Written by Angmar
The brazier in Jarl Broggha's great longhouse was glowing brightly, providing light and warmth for the building. The Jarl sat back in his fur-draped chair and looked across the table at his captains as some of his men-at-arms drank from tankards of ale.
"Jarl, I think your decision to promote the fellow Griss to captain is a judicious one. He has proved his loyalty more than once. While he is not one of our most outstanding warriors, the men admire him and look up to him for his leadership."
"Though I will be hard-pressed to find another scout and spy as good as he is, I think it is time that he have more responsibility. The man has a quick mind and good perception. Find another spy for me, Captain. I will pay him well!"
"There is a man - nothing more than a cutthroat and robber - but he is wily, and if he is paid enough, he will serve the purpose." The Captain hoped that the man would be all that and more. "Jarl, let me make him the offer and we will see what he says."
The Jarl reached into a small chest on the table and drew out a piece of gold and slid it across the table to the Captain. "Tell him there is plenty where this came from," Broggha grinned.
The Captain picked up the coin, putting it in the pouch at his belt. Then he rose to his feet and bowed. "I will know his reply by morning."
Broggha rose to his feet, a signal for his men-at-arms to do the same. "The hour grows late, gentlemen, and it is time for me to retire." He glanced to Malaneth, who was clearing the table of the empty tankards.
"Certainly, Jarl, good night to you," the Captain slid his chair back and after more good nights, he and his men departed.
"Malaneth, come sit on my lap." The Jarl pushed his chair back.
"Aye, Jarl," the woman replied, keeping her eyes down as she slid onto his lap and smoothed her skirts.
Pulling her close to him, Broggha held her in a tight embrace as he kissed her neck. "Two days ago I sent dispatch riders ahead to Cameth Brin. They bear a message to King Tarendur announcing that we should be arriving near Cameth Brin in three day's time. I have had a cart prepared to transport you and the wench Aewen. After I have the two of you established in the keep on the lands that I have been bestowed by the king, I might present you to the king's court. Perhaps you will be ladies-in-waiting to the young princess."
"Is that possible, my lord?" Malaneth asked as she felt his beard against the back of her neck. "Will he not know how you... obtained us?"
"It does not matter what he does or does not know. The king is afraid to gainsay me. I am far more powerful than he is," he murmured into her ear as he picked her up and carried her over to the fur-covered bed.
Morva Torch, October 8 - 15, 1347
Written by Elfhild
"I beg that a message be taken to my mother and a woman named Hegga of my village, asking for their forgiveness and telling them that I love them. I ask the Lady Aewen for forgiveness and am sorry that I have brought her more grief."
Kvigr's words echoed in Aewen's mind, and over and over again she saw his brutal death, how he writhed in agony as he was hanged, the bloody emasculation and disembowelment. Though she had fainted many times throughout the horrible execution, still what she had seen would haunt her for the rest of her life. His death was all her fault; if she had not agreed to run away with him, this whole tragedy never would have happened. What was happening to her mind? First she had risked her own life by trusting a man she did not even know in the hopes that she could escape, and then, later, she had attempted to murder the Jarl in his sleep because of some strange compulsion which she still did not understand. Not only had her madness brought the Jarl's anger down on her, but it had also caused a man his life. She wished she was never born.
Though her whole body was in agony √ her back from the whipping, her wrist from the break, and her chest where her skin was seared by the hot metal √ somehow Aewen managed to find sleep that night. A horrible dream came to her while she slumbered. In it, the parts of Kvigr's body had traveled across the miles, leaving trails of blood and gore in their wake. There, gathered before her in the midst of a crossroads, they drew together by some means of enchantment, and became whole once again... if it could indeed be called whole. For where the severed limbs rejoined the torso, the clothing was ripped and stained dark with blood.
Shaking in terror, she beheld the gruesome sight. Kvigr's dead, hollow eyes looked at her with a cold, sickening lack of expression that was somehow all too expressive. Then his mouth seemed to move, and he mumbled out the words:
"I hold you accountable for my death."
Aewen woke up screaming, but no one really cared, save Malaneth.
---
As the cold days of mid-autumn passed, the pain of the many injuries inflicted upon her by her master gradually began to diminish. Each day was spent in suspense and fear, for she did not know if the Jarl planned to punish her further or even kill her, or if he had deemed that he had punished her enough already. Now it was the 15th of October, and still Aewen was alive. Soon they would be leaving this place, and Broggha had spoken of her being a lady-in-waiting to the poor princess whom he desired. It appeared that he had spared Aewen, feeling that she had learned her lesson. For her life, Aewen was grateful, though always would she live in guilt, feeling that Kvigr's death was her fault.
But a nagging worry had unsettled her mind, and she wondered how she would approach the Jarl about this matter. She feared she was with his child.
Morva Torch, October 8-15, 1347.
Written by Gordis
Algeirr was drunk that night. He rarely permitted himself to relax completely, but now was such an occasion. Was it the full moon peering shamelessly at him from the heavens, or the tale about Kvigr's old dam and her grief told in the camp, but something snapped inside him and no amount of booze could quench this unease.
At first, Algeirr was simply angry at the fool who couldn't be trusted to spend one night in Broggha's camp without attempting to steal the Jarl's favorite mistress. He had watched Kvigr's execution unflinchingly, and only worried about his own hide.
As the Jarl had been wounded, the knowledge of healing arts that Algeirr had picked in the Arthedain and Cardolan armies proved handy: he had proposed to wash the wound with infused Kingsfoil leaves. He had a goodly supply of the staff in his backpack and spared quite a lot to regain the Jarl's trust, more than was really needed.
Broggha was a suspicious bastard, no mistake there, so he made Algeirr first try his healing arts on the Jarl's wench, Aewen. When the leaves did wonders for the deep, oozing burns on the woman's chest, the Jarl reluctantly offered his own back to Algeirr's ministrations, but the mercenary had been very much aware of two of Broggha's cutthroats hanging at his elbows with drawn knives.
Then weary days passed one after another. The Jarl seemed not in the least grateful, and affected not to notice Algeirr at all. The mercenary was not given any duties, neither was he promised any rewards. Every night, the feeling of insecurity made it difficult to find sleep, and Algeirr always kept his sword at his side, straining his ears to the sounds of approaching murderers. Not once had he mused about leaving the camp for good, but some deep, ingrained instinct told him, that had he tried to leave, he would be caught and executed the same way Kvigr had been.
Algeirr often dreamed of Kvigr's execution, but in his sleep he felt no indifference as he had watching the event itself; instead, he often found his cheeks wet and his heart pounding fiercely.
So, one week after Kvigr's execution, Algeirr paid his last copper coins for a keg of ale and got drunk alone in his hut, watching mournfully the hilt of the knife he drove deep into the earthen floor in front of him.
It was in this sorry state that Griss found Algeirr in the evening of the 15 of Narbeleth. Griss was clearly surprised to see Algeirr so unmade. He stooped at the door looking down at the sprawled mercenary. Algeirr blinked back with swollen, bleary eyes and motioned Griss towards the keg of ale without a word. Griss shook his head: he was now Captain, and had no wish to gulp cheap ale after sharing good Gondorean wine with the Jarl.
"The Jarl gave me a promotion," said Griss, wondering whether Algeirr still had enough wits left to understand him. "I am to be one of his Captains, and you will be the head of the scouts, in my stead, if you so wish."
With that he flicked the golden coin the Jarl gave him.
Algeirr's hand shot out and gripped the coin in a fluid gesture. Griss was startled by such agility in the drunken man, but then he roared with laugher.
"I see no amount of ale may quench your lust for gold, my friend," Griss said good-naturedly. "Cheer up and stop this nonsense. We are going to a place where all our lusts will be satisfied, be it for gold, fame or fine wenches! We ride to Cameth Brin on the morrow and let the Tarks tremble at our approach!"