Recommended listening: Glière — Symphony No. 2
CHAPTER XXI: AGDÎ
Long before the company waded through the outskirts of straw huts and gained the outer wall, utter chaos rose up. The city's guardhouse was wholly abandoned, its heavy gate smashed inwards and hanging upon its hinges. As the riders passed over the moat and through the damaged archway, shouts and other sounds of battle washed over the scene, but Truva's companions did not appear perturbed; they merely continued on, grim-faced.
They sped along flagstone streets, ascending a gentle rise towards where the tallest towers were clustered at the crest of a low hill in the very centre of the city – though these stone buildings were slight in comparison to those of Minas Tirith, and even Pelargir and Dol Amroth. Small fires flared here and there along the wide thoroughfare, yet went largely ignored as Easterling warriors raced about, regrouping and trying to quell the conflict where it still raged on along the side streets.
Between narrow lanes flanked by buildings of wood or wattle and daub, the crash of weapon on shield and the flash of armour revealed where the fighting was thickest. As the small company of riders continued to ascend, the leader gave a series of shrill whistles, and each time a small contingent would separate and turn along the next byway. One such whistle spurred Truva's own guard to divert suddenly down a side street between a smithy and cobbler. She had no choice but to follow; those around her rode so tight as not to leave a single inch of freedom.
Within moments, they found themselves confronted by a horde of Orcs, who had solidified their position within a butcher's shop and now threatened with gleaming knives and cleavers any who dare approach. At a barked order from the rear guard, all three of Truva's companions dismounted, then turned as one to stare at her. Even without a single word spoken in any language, their meaning was clear: join us.
Perhaps these Easterlings were once her enemy, having stood opposite her at the Battle of Mundburg or Morannon – yet on this very day, Truva had been viciously attacked by Orcs, whereas the Easterlings at least afforded her the opportunity to live on; they did not even disarm her. It was apparent where her best hope of survival lay.
Truva swiftly slipped from the saddle and drew her blade.
Under a smattering of arrows, the motley quartet of Men dodged into the residence across from the butcher's shop, causing a great disturbance amongst the inhabitants within. Disregarding their shouts of distress, the guard called out what were most certainly orders; yet ignorant of their language as she was, Truva could not follow them. She darted to the window and cleared it of glass with the pommel of her sword – which must have been the very orders the Easterling had commanded, for at once the others did likewise. Then, drawing their bows, they trained four arrows upon the butchery and leased.
Three Orcs fell. But before the others could redraw, Truva extricated a black-fletched arrow from where it had become lodged in the daub-wall behind and nocked it to her bow. A fourth Orc fell.
Truva's companions turned to look upon her with growing consternation, but she paid them little mind. Abandoning all pretence of long-range combat, she raced up the dwelling's stairs and clambered onto its roof, taking shelter behind its ridge. From there, it was no more than a short jump to the neighbouring building, then the next, and the next.
As soon as she was out of sight of the melee, Truva snuck into the mercer's shop beneath the roof she occupied. But even as she descended the stairway, an Orc thudded up it – though he could not raise his sword in time to prevent the front kick that sent him tumbling head over heels back down. Not even the sound of clanking armour could disguise the sickening snap that left the Orc motionless at the bottom of the stair.
Leaping over his still form, Truva moved into the main shop, weaving between bolts of linen and worktables. To her immense fortune, the Orc had been alone; even the alley beyond was abandoned when she peered out the windows. Bracing herself momentarily, she darted across the narrow street and into the weaver's shop opposite unaccosted, mounting the stairs once more. Then she crept, roof by roof, back to the site of the conflict, keeping always to the rear, away from the street.
In the butchery's upper floor, the attention of three scouting Orcs was directed ahead; they had eyes only for the Easterlings, who continued to assail the shop from a now gently-smouldering residence. With secrecy on her side, Truva made quick work of these scouts before circumventing two more that awaited on the stairs by slipping over the railing and down to the lower steps. Four Orcs were dead at her hands before the remainder were even made aware of her presence by the strangled cries of a fifth.
Then Truva suddenly found herself the focus of nearly two dozen Orcs, who all turned to stare at this intruder – yet in that very moment, the trio of Easterlings burst in through the front entrance, having taken advantage of the distraction she provided. In the ensuing chaos, Truva snatched a bonesaw from its hook upon the wall and snared the arm of the nearest adversary within the loop; capitalising on his forward momentum, she folded the Orc's limb against his chest before dragging the saw's serrated edge across his neck.
When a second Orc swung at her, she trapped his sword also and, in one circular movement, removed his head with her own blade.
Extricating herself from the tangle of bodies, Truva turned to defend against the next onslaught. But the only sight she faced was that of the Easterlings and a single Orc they had strung from the ceiling beam, upon which meat was typically displayed. Even as she watched, the Easterling leader scavenged a crossbow from the hands of a slayed Orc and, taking great care and consideration, fixed a bolt. He levelled the crossbow at his victim's midsection with evident glee and loosed the arrow. The Orc went slack against the ropes that bound him.
But their work was not concluded. With Truva in tow, the Easterlings ducked back out into the byway and gathered their horses, who lingered exactly where they had been left. Rather than leap back in the saddle, however, the party continued their ascent towards the central district on foot, lending strength where pockets of conflict still raged, or joining water brigades to finally extinguish the fires, or assisting residents to right their homes along the way.
Slowly the pandemonium ebbed around Truva and her companions, and they eventually found themselves upon the crest of the central hill. There stood a wide, cobbled square, surrounded by merchant shops and elegant homes. Silk curtains fluttered in windows which opened onto circular balconies, each crowded with opulently-garbed onlookers peering down onto the milling crowds below: a teeming throng of soldiers and less prosperous villagers alike, all desperate to glean what little information was to be had.
Faced with this impassable multitude, the Easterling leader hitched his mount to a post just beyond the entrance of the square and gave yet another deafening whistle. The villagers turned to discover its source before immediately parting to make way for him. Through this cleared path he strode as both Truva and the other Easterlings scrambled to tie their horses and follow.
Upon the eastern side of the square rose a terraced dais, with a throne of golden filigree and blue velvet placed on the very topmost tier – yet it was unoccupied. Only on the penultimate step did the Easterling leader who had first confronted Truva stand, his posture stark and unmoving. He had removed his helm to reveal sharp features and long, unbound dark hair – though a single streak of white cascaded down one side.
Below him, a dozen riders had gathered, clustered a short distance from the dais' base. Truva's party joined this congregation, and were soon followed by the remaining riders, demarcated by blue doublets covered in armour bearing embellishments of a golden colour. A great many other foot soldiers proceeded to amass about them, distinct from the riders by the unadorned silver armour they wore.
Despite the unceasing chatter of ordinary citizens and the continuing sounds of recovery emanating from the streets beyond, the soldiers remained silent and immobile. Tension seemed as if to radiate from their bodies, forming a stormcloud that threatened to thunder down upon them. Still, even as their numbers swelled, they did not look about or speak amongst each other.
Loath as she was to draw attention to herself, Truva was equally curious about her surroundings. With as little movement as possible, she cast her eyes across the shopfronts – tinkers and coffer-makers, drapers and bakers – and the wealthy residents that crowded balconies above. All the ladies were dressed in short linen jackets and colourful, ornate skirts of silk flowing from chest to toe-tip, jewels glittering upon necks and woven into braided hair.
As Truva's eyes travelled about the square, they turned southward, where the clear line of a secondary street revealed a vista which caused the breath to catch in her chest:
The great Sea of Rhûn! Its seemingly endless expanse was bathed in the fading periwinkle light of sunset, a beauty rivalling that of her first glimpse of the Bay of Belfalas.
The sight recalled to her mind the feel of Aragorn's arms about her, his whisper against her ear as he revealed they had come at last upon the sea – how long ago it seemed! How very different her situation! In that moment, Truva could not help but wonder what circumstances he now found himself in, and hoped desperately they were more optimistic than her own, laying as she did at the mercy of these Easterlings and whatever their obscure purpose was.
Her ruminations were shattered by the sounding of a trumpet. All at once, the mood of the gathering shifted; the chatter grew louder and notably more cheerful, and the crowd's press abated as many residents began to depart the square, drifting back into shops and along side streets. The soldiers maintained their position and silence, yet an ease overtook their posture; shoulders sagged slightly and stances were relaxed.
Then the leader stepped forward and beckoned towards Truva's company. The ranks of soldiers parted sharply and the three Easterlings stepped forth, two before her and the third shoving roughly at her back. When they gained the dais, one knocked at Truva's calves with the butt of his spear, forcing her to kneel upon the bottom tier, though still they did not bind her hands or force her to bow.
The sharp marble edge bit painfully into Truva's shins as she stared blankly up at the empty throne. The leader's tone was sharp and acerbic as he addressed her companions, voice loud enough to carry across the entire gathering of soldiers and those few citizens who lingered, drawn in by the promise of a show.
The first Easterling responded with equal volume, and when he had concluded, the second added a few brief words.
The leader then turned his piercing gaze upon Truva. After a time he spoke at her, asking what she could only assume was a question based upon his inflection. But of course Truva could not answer what she did not understand.
'Deepest apologies,' she said in Westron, 'but I am unfamiliar with any dialect of Easterling. Do you perhaps speak the Common Language?'
There followed a tremendous gasp, then utter silence. All eyes bored into her, filled with a mix of fear and fascination, hatred and curiosity. The leader descended several steps until he stood just before Truva.
'The Common Tongue?' he said incredulously, drawing his scimitar ever so slightly from its sheath. Frenetic whisperings rippled throughout the crowd. 'What business does an Easterling have with such a vulgar tongue?'
'You see by my armour I am no Easterling,' Truva replied.
The leader's head inclined slightly, as in disbelief of what his eyes and ears told him. 'You merely wear a fine suit stolen from our gaol on your escape!' he asserted. 'Deserters are shown little mercy in these lands, as you are well aware; yet Óddîr and Yestîl report a fine demonstration of duty upon your Second Breath – would you throw away the opportunity of a commutation for such unabashed lies?'
'I speak no lies, milord—'
'Noyon,' interrupted the leader.
'I beg your pardon?'
'My title is Noyon, and you will use it at all times when you address me. You feign ignorance convincingly, traitor.'
'It is not feigned, Noyon, and I am no traitor,' Truva insisted. 'I come from a distant land called the Riddermark – perhaps you know of it as Rohan, whose people you stood in opposition to during the War of the Ring—'
'Cease your prattle!' the Noyon cried suddenly with a swing of his scimitar. 'Never have we marched against the West! Your words grow more treasonous by the minute!'
Yet even as he spoke, a messenger pushed his way through the throngs and mounted the stairs of the dais. The Noyon bent his ear to hear the soldier's whisperings, then straightened with a nod. A peculiar expression passed across his face.
'A strange boat has washed upon our shores,' he said. His tone was even and he spoke softer than before, yet in some way he felt more threatening for his composure. 'If you can describe to me this boat in detail, I shall consider allowing you to live a single day more – perhaps to explain yourself and your presence here.'
Truva's mind burst into furious activity; surely it could be no other! Words cascaded from her mouth uncontrollably: 'Is it not hewn from a single trunk of an ash tree, bearing the markings both of Dwarf and Elf? For its origin is that of the Woodland Realm and of Dale, by which path I came. Its prow bears the likeness of a mountain prominent in that region.'
The Noyon stared at her for a great length of time, the crowd hanging upon the very silence itself. At long last, he sheathed his blade and cried out a command in Easterling. Óddîr – or perhaps it was Yestîl – leapt forward and bound Truva's hands behind her back in a way she had never experienced since her days in the Hidlands. She fought down the rising panic; she was in no position to defend herself.
The two then marched her around the dais, followed by a dozen additional soldiers. They made for the eastern side of the square, where the streets were moderately wider and boasted increasingly ostentatious shops and residences. Soon, these gave way to expansive compounds, the walls of which extended the length of three ordinary houses, then five. Through latticed gates Truva caught glimpses of lush gardens and life-sized statues, though the guards were swift to face her forward again.
When the company rounded a tight bend, the low wall of a compound – larger than any they had passed – rose up directly before them. Four guards flanked the ornamental gate, two of whom stepped forth to salute Truva's escort as they drew near. The parties exchanged a brief greeting before the gate was opened from within.
As Truva was marched through, the remaining soldiers peeled off and proceeded along the northward branch of the street, leaving only three to enter the compound. They were not alone, however; guards stood at regular intervals all about the inner stone wall, or upon pedestals along a gravel path lined with stepping stones. Even in the gloam of late twilight, they could be spied betwixt carefully maintained branches of azalea and black pines, hosta and hydrangea. They were posted at the entrance and each corner of a single-storied wooden hall, which was raised slightly from the ground upon stout blocks.
Truva nearly tripped as she stared up at the palace's green lattice walls and scarlet pillars, floral and geometric paintings adorning its curving eaves and narrow veranda. Vines of wisteria, boasting faint purple blossoms, tangled along the rooftop and twined down its columns to droop over low stone steps, carved with the likes of Smaug and his ilk.
Latticework doors slid aside at their approach, admitting the small company. Within, they were greeted by a veritable army of servants, all dressed in the same loose silks Truva had spied earlier. Their faces fell immediately, disheartened to find it was a mere suspected traitor who had come, and not the Noyon himself. They all dispersed swiftly, save the youngest, who led the three down a central corridor until they came to a door on the left. The servant boy slid this open to reveal a modest hall beyond.
'Sit,' said Yestîl (or, at least, the soldier who had not bound her before), thrusting her towards a low table. There were thin square cushions on the wooden floor. Seeing no alternative, Truva took a seat upon one. When she was settled her two escorts assumed positions amongst a series of other guards standing around the room, and spoke no more.
Taking advantage of the sudden quietude, Truva allowed her eyes to roam the hall. She looked admiringly upon the intricate pearl inlay of camellia and swans splayed across the table before her, the delicate golden embroidery of the silk cushions, the murals of mountains and waterfalls in all four seasons upon the walls. Every detail spoke of an extravagance she had only ever witnessed in the greatest cities of Gondor.
Her inspection complete yet still alone at the table, Truva strove to slow both her breathing and mind. Minutes lapsed into an hour, then a further quarter before the doors to the hall slid open again. Truva glanced up in anticipation, much like the servants that had greeted her, but it was not the Noyon now, either. Instead, a stream of servants carried in tray upon tray of tiny ceramic bowls. These they arrayed upon the table in a honeycomb pattern, more than thirty in all: various kinds of soup, braised beef with quail egg, steamed bream upon a bed of clear noodles, marinated crab, smoked pheasant and – most peculiarly – morels sauteed in a fragrant oil, and dried pike.
Delectable smells wafted up along tendrils of steam, tantalising Truva's starved belly. She turned her thoughts back to nothingness in an attempt to stifle the urge to consume each bowl in one mouthful. Yet it was not long before her composure was interrupted again, for at long last the Noyon burst through the door and threw himself upon the floor opposite Truva.
'So,' he said, drawing back the billowing violet sleeves of the gown he had exchanged for his armour, and washing his hands in a bowl of water offered by the young servant boy. He then reached immediately for the bream and, using only his fingers, took several flakes and placed them atop a bowl of rice. 'You claim to come from the West.'
'That is correct – though it is no mere claim,' said Truva. She did not so much as glance at the food; she knew to precede an invitation could prove disastrous, and the Noyon did not appear tempted to grant one.
'I suppose that explains why you are so handy with horses.' He piled seasoned spinach on top of the fish and proceeded to take a delicate bite. 'Óddîr thought it would be quite clever to give unto a deserter our most temperamental mount – imagine our surprise when Zaĭsan became like a lamb beneath your touch!'
'It is a skill learned to me by the Riders of Rohan.'
'Still, it is mystifying how one so similar in appearance to us would come from that golden-haired people.'
Occupied as he was in rending a crab's leg from its body, the Noyon could not have noticed how entirely still Truva became. A great many things became clear to her then: that her appearance was the reason she had been mistaken for a deserter, and perhaps the reason she even came under the Orcs' attack in the first place. What marked her as 'other' in Edoras – the dark hair and its white streak, the sharp cheekbones, the short yet pointed nose – made her unremarkable within the borders of Rhûn. Only full battle-armour and insignia had prevented similar mishaps during the War.
The Noyon continued on, oblivious to Truva's consternation as he poured a milky white liquid into two bronze bowls. 'What other proof of your proclaimed identity do you have to show? These are yet words any learned Man might offer.'
Truva cast her eyes across the table, and from a sudden urge spoke in Eorling: 'I know that the morels and pike you dine upon were discovered alongside the canoe – though how they survived the rapids I cannot say.'
The Noyon's gaze followed her hand as she pointed out the mentioned dishes, then fixed intently upon her. 'What is your name?'
'I am called Truva, Second Marshal of the Mark.' She could not help but allow the warmth of pride tinge her voice as she spoke these words, reverting once again to Westron.
The Noyon merely continued his scrutiny of her, the deep brown of his eyes a reflection of Truva's own.
'I have only heard this language once before,' he said after a time, 'and did not expect to hear it again so soon – or at all. Yet it is distinct enough for even my untrained ears to recognise it as that of the horse-lords.' He then handed her one of the bronze bowls and said, 'Drink, and eat. The mushrooms are particularly good.'
Ravenous as she was, Truva did not await a second invitation. She mimicked the Noyon in each of his movements, first washing her hands then delving dish by dish into the delicacies presented before her. Even as she ate, the Noyon turned to Óddîr and Yestîl and spoke at length with them in Easterling.
'Why is it that you chose to fight alongside the Easterlings in our city of Agdî today?' he asked of Truva during a lull in the conversation with his men. 'If, as you claimed earlier, you believe us to have been your enemy during the War?'
'It was not the Easterlings alone we fought against; we were at odds also with the Orcs, who continue to harass the borders of many Western kingdoms even now,' Truva explained. 'And significantly, I found myself the target of the Orcs' ire before I ever encountered you.'
'Thine enemy's enemy,' the Noyon murmured. 'But what is your purpose here? You are no statesman; Óddîr claims you fight with the skills of a masterful warrior – climbing in from the butcher's roof and slaying at least half a dozen Orcs by your own hand before his men could aid you.'
'A warrior becomes a statesman with every sweep of his blade,' said Truva, 'though he regrettably speaks louder in times of war than in times of peace.'
The Noyon pursed his lips. 'That is no answer.'
'I seek my past,' Truva revealed at last. Overcome by sudden emotion, she sought to hide her discomfort by bringing the bronze bowl of milk to her lips. The Noyon rushed to raise his own in synchrony, and they both drank deeply – though Truva was left spluttering and choking.
'What is this?' she cried, peering into her cup.
'It is wine made from our purest silk rice,' smiled the Noyon. 'Is it not to your taste?'
Truva took a second, more circumspect sip. 'On the contrary, it is like nothing I have ever tasted – yet not unsatisfactory.'
Dubious, the Noyon made a gesture to the servant boy, who slipped out and returned immediately with two pitchers, one steaming and the other bearing condensation on its side. The Noyon poured the first into a tiny cup, and the second into a bowl similar to that of the wine.
'Do not cease your story,' he commanded.
Contemplating how best to proceed, Truva delayed further by sipping from the first, tiny cup. She recognised its contents as tea – though far more pleasant than any of the medicinal varieties that had been forced upon her in the Mark – and so took another sip.
'You were correct in noting that my bloodline is not that of the Eorlingas,' she finally answered, allowing the hot tea to soothe her throat, ragged from battle. 'I heard rumour that perhaps I might find answers out East, and so to Rhûn I came – only to be mistaken as one of your own from the very start.'
As the Noyon mulled over this information, Truva reached for the second bowl of liquid, finding it very similar in appearance to the rice wine.
'It is a sweet rice beverage – not spirits,' said the Noyon, observing her. Truva took a cautious sip, but as he said, it was wholly dissimilar to the wine and quite refreshing.
'Perhaps this is an issue to bring before Morinehtar,' the Noyon murmured.
'Beg pardon?' Truva questioned, still rather distracted by the spread before her, selecting next a whelk dish.
'Our preeminent leader,' he explained. 'Perhaps you made note of the throne remaining empty during our congress in the market square this evening. This is because Morinehtar often resides beyond the walls of Agdî, in a palace of his own making. He has a great many duties to oversee, and thus only comes amongst us when times are most desperate.'
'They were not desperate today?'
The Noyon threw back his head and laughed heartily. 'I daresay not!' he scoffed. 'The conflict between Easterlings and Orcs regarding the waters of Ulāngól is long-standing; we had no need of guidance or oversight for such a cursory spat.'
Truva grew introspective a moment before asking, 'As I have answered your questions, perhaps you might answer mine?'
The Noyon studied her for a good long while, as if weighing a thousand different variables in his mind – not least of which was whether or not to grant her the opportunity to question him.
'If you wish to ask of our role in the War, or the nature of our conflict with the Orcs, I think perhaps it is best you wait to speak with Morinehtar – for he knows of these things far better than I,' said he. 'As for your bloodline, I can offer you no perspective; your best hope lies, again, with Morinehtar.'
It seemed the variables had not fallen in Truva's favour.
'And where might I find this Morinehtar?' she asked.
'East,' said the Noyon, rising from the table. 'Far to the East, to the furthest shores of Zünuur, where lies the fortress Karkürem. But you are not rested, and it is late. Let us retire and discuss such things in the morning.'
'But what of the food?' asked Truva. 'It is a terrible waste to leave so much uneaten.'
'My mouth is short; I eat lightly, to leave all the more for those who come after.'
As he escorted Truva from the hall, Óddîr, Yestîl, and the other guards descended upon the tiny dishes. When Truva glanced back to spy the young servant boy scrambling for the dried pike, she felt tremendous guilt for having consumed so much.