeable.

"I will say one thing for you, Griss, you managed to get by the sentry without detection. You are never supposed to do that, you know."

"I just wanted to see if he was alert," Griss snarled, definitely uncomfortable with that knife pressed so close to his jugular vein.

"Sure," Heggr replied in that condescending way he had.

At last Heggr sheathed his knife, but Griss felt like punching the man a good one in the face. He would refrain there, because the Jarl had ordered, "No trouble in the camp, or answer to me personally." No one wanted to answer to the Jarl personally because the giant, red-haired, red-bearded man had a violent temper. One look into the Jarl's piercing blue eyes was enough to chill the blood in many a man's veins.

"I have to get back to my outer patrolling duties, but you go on in."

Heggr had the irritating habit of sticking his finger in his mouth and digging at a tooth that had gone bad. He was doing it at that moment and Griss didn't like it. It would be doing him a favor to knock that rotten tooth out. Maybe, Griss thought, if Heggr kept doing that, he might knock all his teeth down his ugly mouth.

When Griss walked into the clearing where the camp was, the Jarl was just coming out of the doorway of his makeshift shelter of logs. Griss could hear loud weeping inside.
"Sounds like Aewen crying again," he thought. "The Jarl likes to use her hard, and when she complains, well," he smiled to himself, "he beats her. Just what he should do with her, fine airs and all... says she has noble blood, some kin to the Rhuduarian king. She will learn better sooner or later, or he will beat her to death."

Maleneth, the Jarl's other thrall, was tending to the bubbling soup pot. As Jarl Broggha passed, she looked up at him uncertainly, almost cringing, preparing for a blow that never came. The Jarl walked by her with no more concern than if she had been a fly.

Not that they weren't both fine looking women and any man among them would like to have either as thrall... but they were both Tarks. If a woman like that should chance to take your sword some night... Griss didn't like to think about that. The Jarl had no trouble with either one, though, though Griss knew that both women loathed the leader. After all, there wasn't much left of their village after he pulled that raid a couple years ago.

"The Jarl knows how to treat women," Griss thought to himself, proud of his leader, the chieftain who had risen to great power among the hill men. They would do his bidding , follow his orders without questioning. Griss smiled in satisfaction.

"What news?" the big, red-bearded man asked. The Jarl was much taller than Griss and he had to look up to him.

"Jarl, five men camped a few miles up the way... renegades, deserters from the army, maybe. They had a few flea-bitten nags, nothing worth taking. For that matter, they are nothing but transients, vagrants."

"Did you hear any names while you were listening in?"

"Yes, the leader's name, Algeirr. Kvigr, a young lad, but no more. To get any closer might have brought me a lot of trouble."

The Jarl grinning one of those one-sided smiles of his, and you never knew if he was in a good mood or a bad mood. You just had to take your chances. Griss hoped that the information had been pleasing, hoped for his own sake. The Jarl had a nasty side sometimes, and he did more than just beat a man senseless... Griss didn't like to think about that volunteer who had displeased the Jarl. Broggha had ordered him skinned alive. Griss could still hear the man screaming in his mind, but after a while you got used to things like that. They didn't bother you at all.

"Maybe these men could be used. You never know." The Jarl still had that one-sided smile and Griss felt uncomfortable. You never knew when he smiled like that. "I want you and Heggr to take them a little gift... a keg of ale. Talk to them a while. See what their grievances are. Ask them how long it has been since they have seen real silver coins. Do not emphasize the silver. You know that, Griss."

The Jarl was looking at him with those cold blue eyes and Griss felt a shiver of fear run up his spine.

"You know I won't Jarl. I won't say anything stupid. I will just let them know easy like that you might, just might... be looking for some good men."

The Jarl turned and looked back to Maleneth. "Worthless woman! Is that stew ever going to be cooked! Go on now, Griss. I need to deal with her."

Waiting for Maleneth to serve him his meal, Jarl Broggha sat upon a wolf pelt-covered section of log in front of the makeshift hut which comprised his temporary headquarters. The Jarl was expecting some very important guests from the North, and he had a number of kegs of ale which he felt should impress them. He was impatient for his food to be served, and his impatience showed when he rose to his towering height and bellowed, "Maleneth! Where is my food?" When the Jarl was angry, his voice was quite strident and carried far beyond the perimeters of the compound.

Walking into the clearing followed by two other serving women carrying platters of food, the stately, full-figured Maleneth approached the Jarl and inclined her head. Scowling at the women, Broggha accepted their offering. Though his hunger for food and drink was soon appeased by the ample quantities of venison, stew, bread, autumn fruits and ale, his appetite for the woman had begun to stir. He pulled Maleneth fiercely down to his lap and kissed her greedily. Knowing what was in store for her, the lovely woman sighed in resignation and accepted his caresses.
His intentions, however, were interrupted by the arrival of two of his soldiers.

"Jarl," the spokesman explained hurriedly, "the men that you were expecting have arrived!"

Giving Maleneth a push off his lap, the Jarl rose to his feet and turned to the soldiers. "Bring them to my lodgings as soon as possible."

"Yes, Jarl, it will be done as you have ordered." The men bowed and left.

Broggha stood in the doorway to the hut and frowned at the three women. "Much rests on this meeting, so give my guests anything they want."

The Jarl inhaled deeply of the brisk autumn air and saw all Rhudaur spread open before him. He would not always be fighting other chieftains for territory or living in huts in the woods. Someday he would be titled, landed and married to the king's own daughter and establish his own dynasty. Perhaps Maleneth and Aewen could be her ladies in waiting. He laughed to himself.