Chapter 19: Unceremonious
"Northerner," Drust breathed. "Ye have to sit still. I cannot concentrate on my work if ye keep moving." He was perched over top of Feredir, who was tied down to the cot, making sure he could not move his limbs as Drust smeared ash into the wounds he was cutting into Feredir's face.
Feredir flinched as the man cut another line into his cheek. He could not have imagined a duller blade that he could have used for the scarification process. "How much longer, Drust?" Another line came and more ash was pushed into the cuts. He struggled against his bonds at the pain, almost wishing he had not agreed so quickly to the practice of marking their King. He felt blood drip down and well in his ear, a feeling that was not very comfortable. He could feel it leaking into his hair as well.
"We will not be done for a long while. We mark our Kings from crown to heel. It needs to be done all at once, so say the tradition." He moved down to Feredir's neck, making a quick nick. "I could ask another to join in the cutting if ye'd like." Two cuts and more ash. "However, we may not trust another."
Trying to still his body, Feredir muttered out, "I am not completely sure that I trust you."
The Dunlending barked a laugh. "Then ye would be smart, Northerner." He moved to the other side of his neck, making similar marks. "I wouldn't even trust me woman with a knife near ye. Quite fond of Wulfric she was." He wiped away ash and blood from the cuts, trying to check on his work. He clucked a noise of disapproval and cut another line.
"Then is she fond of the fact that it was a plan of your own design, to kill Wulfric?" The pain with each cut began to wane as he started to train his body that it was not as actually painful as it was. He felt a need to close his eyes to concentrate, but he kept his eyes trained on Drust, still quite wary of the man.
"The only person me woman's more fond of than Wulfric is me. She wishes to see me sit on that throne ye occupy. Has since we were wee ones. And I do wish to please me wife." He moved further down his body. "Do ye know anything about pleasing a wife, Northerner?"
Feredir paused at the question. He had not wanted to tell Drust about Coran, afraid that he would find her and hold her hostage to get what he wanted. It was weighing heavily on his mind since the news that she was passing through the Dunlending territory came. But he feared that his hesitation gave away more than he had originally intended. Resolving to tell the man of Coran, he cleared his throat slightly. "I do have a wife, a woman from my village. We were separated quite soon after we were married and I have not seen her since."
"Ah. I sense that ye left things with yer woman… what's the word… open-ended. No, that's not right. Incomplete. Ye left things incomplete." Thunder broke in the distance and shouts sounded all over the encampment, declaring to prepare for shelter. Feredir was glad that the chaos and noise that accompanied the oncoming storm did not break Drust's concentration. One bad move and…
He frowned, causing the wounds on his face to tingle in pain. "She has moved on in life after our separation, tending to her duties and responsibilities to our people." He elaborated no more, wishing to rid himself of the conversation. However, he could not move and would not be able to move for a long time, which made him an easy target for Drust's interrogation.
To his surprise, Drust did not push him further. He watched Feredir grind his teeth as he cut near more sensitive parts along his stomach and said, "Tell me of her. It'll take the pain away."
"I'm not exactly sure how to describe her." he admitted blankly.
With a barking laugh, Drust encouraged him, "Come on, lad! Sure ye do! What's her name? What did she smell like? What about her had ye smitten?"
"Smelled like?" The North King's mouth twitched into a small smirk. "She smelled like the North: of earth, pines, and furs." He laughed as he recalled a time that she had barged into his house covered in mud and pine needles, her hair sticking up every which way and her clothes muddied and disheveled. She had told him that no matter how much he needed them to get better, she was never going to collect pine branches for him again as she recounted her tale of falling into a groundhog hole and falling flat on her face.
"And what's the lass's name?"
"Coran. She was named after her father, one of the most respected clansmen in our village. She was born the night he returned from battle victorious and so claimed his daughter a tribute to victory. Coran the First had always wanted both of his daughters to follow his path in life, to be the sworn protectors of our village and blood. My Coran did not follow that. She became a healer and that is how I fell in love with her. She tended to me everyday for many months."
"Is that her duty now?"
"Yes. I'm sure it is." He groaned as Drust forced him to flip over to decorate his back, the new position putting unwelcomed pressure on his cuts.
"Apologies, Northerner," Drust mumbled as he made fresh cuts. "We are almost done… if ye only count yer top half." He laughed at his own joke, slapping Feredir on his uncut shoulder. "Hopefully, we'll be done before dinner. I'm a tad famished meself."
The man from the North just grunted in agreement, trying not to feel the pain that was rising. Feredir found that the pain resonating within him was not only from the wounds that Drust was making, though. It was from thinking of Coran, and his desire to hold her, to run his hands through her hair, to kiss her lips and her forehead, and to love her. She had been so young, and although the pain of Calithil's passing had burdened her, she still carried fervent love for life in her heart. He could not bear the thought of knowing she had lost some of that love with a sweep of a sword and a perilous journey. All he wanted to do was flee the clutches of the Dunlendings and track her down and save her from a womb of dark places and dark thoughts. Like he always had.
The tent entrance loudly flapped open. "Drust! Cadeyrn demands judgment of the Northerner," Medb burst through, speaking hurriedly in Dunlendish. "They've learned ye're making the sacred cuts and many cry heresy!" Medb flowed with pent up energy, constantly checking behind her, a hand firmly gripping the sword at her side. "They've gathered a crowd."
"Is what ye say true, wife?" Drust snapped at her, a storm building inside him to match nature. "Would Cadeyrn be so foolish to disrupt the Cutting?" As soon as he had said it, he heard the low chanting in the distance carried by a few dozen people. He quickly cut Feredir free, allowing the man to take in what was happening.
Feredir watched his mind work as Medb moved closer to the entrance of the King tent, listening for the footsteps of usurpers. "They could be calling for lifeblood," she said in heavily accented Westron. "They may not be satisfied until someone has been drained."
"I am vulnerable with these cuts! I should not fight." Feredir commented.
"Ye may have no choice, Northerner," she spat. "Drust, if we do not take him for judgment, they will call for our lifeblood!"
Suddenly Drust made eye contact with his wife, a plan formulating quickly. "If it came to a challenge, what weapon with Cadeyrn choose?" When she did not answer him, he asked again more aggressively, "What will he choose, Medb?"
"He will use a dagger. What use…" Drust silenced her with a hand, allowing him an extra second to think. He searched around his tent, taking inventory of what they had.
"Grab that," he ordered Medb, pointing at a long, dark vial on the shelf. She brought it to him. "When the time comes, we will pour that on a weapon and it will slow Caderyn's movements. However, I doubt that it will come to pass. Caderyn loathed Wulfric everyday of his life. Maybe he will like the Northerner." He gave an uncertain chuckle at the thought. "Regardless, we need to prepare him. Go inform the crowds of our coming." Drust waved his wife off and she disappeared between the tent flaps.
"Who is this Caderyn?" Feredir asked cautiously as Drust began to prepare him, throwing a wolf's fur cloak over him.
The Dunlending began to crush a black rock in a mortar and adding water to the dust. "It's not who he is. It's what he stands for. He is the clan leader for more than half of the Dunlendings and if he made a move to challenge us, he would have almost unanimous support. He is the most respected man amongst us, our best general. Wulfric could not control him and had frail rule because of it. We best hope he approves of yer reign." He smeared the black paste onto Feredir's face, creating an intricate pattern across his skin, mirroring the cuts he had received.
When Drust had finished, he offered Feredir his sword and pulled the tent flaps aside so that they could pass through. The Northerner grabbed the sword and strapped it to his waist and moved through the tent entrance. In the growing cold of the impending winter, he wished that the cloak would have offered more warmth and that Drust would have thrown him a shirt as well. Yips and yells sounded as the crowds spotted him and they swelled about him, urging them onward towards Caderyn.
As the number of people increased and the calls became deafening, they came before Caderyn. He was a mountain of a man, dressed in bear's hide draped across the massive expanse of his shoulders. He stood about a half a head taller than Feredir, who often had to entertain remarks on how tall he was. What was the most disconcerting about the man was not the similar markings and cuts, but the dead eye that sat in a bulbous socket that was heavily scarred over. Caderyn waited until Feredir entered the circle that the Dunlendings created to speak. His Westron was less accented and broken than many of the other Dunlendings Feredir had come across. "They say you beheaded Wulfric the Fearsome."
Feredir did not answer as Caderyn's eye surveyed the map of his body, studying his stature, the markings, and the cuts. After a long uncomfortable pause, something he found in his searchings made him crack a large smile. "I always hated that bastard. Well done, Northerner."
He did not share in Caderyn's joy at the death of Wulfric. With a tightened mouth, he thanked him for the complement. "I appreciate that, especially coming from one as storied as yourself. Pray, tell why you have called these crowds."
Caderyn's mouth twitched into a smirk as he strode more closely to Feredir. "It was to see who the man behind the North King is." He turned away from his King and walked towards Drust and Medb who stood off to the side. He eyed them carefully as he stated. "I bring news as well from Orthanc. I wish to be of council to the North King." He swivelled around, fixing his eye on Feredir.
Tension eased in Feredir's shoulders and in the grip on Drust's sword. He regarded the man before him and then the crowds about them. With an inaudible sigh, he said, "If you offer council, then I shall receive it."
Caderyn moved before him and dropped to one knee, a move that caught Feredir off guard. Before the crowds that gathered about them, he announced loudly, "I, Caderyn the Eagleslayer, pledge service and allegiance to the North King for as long as he shall rule. My sword, my blood, and my life are the devices of the North King and are bound to his word." With his one eye, he stared Feredir down, almost daring him to contradict him or make one wrong move. "Hail North King!"
The thunderous echo sounded as the people gathered shouted "Hail North King!" Caderyn rose and clapped Feredir on the shoulders. He leaned in and murmured, "I can sway them with a word. They may be pledging allegiance to you, but you know their loyalties lie with me." He leaned back and commented more loudly, "I am glad you are taking my council. Now come, we have much to discuss!"
x~x~x~x~x~x~x
"So the proxy that Wulfric sent to convene with Saruman is dead? Killed by our own men?" Feredir sat uncomfortably in the throne in the King's tent. He was naked except for a well placed length of fur over his lap as Drust continued the Cutting, working down his thighs. Caderyn stood before him, giving the report from Orthanc.
"Yes. The proxy promised Wulfric's head to Saruman as well as the scalps of many of the Forgoil. Such treasonous words ended with him being drawn and quartered. Saruman has since heard that our leadership has changed and is now requesting that the North King himself have an audience with him, not another proxy."
Feredir frowned at the man's words. That would mean uprooting the encampment and moving South towards the Gap of Rohan if not closer to Isengard. Such an act could be considered an act of aggression towards the Rohirrim or the Forgoil as Caderyn called them. It would look like they would be trying to seize and settle on the land that they were pillaging in the Westfold. It was a political and territorial act that could result in a full fledged war with the Rohirrim, something he did not have the men for and something that could cost him any means of healing the divide between the two nations.
"And if we sent another proxy? What then?"
Caderyn gave a short chuckle at the thought. "The Wizard will send hordes of Uruk-hai and wargs as he brings the mountains down upon us. I do not think it wise to disobey him at this moment." Feredir caught his gaze and the man smirked. Feredir felt as if he was trying to convey that he wished to betray Saruman when it was more advantageous. He wished he could trust the Dunlending more.
"If we are to move camp, we might incite the Forgoil-" he watched Drust and Caderyn react positively to the use of the word. "-to war outright with us. From frontline reports, they have not been striking back against our burning of their lands."
"They will always strike at us." The murmured comment came from Drust like floodwaters oozing up and swallowing life. The darkness that came with his words felt suffocating and Feredir found it engulfing him as Caderyn voiced his agreement. The resentment and hatred was an endless abyss between the two peoples and he knew that now. He had heard the stories the Dunlendings shared around the fires: talk of stolen lands, women taken and raped, and children murdered. The stories he was told as a child held not even a sliver of an account from the Dunlendings and so he had not known how wounded they were with the allocation of Rohan to Eorl. But now he knew the horror that had befallen them.
"Then it is only a matter of time," Feredir concluded. "We die at the hand of Saruman or the Forgoil. I like our chances better with the Forgoil." His frown deepened, his brow furrowing. He did not like that he was forced to make such a move. But he had convinced himself it would be better to make the move and to meet with Saruman. Less people would die... at least he hoped. "In the morn we will send word to Saruman and to the camp. We will make for the Gap of Rohan." He hissed a little as Drust sliced at his feet and smeared ash into the sensitive cuts. Closing his eyes, he wished the Cutting and his rule to be over. He wished the war to be over.