The Dark Mage of Rhudaur

by AliceNWonder137

Inspiration taken from the MERP Dark Mage of Rhudaur. My aunt gave me the books and the stories that she wrote to update and make my own so thanks to her. The Witch-King has recruited a dark mage to unearth a secret of Morgoth in his quest to destroy the Kingdoms of the North. But first, he must destroy the last of the Dunedain in Rhudaur.

3. Dagar's Redemption

Notes - Introducing some characters from The Thieves of Tharbad. I'm hoping to really show the terror of the Blood-Wights.

Carn Dȗm, Fall, 1406

In the wake of their success, the mage halted any further exploration to consolidate and assess their situation. He even had the orcs clean parts of the tunnels and established quarters for the miners. Ethacali spent many days learning how to communicate with the two Blood-Wights. They were fascinating creatures, who were wholly evil. As the mage's control over them increased, he grew more bold. Soon, it would be time to bind Blogath herself. He had to admit that he was still afraid to venture into her chamber. But, like the man of learning that he was, he studied them in intricate detail to glean any advantage that he could.

Delving more into the tome, he continued to learn more about the Blood-Wights. It almost seemed as if the tome added new portions of text as he progressed. "Was this chapter here before? I do not recall such," he said, scratching his white beard. "They survived the War of Wrath and hid in Eriador until the middle of the Second Age. They formed an alliance with the master as he subverted and destroyed Eregion. Sacrifices were made to the master until the men of the land revolted and bound Blogath in this dungeon. Now, the Lord of Angmar wants her."

With the orc shaman, Grashur, beside him, they entered the chamber where Naranantur and Skrykalian were bound. They walked in and Ethacali scanned the walls of the chamber, just to get his bearings. The orc gazed at the nude figure of Skrykalian, a smile on his twisted lips. The mage could empathize. She was inhumanly beautiful and it had been too long since he had been home. Still, his vows meant something to him. "Don't even think about it, my friend. They are for the Lord of Angmar." Grashur grunted his disappointment, but kept his distance from the Blood-Wight.

Ethacali approached Skrykalian and noticed that her skin was less translucent than when he last saw her. There was a rosy hue to her cheeks, outlined by her coal black hair. He couldn't help but touch her on the cheek. She opened her eyes, silver, with catlike pupils that widened and then filled most of her iris, nearly making her eyes black. She smiled, a smile that dug into the mage's heart. Her face then wavered and changed and he was now looking into the eyes of his wife, her warm, golden eyes framed by curly brown hair.

"Ethanya? What are you…? No. This isn't real." He summoned his inner power and put his hand on her chest. "I see through you, Skrykalian. You cannot fool me."

In an instant, Skrykalian's face returned to that of a Noldorin woman, pointed ears poking out from her black hair. "Is this not what you want, Ethacali?" she said, using his name for the first time. "I am here for you. I am your servant. Do with me what you will," she said, a soft moan escaping her lips. The mage could feel her will probing his mind, uncovering secrets. "Unbind me and I will be everything you desire."

His hands shook but he raised an arm. "Obey me, Skrykalian. Tell me of Blogath."

She struggled against the binding rune, unable to move more than a little. There was a moment where her face twisted in frustration, but then became serene again. "No matter," she said sweetly. "I am of no use to you like this and you control me completely. You will come to see the wisdom of releasing me." She moved her arms to let him see more of her body.

Ethacali looked away as Skrykalian grinned. "Blogath. Tell me about her," he demanded.

"First, tell me about your wife. How is she? Is she lonely? What of your children and grandchildren? If we're going to be allies, I want to know more about you." The mage could feel her burrowing into his memories. "You seem like a good, family man," she added, and he looked back at her.

"I…I am. My wife…she's…No! No! Stop! I am in control. Blogath, tell me of her now," he said, losing some of his cool. He reached out and grasped Skrykalian by the face. "Tell me!"

It was his wife's voice that answered in his native Logath. "You're hurting me, Ethacali, please, you're hurting me."

The mage leapt back and put his face in his hands. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry Ethanya. I didn't mean it! It's the stress. I'm under so much pressure! I'm sorry."

"It's alright love. I forgive you. I know," she said and, with effort, she extended her hand and put it on the mage's white hair. "All is forgiven."

He grunted and raised his head again. He felt the hot flush of embarrassment. He had revealed far too much of himself to her. "Enough Skrykalian. No more games. Tell me about Blogath."

Skrykalian giggled, a sound far too similar to his granddaughter's laugh. "I was just teasing, Ethacali. Very well, I suppose you have earned your reward," she said as if speaking to a child. "You have surmised that we are the children of Thuringwethil and Blogath is our eldest sister. You see, we understand family as you do. We are not so dissimilar, you and I. Perhaps we could just sit down and talk like civilized people."

"So, you are vampires?"

She gave him a half hearted expression, her face scrunched and one eye narrowed. She seemed so normal, like a normal person. He was tempted to give in. "Hmmm, vampire is such a simple term," she explained. "We are also wights, half in the real world, half in the spirit realm. You were correct in using 'Blood-Wight.' I would warn you though, that my sister is full of deceit. Do not trust a word that she says. I am, however, honest to a fault. You can trust me."

Ethacali felt stronger, more confident now. "That trust must be earned," he said, "and you have not yet earned it."

She made a mock sad face with a deep frown, and she slowly raised her hand up and rubbed a knuckle near her eye. "That makes me sad, Ethacali. See the tears? I am your path home. You will see. We will become the best of friends."

The mage raised his arm. "That will be all. Return to your slumber, Skrykalian," he said as he poured his power into reinforcing the binding rune. Translucent tendrils around the Blood-Wight began to constrict and she winced.

"Please Ethacali, this is too tight. I will be good. Just bind me to the wall there. I'm not going any place."

He pointed at her and, with his will, moved her to the wall. "I don't want you to be uncomfortable. Is that better?"

Bound to the wall, she spread her arms and legs, letting him see all of her. He looked away again. "Much better," she cooed. "Now, please say hello to Er-Mȗrazôr."

He narrowed both eyes, questioning.

Skrykalian sighed deeply. "Oh, my dear mortal mage, the original name of the Lord of the Nazgȗl. He was a prince among the Númenóreans. He was the son of Tar-Ciryatan. Oh, my child, you really must learn more about history. Now, off you go and dream of me," she said in a sultry voice.

Ethacali walked away, feeling shamed at the encounter. The Blood-Wight had clearly gotten the better of him. He shook it off. It was only a momentary distraction. When he had bound Blogath, all doors would be open to him. And, he had made some distinct progress.

"It is time to report my success to the Witch-King. I leave for Carn Dûm tonight," he told the orc shaman, Grashur, "You are proceed no further down the corridor until I return."

As winter approached and the flurries began to fall, Ethacali set out to tell of his victory. Returning to the fortress city, Ethacali braved the snow and frigid temperatures. As the mage dismounted and entered the fortress itself, steam floated from his warm body. At the long hall into Carm Dûm he was met by a disturbing sight. A horrid beast, part man, part orc, and part dog stood there, attempting a smile. Its goblin fangs showed through curled lips in a canine snout. Long red hair, braided in copper shrouded its face. Intelligent hazel eyes gazed out over a dog nose.

"Greetings Ethacali, I am Ulduin, Lord of the Sorcerors. The Nazgûl awaits you."

Ethacali half bowed. His amazement was obvious. Ulduin sensed the mage's nervousness and was pleased.

"My appearance is disconcerting. I was a vassal of the Nazgûl Dwar and am the product of his mastery of breeding. I founded the Order of the Blood of the Shadows, Bwaig-ir-Omdren in my tongue. The Witch-King has found use for me here in the North."

Ethacali nodded warily. "I see. What does the Lord have planned now that I have uncovered the Blood-Wights?"

The beast laughed in a gurgling chuckle. "We shall see mage, we shall see."

In the Hall of the Witch-King, Ulduin led Ethacali up to the pool of blood. The mage secretly chafed at the thought that some 'experiment' held a higher position than he. At the edge of the pool, Ethacali bowed low to the Nazgûl. "My Lord, I bring good tidings. I have bound the Blood-Wights Naranatur and Skrykalian as you have commanded. Upon my return, I shall do the same to Blogath."

An elf, who stood beside the Nazgûl, nodded to Ethacali. "I am Camthalion, Lord of the Gulmathaur. You have done well in the service of the Lord of Angmar. Tonight, we shall celebrate and learn of the plan to devour the Northern Kingdoms."

The Witch-King stood from his throne and floated across the pool of blood toward Ethacali. "Yes, let us rejoice our good fortune. Come, Ethacali, tell me of your victory." The iron crown of the Nazgûl floated ominously above his shoulders and a broadsword was strapped prominently to his belt. Its deep red pommel was crowned with a massive ruby. Ethacali saw Quenya runes on the scabbard of the sword, saying Vasamacil, the blade eater. Hanging near the Witch-King's throne were other weapons of long renown: a morning star of black eog, a volcanic glass, forged in the depths of Utumno; a Númenórean steel bow; and a helm made of overlapping Sea Drake skin plates with a spiny crown-shaped crest. The Witch-King noticed Ethacali's fascination with these relics and he held out his hand. The morning star and helm flew to his grasp.

"This is Nallagurth, the death's proclaimer," he said, showing the weapon. The eog was subtly inlaid with veins of fused diamonds. "I received it from our Lord Sauron eons ago."

Displaying the helm, the Nazgûl continued, "This is the helm of my father, Tar-Ciryatan of Númenór. Enough of this for now, come, I wish now to tell you of my plan."

The group walked to the Council Chamber, where the Witch-King sat on a throne on a dias raised six-feet above the floor. Already seated there was a Dúnadan of middling age dressed in black robes with an elaborate staff. Also seated there was an elf-woman in exotic attire.

Ethacali recognized the Angûlion by reputation. He was a sorcerer born in Númenor and had lived beyond the count of years. Rumor had it that the Angûlion was a cousin to one of the Nazgûl. The elf-woman was introduced as Ulgarin, an Astrologer from the realm of Helkanen in the uttermost east.

The others took their seats and Ethacali was offered one near to the Angûlion. The Witch-King pointed to a map on one of the walls, depicting the North.

"In the spring of the following year I shall launch my grand assault. It is my intent to destroy the Kingdoms of Arthedain and Cardolan. In the last war we were thwarted by the presence of rebels in the land of Rhudaur. So, to accomplish my plan, I am tasking Ethacali with crushing the rebels to ensure the way into Arthedain is clear."

Ethacali examined the map closely, remembering as much detail as he could.

The Witch-King continued, "Ethcali is to use his new allies to bring about the destruction of the rebel tribe, Vulseggi, and the House of Rhudainor, the former rulers of Rhudaur. You must take care, however, the spies of the elves are everywhere. The fall of Southern Rhudaur must not appear to be motivated by Angmar. An ongoing skirmish between the Vulseggi and our Cultirith rangers will be excellent cover for the fall of the Rhudauran beacon towers, the Gondryn. Ethacali, you are to meet with Hirgrim, captain of the Cultirith and plan this action. You will complete the task no later than the Spring of Fourteen O' Nine."

The mage bowed, honored to receive such a blessing.

The Witch-King stood and walked to the map. He pointed to a lake in the heart of Arthedain. "The Angulion shall lead the assault on Annuminas and Fornost. Our losses will be heavy, but the destruction of the capitol of Arthedain will cripple them. I, along with the warlord troll Rogrog, shall assault the Tower of Amon Sûl. From there, the door to Cardolan shall be open and Tharbad shall be destroyed. I will need you, Camthalion, Ulduin, and Ulgarin to prevent the elves from intervening before our plans are ready."

The group stood and bowed to the King of Angmar. "It shall be done."

Tharbad, Narwain, 1407

Young Dagar sat in his cell, head in his hands. His usually finely coiffed brown hair was now a mess and his 'Imperial' beard and mustache were starting to blend with two days of stubble. His clothing was expensive, but now disheveled with wrinkles and stains. Without looking up, he continued his story to his cellmate.

"My father, Culberth of Thuin Boid sent me here to apprentice in the Merchant Guild, but I was led astray," he sobbed, "My so-called friends led me into drugs and wine. I was expelled from the Guild and now look, here I am," Dagar whined. He was a small man, who was very organized and given to putting on airs, but his recent misfortune had shaken him badly.

Mildly interested, the cellmate nodded. "So, what are you going to do now?"

"I don't know. I can't go home, I've been disinherited!"

The cellmate nodded again and sat up in his cot. "Hey, I can get you a job at the Nightsinger's house. Can you keep accounts?" The dark skinned man had a toothy smile, full of hope.

"Yes, I can do that. But, how can I if I'm in here?"

"Don't worry, lockup is only for a couple of nights. We'll be out in…say... About now."

At that moment, the fat jailer, Mardil came and unlocked the iron doors to the cell. Dagar and his newfound friend stumbled out and were led to the office of the Minister of the King's Justice. Mardil unshackled them and departed as a well-dressed man approached.

"I am Herucalmo Galadhelion, a barrister. Your case is minor. I can get it dismissed for a fine," he said, matter of factly without emotion.

Dagar nodded silently. The doors to the office opened and Herucalmo ushered them in.

"All rise for the Minister of the King's Justice, the honorable Eärdil," a bailiff called. An imposing man of Dúnadan ancestry entered. His jet-black hair and green and gold robes of state cut a noble figure. He sat and looked down upon the two from his bench. He read the charges and smirked.

"Fortunately, it has been a slow week, and I am feeling benevolent. However, I want assurances that you two clowns will not be returning here," Eärdil said sternly. The Minister had a well-deserved reputation for fairness and adhering to the letter of the law. He stared deeply into Dagar's eyes. "I sense that you are only a mischief maker and not a true criminal, young man."

Dagar looked away and blushed. "Sir, I swear you will not see me here before you again. In fact, I have a job waiting at the Nightsinger's house."

Eärdil raised an eyebrow and snorted. "Interesting… Well, I wish you luck, young man. Do not make me regret my decision."

"You will not, Sir, I can assure you," said Dagar with some renewed confidence, making eye contact with the minister.

As Mardil showed them to the gate of the city jail, they could see the snows falling on the streets of Tharbad. Dagar's friend motioned him northward along the Cherant Aran Canal, where they passed the large house of the Gondorian Embassy. Two guards stood outside, clad in shiny chainmail shirts. Their helms bore the symbol of the white tree surrounded by seven stars.

They joined the heavy merchant traffic along the Menatar, the main road through the city, and crossed the South Bridge. Along the great bridge, numerous kiosks displayed their wares, and the road was bustling with shoppers. Many merchants sheltered under the bridge gatehouse, known as the Ryncaras Tharbad. It was an imposing stone structure with narrow spires, constructed by now lost technology in the days of Númenor.

The pair worked their way to the island in the center of the Gwathlo River. This was the heart of Tharbad, where the King and his family ruled the city. The Merchant's Quarter, the Commons, the Docks, and the Thieves' Quarter were also located here.

Dagar blushed as he passed the "Lover's Delight" on the right of the road. He had spent far too much of his allowance here in the past months. Along King's Row, Dagar saw many of the shops he frequented during the time in which he had some money. Dagar liked to pretend to be far above his station and would often purchase useless things reserved for the castles of the nobility. Somehow, this made him feel important.

As the pair passed the King's House, or Bar Aran, traffic was being diverted to a nearby street. Dagar, ever enamored of royalty, snuck forward through the crowd to get a glimpse of the house. There, he could see the gates being opened by the Royal Guard. A man dressed in the tunic of a prince road out with a complement of guards.

Dagar inhaled sharply. "That is Prince Braegil the Scholar. They say he is the most learned man in Cardolan."

His friend shrugged. "Seems he's always away on some expedition. I guess if you have the money…"

Dagar nodded, stroking his ratty goatee. "Yes, I have heard he is looking for mithril. Wait, what is this?"

A carriage drove out of the gate, pulled by two magnificent white horses. A middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair sat on one side, while a striking young woman with raven hair sat on the other. The carriage turned to pass the two.

A man on horseback wearing the surcoat of the Royal Family rode up to them. "Make way! Make way for her highness, Princess Nirnadel and the Chancellor Nimhir! Make way."

They stepped back several paces, clearing a path for the carriage and it rolled past them with clattering hooves. Dagar bowed, but looked up in time to see her gray eyes smile at him as she waved.

"By the Valar, did you see her wave at me?" Dagar asked, giddy as if stunned.

His friend chuckled. "Sure, sure… if you say so. Like she'd give you the time of day."

House of the Nightsingers, Gwirith, 1407

Spring had come to Tharbad and the rains had continued for nearly a week. That was one thing that Dagar disliked about Tharbad. He missed his home in Thuin Boid. It was rough and rugged and far from the cultural sophistication of Cardolan. As thunder rumbled in the distance, Dagar turned back to his accounts. As the book keeper for the guild, it was far from glamorous, but it kept him fed and housed and that was the best he could hope for in these days.

His mind often wandered to that day in front of the Bar Aran when he saw Nirnadel. He dreamed of a life among the elite where he could attend lavish functions and be praised by the rich and famous.

A knock on the door roused Dagar from his daydream. It was Haedoriel the Bard, a member of the Guild.

"Greetings, young Dagar. I see that you have gained some weight back. I was becoming concerned," said the bard with his characteristic smile. Haedorial was known for his extensive knowledge of lore, his infectious smile, and his crystal singing voice. He was always impeccably dressed and groomed, someone that Dagar could look up to.

"Good morning to you Haedorial. I see the storm has dampened your day in the market."

The bard nodded as he removed his dripping hat and raincoat. He hung it on an old wooden rack and walked to the fireplace to warm his hands and dry off. "I hear you hail from Rhudaur, young man," he said, always curious and hungry for lore.

"Why yes, my father Culberth serves Vulfredda, the lady of the Vulseggi," Dagar said with some pride and regret.

Haedorial began to light up a pipe, striking a match on the brick of the fireplace. "Vulfredda? You don't say?" the bard asked and then thought for a moment. "She is descended from House Melossë, one of the noble houses of Rhudaur that came from Númenor with Elendil the Tall." The bard took a seat next to Dagar. "It's been a good year so far. I played for the Royal House this past Yüle. King Ostoher is a good patron," he continued as he warmed his hands by the fire.

Dagar's eyes brightened. "Tell me about the Royal Family," he said, his voice full of excitement.

Always ready to tell a good tale, Haedorial launched right in. "Our King has the blood of Isildur in him, though he is not a direct descendent. He is a fine lord of pure Dúnadan lineage. He fought with his father Minalcar in the Great Northern War fifty years ago and became king upon Minalcar's death in thirteen eighty one. So far as I have seen, we have had peace and prosperity since that time."

"Tell me of his children," Dagar asked, probing for more information.

Haedorial stood and poured himself a drought of ale to ward off the cold. The heavy patter of rain beat down upon the roof as a characteristic Cardolan fog began to form outside.

"Gladly, my good Dagar, gladly. The crown prince, Valandur, is a noble lad. He leads the cavalry and has skirmished with both Rhudaur and Angmar. He is truly cut in the mold of the Warrior Kings of Cardolan. Price Braegil the Scholar is considered to be one of the great loremasters despite his youth. I have spoken to him many times and he respects learning and scholarly pursuits. He has been to Rivendell and has spoken to Elrond himself. I consulted with him back in Fourteen O' Five, when he led an expedition to Lond Daer, where the fabled Mithril Room of Tar-Telemmaitë was located."

"I've heard much of Prince Braegil, but Tar-Telemmaitë?" Dagar asked.

"Yes, one of Númenor's Kings. He was obsessed with mithril and collected a great treasure of it."

"What of the King's daughter?" asked Dagar.

"Ah, what a delightful young lady. So cultured and educated. I have not met her as of yet, but I hear so many good things about her. Do you know she speaks Quenya, Sindarin, and Adûnaic?"

"How excellent," Dagar gushed.

Haedorial stood. "Well, I should let you get back to your work. I will go to see the guildmasters. I'll put in a good word for you, my good Dagar."

The Town of Thuin Boid, Lothron, 1407

Culberth sat by the bed of his wife, a Dorwinadan serving-girl. It was considered to be bad form for Culberth to have married her, but they had a good life together, despite their wastrel son, Dagar. However, she was now on her deathbed and Culberth could do nothing. As he held a cup to her mouth, his long and faithful assistant Nasen came in.

"Sir, can I get you anything? You have been here for days," Nasen asked, his voice full of concern.

Culberth shook his head. "No, it is going to be all right. Thank you for asking."

Nasen nodded and withdrew. Culberth cradled his wife's head. "I'm sorry. I am so sorry. You will be going to a better place."

The dying woman reached up weakly and stroked her husband's face. "You have been good. You must move on. I want you to have a good life… you must… you must forgive Dagar. You must let him come home."

Culberth furrowed his brow. "But he has disgraced us…. Thrown out of the Merchant's Guild! Even arrested! How can I?" he ranted, waving his hands about.

His wife grasped his collar. "You must! Please, promise me. Give him back his inheritance."

Culberth sighed. He had considered making Nasen his heir. This would change things. "Very well. Very well. I will sent for Dagar immediately."

Culberth stood and left the room. He was the Chief Victueller of Thuin Boid and responsible for the grain and feed that went to the outlying Gondryn. It was a great responsibility, and he did not know if Dagar could handle it. He had all but given up on the young man, so lost in the clouds was he.

He saw Nasen in the main room. "Nasen, I need you to send a rider to Tharbad. Find Dagar and tell him to come home immediately."

The balding assistant nodded. "I know, his mother is dying. I will send someone right away."

"There is more. I promised Maeve to return Dagar's place here. I know we spoke about another option. I know you were hoping to take over. I'm sorry."

A flash passed Nasen's face, and his cheeks flushed. He looked away. "I understand sir. We will make the best of it. Let me send the rider."

Nasen stood and walked to the stables. His expression was one of stone. He approached one of the riders of the town and gave him a note and some silver coins. The blond-haired horseman shot out of town in a rush, headed for Tharbad.