Written by Gordis
Gimilbeth didn't cast her spell the first night, but postponed it to the next.
In the evening of the fateful day when she learned of the Council's decision, she had more time to read the black book, and she became aware that she lacked important things needed to cast the chosen spell. A dagger she had, as most of the high-born ladies did in such troubled times. She didn't have black candles, but settled to paint the ordinary ones on the surface, using the kohl cream she usually prepared for her make-up.
But there were worse things: she needed three frogs and a black cat to kill during the ritual. The cat, as Gimilbeth found out to her immense relief, could be substituted by a black cockerel. Gimilbeth doubted that she could ever kill a cat, even if a kingdom were at stake. She thought she could manage to kill the frogs, though.
Fortunately it was raining at midday on the Seventh of Narbeleth, so Gimilbeth caught the three frogs in the garden herself. She had sent Nimraen, her Gondorian maid, to the market to buy the black cockerel. The faithful maid, hearing this strange request, managed not to flinch, but Gimilbeth was sure that now loose tongues would start wagging with renewed vigor.
By the evening, everything was neatly arranged in Gimilbeth's still-room in the Palace basement. At eleven, Gimilbeth dismissed her maids for the night, and, dressed only in her thin silken shift and a heavy cloak, descended to the still-room.
The room was cool and dark, filled with the sweet scent of herbs. A drying rack hung from the rafters. The large marble table in the middle of the oblong room served as a workspace - it was now empty, but for the nine candles. Another table by the wall contained the still for distilling potions, a mortar and pestles for grinding, a balance, silver and wooden bowls and plates for sorting and mixing of herbs. The shelves lining the walls displayed a collection of jars and bottles with tinctures and oils - all neatly labeled by Gimilbeth's own hand. The fire in the corner was banked low.
Gimilbeth felt nervous and elated. The little black book opened a whole new world to her, a dangerous and exiting world full of shadow and power, a world where her ancestors on the mother's side felt at home.
She thought of her mother and of Inzilbeth's grief and shock if she could see her daughter now. Inzilbeth was one of the Faithful, or had become one, once she met Tarnendur.
But what about her grandmother, Lady Serinde? The black book was ancient, but it contained lots of more recent marginal notes and additions made in different hands. Gimilbeth was shocked when she recognized her grandmother's hand, Serinde's unmistakable flowery script. So Serinde practiced Black Magick, perhaps she had even been initiated in a Black Temple...
Gimilbeth shivered imagining her haughty noble grandmother lying all naked on a black altar, lit by nine candles, while the black- robed priest bathed her body in blood. Was it human sacrifice? Gimilbeth supposed so. She knew that even with the Great Temple destroyed, dark rites hadn't stopped at Umbar.
What a pity she hadn't been initiated when she still lived there! But it couldn't be remedied now. There were no black altars in Rhudaur and no Dark priests to conduct the rites and give her a new sacred name in the Dark Tongue, the name to be kept forever secret. Now anyone could weave a counter-spell against her, as her names were known to many. She only hoped there was nobody familiar with Black Arts in Broggha's surroundings.
Gimilbeth lit the Nine candles on the stone table and discarded her heavy cloak. The room was cold and she shivered in her thin shift. Cringing inwardly, she took out her dagger and killed the three frogs, intoning the customary prayer to the Dark Lord and spilling blood over her hands and bosom. Then she took the trussed cockerel and slit its throat, intoning Broggha's name and the spell that would reach him over the leagues.
Gimilbeth's heart pounded wildly and her fingers trembled. She started to feel dizzy, the smell of blood cloying and revolting in her nostrils. She felt her mind expanding and making contact with another...The intensity of anguish and hate in this other mind was like a physical blow...Her vision dimmed, the room disappeared, only the Nine lights floated in the darkness...
Swaying on her feet in exhaustion, Gimilbeth raised the dagger and plunged it downward into the cockerel's breast, while crying out the last words of the spell.
She could have sworn she felt someone's fingers around the hilt beneath her own.
Morva Torch, Evening of October 7, 1347
Written by Elfhild
At last evening had come, and night had brought an end to the weary day. With the help of Malaneth, Aewen somehow managed to do all her tasks, the preparing and serving of the meal and the cleaning up afterwards. Her back throbbed with a fury and every movement was agony.
But her duties were not over. Though she still suffered from the beating, Broggha would not grant her any mercy when he dominated her with his vicious passions, and he was even harsher with her than usual. When he had finished his brutal assault, she lay beside him, sobbing into the rough coverlet on the straw-filled mattress. While the heartless monster slipped off into the serenity of sated lust, Aewen cried out her anguish, gasping until she thought she might die of suffocation. At last the fit of weeping had passed, and she collapsed in exhaustion, not moving for some time and hardly daring to breathe.
She had such hopes of escape, and now she was even more trapped and miserable than ever! True, it was foolish even to consider escaping, especially with a man she did not even know. Kvigr could just have easily used her a while for his pleasure, and then killed her, disposing of the body somewhere in the woods. No one would have missed her for long.
Whether Kvigr's intentions had been pure or not, she would never know now, because the young man had been sentenced to die. The Jarl would not even grant Kvigr mercy by giving him a speedy end, but insisted on prolonging the torture until at last death claimed the poor fellow. Aewen's fist clenched the coverlet. Broggha was a cruel tyrant, ruthless and treacherous, a truly evil man! Oh, how she wished that someone would kill him!
Then the thought came to her √ "Perhaps I should do the deed..."
But what was she thinking? Surely he would kill her this time if he caught her attempting such madness!
She felt her arms reach up, and then her hands lifting her torso from the bed. Slowly, she rose into a kneeling position beside the prone form of the sleeping man. Her heart began to pound wildly and her fingers started to tremble. There the Jarl was, his eyes closed in peaceful repose, his chest rising and falling, his lips twitching foolishly as he snored loudly.
What was she doing? Had she gone mad? It was as though someone else was controlling her mind, her body! One leg slid from the mattress and then the other followed it as she rose to her feet. Her heart was beating so fast that she could barely concentrate. She felt herself moving towards her cloak, where she had hidden the knife that Kvigr had thrust into her hands in the midst of the desperate fight. Soon it was in her hand once again.
Turning, Aewen looked towards the sleeping man. Everything in the long-house was still as a tomb; the fire grew low and silent in the brazier. Her stilted movements were almost lazy as she approached him, the knife-hilt held tightly in her clammy palm, her knuckles growing white from her relentless grip.
Almost before she had realized what had happened, Aewen found herself standing beside the little bed, the knife raised above the Jarl's heart.
She swore she felt the pressure of an invisible hand upon her forearm as she brought the sharp blade downward.
Morva Torch, night of October 7, 1347
Written by Angmar
The throngs cheered and called out his name as Broggha made his triumphant entry into Cameth Brin. His steed was resplendent with its fine leather bridle and saddle, the caparison hanging down gracefully over the horse's haunches. The streets were narrow thoroughfares which were choked with dust in the summer and mud-filled morasses in the rain.
Though none of his men were accomplished musicians, still their horns rang out, impressive though discordant. The drummers kept up a constant rhythm that throbbed to the pace of a human heartbeat. The sound intensified as the procession turned a corner. Broggha beamed and waved as the crowd shouted out his accolades.
He turned towards the right and saw Aewen among the crowd. Her lips were turned up in a blood-covered smile.
"No!" he cried, waking up immediately to see the flash of firelight on a knife poised above him. He did not move quickly enough, though. Rolling his body to the side, he bellowed in pain as the fiery agony of the knife cut a bloody path across his shoulder blade and back.
Furious and in pain, he rolled off the bed and on his feet. His back felt as though a fiery serpent had crawled across it, and his blood dripped down over his back and onto the floor. The woman backed away from him, her knife gripped tightly in her hand and thrust forward.
"Give it to me, Aewen!" he commanded.
"No, no!" Her eyes looked feral in the light of the brazier.
He rushed towards the woman, easily dodging her misdirected attempts, and grasped her small wrist in his great paw, wincing as his wounded side clutched her shoulder. Bearing down his great strength, he heard the crunch of bone as he viciously shook her wrist back and forth. The knife thudded with a doleful sound on the floor. Broggha quickly released the woman, hurling her back on the bed as he bent down and picked up the knife.
"I should kill you!" he roared as he walked to the brazier. The knife was old, uncared-for and rusty, and as he held the blade to the fire, some of the fragments of rust burnt off. Still, when he had finished, the knife's blade burnt red.
He bent over Aewen and looked into her terrified eyes.
"You will never try to kill me again!"
She screamed as she felt the flat part of the fiery metal singe a trail between her breasts. By the time he had finished branding her, she had swooned. He tossed the knife into the brazier and walked to the door. Opening it, he shouted into the night, "Men! Hasten to me! I have been wounded!"
The Jarl's angry roars of pain and rage had awakened the whole camp. Sleeping off the night's drunkenness, many men awoke confused. Thinking that the camp was under attack, they rushed to grab swords, axes and clubs, only to feel foolish when they discovered their mistake.
Griss, in spite of the ale he had consumed, had not slept well, and was one of the first to reach the Jarl. He found the leader still on his feet, in spite of the blood which he had lost. Broggha sat down on a bench as Malaneth brought wet cloths and pressed them against the torn flesh on his back.
"Summon the shaman!" Broggha ordered, and two men rushed off to fetch the medicine man. Soon they returned with the grinning little man, who immediately went to the Jarl. Prying and peering at Broggha's shoulder and back, the little man cackled and muttered a spell. Packing the deepest wound with a wad of cloth holding a mixture of bear fat and herbs, the shaman then bound Broggha's back. Imploring the strength of the bear to aid in the healing, the old man touched the necklace of teeth around his neck. The Jarl sat back on his bench and called for a tankard of ale.
Looking towards the bed, he harshly bit out, "Is the woman still alive?"
"My lord, yes," Malaneth replied, "but she fell into a swoon from which she has not awakened." Aewen, who had been covered by Malaneth, lay soundless upon the bed, her face ashen.
"See to her, old man," the Jarl barked out gruffly.
As Malaneth held the lantern over the bed, the old man turned back the cover. Looking up, the light of the lantern making his eyes glow with some fell lustre, he cackled, "A perfect dagger mark!" The old man began dancing about the bed, swaying and chortling, and babbling gibberish.
Malaneth felt sick to her stomach when she again saw the hideous burn between Aewen's breasts.
"Will she live?" Malaneth asked gravely.
"If my dance pleases the spirits that dwell in the earth, the air, the fire and the water, she will, but if not, she won't!" the old man laughed and merrily danced about the room as he mumbled.
"Her wrist is terribly swollen!" Malaneth gasped.
"Just set the break, then splint the wrist and bind it. One of the men can surely attend to that matter. You don't need a shaman for something so simple as that!" The old man exclaimed as he concluded his dance with a fierce roar, flailing the air with a stick carved with magic signs and the image of a bear.
He raced back to the table where he had left his herbs and jars. Coating the sacred magic stick in the ointment, he rubbed it over the seared flesh on the woman's chest, and with Malaneth's assistance, he applied a light dressing on the wound.
Griss wondered if they were only patching the woman up so she could be brought before the Jarl's justice. He pondered whether the Jarl would execute a woman or not, a practice which was seldom done. Though she had been marred by her ordeal, still her face was left beautiful. "It would be a shame to kill her," he thought.
One of the workman who had been laboring all night on building the gibbet was escorted into the hall.
"Jarl," he bowed - then wondered if he should address him by the title of "my lord" - "the gibbet will be completed by dawn."
"Let me know when it is finished," Broggha said, adding, "Aewen will watch the death of her lover, if she has to be tied to a chair!"
Malaneth looked sadly down at her friend, and wished that she had been successful in her attempts to kill the brute.