Just before midnight, October 7 1347
Written by Rian
Ceruvar, having obtained Eryndil's permission to bring out his harp, carried it over to where Caelen was huddled next to her brother, taking his time and making sure his approach was seen by her so as to not startle her. He bowed and addressed her respectfully.
"My lady, we are soldiers, fighting to protect home and family and things of beauty that evil would mar, were it left unchecked. While we are far afield, music reminds us of these things, and encourages and sustains us. Therefore I respectfully ask your permission to play for the men, though it is only with a soldier's rough hand on the strings."
Callon, sure that his sister would still be too traumatized to answer the man, started to reply, but to his surprise, his sister checked him.
"I ... I ..." She gathered her courage and forced herself to answer. "Far be it from me to check any of your well-earned pleasures," she answered with only a slight tremor in her voice. Noticing how he had to lean in closer to hear her voice, which was far weaker than normal, she clenched her fists and shook herself slightly, forcing herself to speak up. "Please feel free to play for the men. I owe you my life for your service to home and King; please don't let my presence check your pleasures ..."
Her voice faltered, and a cold wave of fear shot through her body as she thought of the pleasures that the brigands had wanted to take with her. "No, no, they will not win!" she thought to herself angrily, and forced herself to continue.
"I mean, please do whatever you would do normally - I don't want to hinder you in any way, especially after all you have done for my brother and me. But I thank you for your courtesy in asking my permission."
She stopped awkwardly, angry at her uncouthness in front of this man, but she didn't know what else to say and thought more words would only make it worse.
Ceruvar, seeing and understanding her distress, saw the heart behind the halting, awkward words and understood the uncouthness was due to her recent trauma. He bowed again, thanking her graciously, and returned to the men.
"Good for you, Caelie!" whispered her brother. "Don't let those brigands win! Fight it and come back! I know you're strong - stronger than those cowards are. To attack a woman!" He stopped, too angry for further words.
His sister, exhausted, leaned back against him, and he covered her protectively with his cloak. They listened to Ceruvar's playing, which was far better than his modesty had claimed, and their bodies slowly relaxed as the music flowed around them, blending with the night noises. One of the men started singing along softly as Ceruvar started another melody. His voice followed the melody at first, then wove in and out and all around it in a merry dance as the melody grew more lively. As he and Ceruvar finished with a flourish, the men laughed and clapped softly, complementing the two musicians on their skill.
Eryndil laughed along with his men. "If you two keep that up, you'll have the very trees dancing!" he teased. "But I'm afraid that we're too far afield for dancing right now, and it's getting late - why don't you finish up with a quieter piece, and then we'll draw for first watch."
Ceruvar nodded with a smile, tuned a few strings to change the harp to a minor key, and started playing an ancient and beautiful lullaby. Callon felt his sister sigh and slowly relax into his body.
Suddenly the night was rent with a terrible scream.
Caelen's heart leapt into her throat. She felt she couldn't breathe, she couldn't see - all she could feel were cold hands, evil hands, grasping and pawing and hurting her, touching and rending and fouling her innermost body and soul, pulling her down to hideous depths... She began frantically fighting to get away from the arms...
Callon gasped and felt his body go cold all over. His nerves and muscles went numb; his sight blurred. He felt something close to him struggling and knew in the back of his mind that he needed to hold on to it tightly, because it was precious and he had to protect it, but it was as if he was watching his body instead of commanding it, and his arms stayed limp and lifeless. He suddenly felt the cold air against his chest, and saw though a mist the precious thing escaping. Stumbling to his feet, he grabbed at it - at - wait, his sister! what was wrong with him?! - and managed to catch the edge of the cloak that he had fastened around her.
Caelen screamed again and fought like a wildcat to get away, but her brother had his senses back now, and he wrapped his arms tight around her from behind, pinning down her arms. "Caelen, it's me! It's Callon, your brother! Don't fight, sweetheart, it's ok now," he urged into her ear, and then caught her as she collapsed.
North of Morva Torch, Night of October 7, 1347
Written by Angmar
The only sound to disturb the silence of night was the distant hooting of an owl as the small party of horsemen rode along the trail. Riding beside the standard bearer who proudly held aloft the staff of the black and red Angmarian banner, a horseman called out a halt and drew rein. The other men silently regarded him as the chief ambassador stopped his horse and listened. There had been a shifting of the forces of magic. Someone had called upon the same power that he himself had invoked so many times.
"A dabbler," he thought, amused. "A mere novice who seeks to call upon that which he does not even understand." He began to visualize a distant form around whose body rose the smell of blood, sticky-sweet and cloying. "Who is this untaught person who dares to call upon the ancient arts?" More importantly, for what was this unknown person striving? A look of anger convulsed his handsome features.
The image of a dagger... the vision took firmer shape in his mind. Old and rusty... Suddenly it was smeared with blood. He tried to see the murky image in his mind more clearly... at whom was the dagger directed?
Then the veil parted and instantly he could see a huge, tall red-bearded man - Broggha! The dagger portended death. The man unsheathed the sword at his belt and drew a symbolic circle about his horse and himself. He began to chant in an ancient, archaic tongue as he sliced deeply across his left forefinger and let the blood drip over the ring that glowed on his right hand.
"Not by my power, which is nothing, but by the power of the Darkness, which is all and from which all things came, I call upon the Two Lords of Darkness!"
He waited for a few moments until he felt the power infuse his being, permeating each component of his body's makeup and filling him with the energized malice that, when fully invoked, could turn a rational man mad.
"I beseech the Mighty Ones to halt the flight of the dagger in its path and to ward with protection the one for whom the blade was intended!"
At that moment, Broggha rolled away from the dagger that had been meant for his heart. Through the swirling ethers, the ambassador heard the piercing shriek of a woman, and sensed the melting of metal as the dagger was consumed in a bright flame. The dark cloaked figure screamed his anger into the night, a dreadful sound which made the blood run cold.
He had been almost too late! If he had not sensed this attack and stilled the magic which had unleashed it, all of his plans would have been for naught.
Now, he concentrated his power towards the doer of the deed. His gleaming black steed pawed the ground, winding the night air. The stallion had caught the scent of a mare in heat, her smell borne along by the night air. The stallion's eagerness was stilled with a soft word from his master. Such attunement to the beasts around him brought a comfort and was often quite useful.
The man listened as the owl called again. Down below the bird, a small mouse scampered along the ground as it searched the rich harvest of autumn seeds. The owl dipped down and caught it in his claws and flew back to his perch, where he tore the small creature to tattered fragments of bleeding flesh with his beak. In the man's mind, he could see the bits of fur, the blood and entrails as the owl relished his meal.
The man smiled as the blood-covered image of a woman - the nebulous vapor of a crown suspended in the mist above her head - materialized in his mind.
"A woman," he chuckled, "but who is she?" He would discover her identity, and when he did, she would pay for this audacity!
Cameth Brin, night of October 7, 1347
Written by Gordis
Power flowed so forcefully through Gimilbeth's body that it slammed her against the wall. Her thoughts in disarray, her vision dimmed, she couldn't recall the last incantation, aimed to tear her mind free from the contact with another.
Gimilbeth crawled back to the table and groped blindly for the book, but her fingers, sticky with blood, only met the stone and the bodies of the frogs. Her mind was flooded with paralyzing fear and unbearable anguish.
Suddenly the pain came. She felt her right hand crushed by invisible fingers, then the skin between her breasts started burning, as if scorched by a hot iron.
Tears ran down her cheeks and she moaned in pain, clutching her bosom, but the pain only intensified. The Nine lights were dancing before her eyes in a spinning circle. With a shrill cry Gimilbeth collapsed on the cold stone floor.
When, an hour later, she resurfaced from a pool of murky darkness, it took her a few minutes to realize that the last wave of pain had left her body. She got to her feet. The candles were still burning and by their light she was able to read aloud the last spell. Only then she allowed herself to relax.
She examined her breasts. The skin was unblemished and the breastbone seemed whole as well. Puzzled and relieved, Gimilbeth decided to dwell on the problem later. Now she took off her blood-stained shift, tore a clean strip from the hem and dipped it in a kettle of warm water over the brazier. Using the wet cloth as a sponge, she carefully washed away all the blood from her face, body and hands. Then she swept the table and flung the bloody rags, carcasses of the frogs and the dead cockerel into the fire and watched as they burned, sitting naked on a stool by the fire.
The pain had been bad, but it seemed to her that the spell must have worked. Over leagues and leagues of forest, over swift streams and broken crags she had reached the dirty Barbarian in his lair. Now Broggha was dead, and that alone was worth all the suffering.
The corners of Gimilbeth's lips slowly turned up in a smile. The welcome heat was warming her frozen body. The next time she would be better prepared. The next time she would learn all the spells by heart, she would never forget a single word, whatever happened. That there would be a next time, Gimilbeth had not a slightest doubt.
She had tasted Power and, though seasoned with pain, its taste was sweet.
Morva Torch, Night of October 7-8, 1347
Written by Elfhild
Thankfully, Aewen remained unconscious for the duration of the old shaman's dance, for surely a sight would have only frightened her even more. When she did awake, it was to the sound of screams. Vaguely, she wondered who was screaming. Then she realized it was herself.
One of the Jarl's men was holding her down by her shoulder and arm on the side opposite to her broken wrist, while the other was setting the bone. Shrieking, she struggled and writhed in pain as her bones were pulled back in place. Though the night was chill and, despite the brazier's fires, the long-house was cool, Aewen broke out into a sweat as a raging fire raced over her naked body. The agony was too much for her to bear and once again she fell into a swoon.
It was near dawn when she awoke again, her mouth parched with thirst. Her wrist was splinted and bound up tightly, and the ointments upon her brand were greasy, the sheet clinging to them. Where the skin had been seared the most, she felt the least pain, for the intensity of the burn had squelched the feeling in her skin. However, the edges where the heat had not been so great burnt as though a fire had been kindled within her flesh. All her body was burdened with weariness and her poor, mangled wrist was aching.
"Water," she moaned weakly, and Malaneth, who had been keeping a restless vigil, quickly fetched her a draught, holding the cool liquid up to her lips.
Aewen wearily recalled all of the night's events. Had she gone mad? Truly it was folly to attempt to kill the Jarl, and she had paid dearly! What had possessed her? She had wondered that at the time the strange urgings had come over her, and she wondered it even now.
Possessed... she had certainly acted as though some fell spirit had taken over her body and moved it about without her consent. But such thoughts were absurd. It was she who was responsible for her own actions, and her misfortune could not be blamed upon anyone but her and her futile attempt to escape.