Notes - Work work work, that's my life these days. I have not forgotten you guys! Ethacali's army takes the field. Introducing a few new characters and some internal conflict.

The Yfelwood, Nórui 25th, 1407

Ethacali thrummed his fingers on the dark tome, obsessing over every detail of the plan. It was part of his nature to do so, and it was the part of his character that got him noticed by the Witch-King. He fought any distractions and had to put the cameo of Ethanya away in a safe so that he wouldn't keep looking at her. He felt a presence behind him, and he looked back to see his orc acolyte, Urfase, the most loyal of the three, but the least competent.

"Are the Dunnish tribes ready for war?" Ethacali asked.

Urfase took his usual obsequious and fawning posture. "Yes, great mage. The Macha Mur have already set forth to attack the town of Maig Tuira. The Siol Nȗnaw are still gathering forces to march."

The mage narrowed his eyes and stroked his graying beard. "Tell Garon Monȗnaw to hurry up. If he doesn't leave soon, his tribe will not be to the Gondryn Towers in time as we had planned. Are the Cultirith ready?" he asked, referring to the company of rangers known as the Bronze Guard, originally founded by King Eldacar of Arnor more than a millennium ago.

"Aye, my lord. Hirgrim departed Dol Cultirith last week and they watch the Dunnish Track with their wolves as we speak," Urfase answered. "They will note anything that moves down from Thuin Boid to the Gondryn."

Ethacali nodded. "This is acceptable. No plan is perfect. What of our agents in the town?"

"The waenhosh will leave soon, my lord. They have accepted your offer and are ready to serve you, my lord. They will ensure that your plan comes to fruition."

The mage blew out a long breath. This had been years in the planning, and it was now all coming together. He had planned for multiple contingencies and accounted for unexpected events. By winter, all of Rhudaur would be under the fist of the Witch-King. "Well done, Urfase. Send that message to Garon to move along with what he has, and I will rouse Naranantur and Skrykalian. Tell Grashur to meet me in their chamber."

"What of Athrug, my lord?"

He thought for a moment and then shook his head. Athrug had always been a problem and had reason to doubt the orc's loyalty. Athrug was far too ambitious for one of his station and took delight in contradicting Ethacali. "No. Tell Athrug to muster the orc host. Tell him that we leave in two days."

"Yes, my lord." Urfase bowed and departed.

Ethacali stood slowly and took his staff, which was leaned up against a wall. He closed his eyes for a moment and afforded himself the image of his family. He knew that distractions were dangerous, especially when dealing with the Blood Wights. Every encounter with them was draining, mentally and physically. He knew that their power was something he feared, but he could not show that. Not in front of the orcs. The image of his grandchildren playing at his feet and the smile of his wife faded and he bit his lower lip. "No. I must focus."

He took the dark tome and went down the hall to the chamber, feeling it grow colder with every step. The light on the tip of this staff flickered and he knew that they sensed his presence. Grashur came up behind him and bowed, his twisted, scarred face impassive. "You are the most powerful of the three, Grashur. I will need your strength behind me as we awaken the two. We march in two days."

"Yes, mage. I am here for that," the orc said. Grashur was not one to fawn, like Urfase, something that both pleased and annoyed the mage at the same time.

He led the way into the chamber where the light on his staff dimmed. He could just see the outlines of Naranantur and Skrykalian in the gloom. Both opened their eyes in unison. "Welcome, Ethacali," they both said as one. "We have been waiting for you. It is time to go, yes?" The display made the mage's skin crawl, and a cold feeling ran down his spine.

Ethacali stepped closer and raised his staff, pouring some of his energy into it to power the light, which now shined brighter. He was taken aback by how much the two knew, but he had come to expect that from them now. He quickly composed himself to take control of the situation. "Yes, you are perceptive as always. It is time for us to go to war. The Witch-King offers you freedom if you carry out his will."

Naranantur narrowed one eye. "Freedom? Surely the great Lord of Angmar would not let us roam free after we perform for you."

"You would be given a place at his table. A place of honor. A place of power."

Skrykalian smiled, a sultry, provocative smile. "And you will return to your beloved," she said in Ethanya's voice. "I can see the grandchildren playing at your feet, my love. It has been too long. Come home to me."

"Stop it!" he yelled. "You will not play games with me!" His staff glowed orange and the Blood Wights winced. He did not want to use any of his power in this encounter, but he should have known better. "I will ease your restraints. You will not resist me, nor will you try anything. Am I understood?"

Skrykalian giggled like a young girl but nodded. "Yes, my lord," she said, using Urfase's voice, bowing her head and licking the back of her hand in a fawning manner like he does. "We will come with you willingly," she continued in her own voice. "Besides, it's ever so boring down here in the dark. I'm afraid. Please let me see the sky again."

"Afraid? I doubt that. Now, I will relax your bindings, and you will go ahead of us to the surface." He pushed the tip of his staff towards the two. "Lathana!" Grashur raised his arms and his hands glowed. Energy flowed from them to the Blood Wights, and they began to float forward. "That's enough. Now, go ahead of us."

Naranantur took his massive black sword and nodded to the mage while Skrykalian merely floated ahead. Ethacali and the orc shaman moved in behind them, cautious. Images of his wife and family began to invade his mind. He fought for a short time but found the visions pleasant and he allowed them to continue. Skrykalian looked back at him for a moment and grinned.

The Tirthon, Nórui 30th, 1407

"Do what you will. It matters not," Marendil Rhudainor said to his lieutenant and sergeants. His fine, gold silk tunic was wrinkled, and his dark brown hair was unkempt. It looked like he hadn't changed or shaved in a day and dark bags hung under his eyes.

The senior lieutenant, Oswy Amrodan, narrowed his eyes, incredulous. Though young, he had proven to be the ablest warrior for that title, tall and strong. "But my lord, our scouts indicate that the Macha Mur are on the march and the Cultirith have sortied from Dol Cultirith. We may have an actual war on our hands. We should send word to the other Gondryn. Do I have your permission to do so?"

"Yes, yes, whatever," Marendil said, waving his hand and not even making eye contact. The lord was a sad sight indeed.

Oswy sighed heavily and then gestured for the tower's staff to follow him. He pushed his long, blond hair behind him and began to walk to the conference room. He ushered the staff inside and then shut the door behind them as he straightened his red tunic and the chain around his neck that indicated that he was a knight of the realm. He glanced at the large map of Rhudaur on the wall, noting the position of the five Gondryn that remained loyal to the Dúnedain. Though he was mostly Northron, he swore an oath to House Rhudainor and he did not take that lightly. He sat and then looked at the two sergeants and Wiglaf Harcarl, the Hallweard or steward of the tower. He blew out a frustrated breath. "I don't understand what is happening to Lord Rhudainor. I know he has been despondent since the death of his wife, but this is a whole other level. I can barely get his attention now."

Wiglaf nodded slowly. He was a Northman with a shock of white hair that was braided down to his back and a thick white beard. He wore a simple brown tunic of leather that had many pockets for the tools of his trade. "How long has this been going on, Oswy?"

Oswy thought for a moment. "I think I noticed the change on the evening of the 27th. Until then, he at least acted as the commander. He's barely been out of his chambers since, and he barely eats."

The chief sergeant, Aldhelm Demuret, nodded. He was another old hand and close friend of Wiglaf's. His thinning white hair was more than made up for with a long, fiercely braided forked beard. "Aye. My wife says that she retrieves the plates at his door, barely touched. The lances are worried."

A younger man, Tonfall, the junior sergeant, shook his head. "Lord Rhudainor will shake out of it soon. I have faith in him. He and Eitheriel took me in when I had nothing, and they allowed me to prove myself to this position. I am grateful and he will always have my support." Tonfall had arrived at the tower two years ago from "somewhere out east" and he rose to become sergeant through hard work and skill. His thick, curly blond hair flowed down his face to a finely trimmed beard.

Oswy grunted. He was one who could fight well but never knew what to say to comfort people. He chose to just change the subject instead. "We know the Macha Mur are on the march and the Siol Nȗnaw are still in camp. Wiglaf, what is the situation with our supplies?"

"We're going to be short until the arrival of Culberth's waenhosh. They are already on the road from what they have signaled to us. I think Nasen is in charge of this one. Once Nasen arrives though, we'll have enough to stand their pathetic Dunnish siege until winter when they slink back to their filthy huts," the Hallweard said in a voice full of disdain. The yearly rhythm of orcs and Dunnish tribes attacking the towers had become almost mundane. "Nasen should be here in under a month if the weather holds. He'll stop in Maig Tuira to drop off supplies and hire more mercenaries and then continue on to us."

"Good," Oswy replied confidently. "I'm not sure why, but I just have a feeling that this will be more than the endless 'Little War' that we are all so used to. Send a messenger to Thuin Boid and let Vulfredda know that we may need assistance."

Wiglaf nodded and took down some notes. "I'll get this out today. If…no when the Cultirith and the tribes show up, if it's before Nasen arrives, we'll have a week of supplies. More if we ration now."

"Do it. And send one squadron of lances out along the Dunnish Track. Nasen may need an escort. I don't want to be left without supplies."

The far door opened and a woman with dark brown hair entered with two servants. She was young, tall and statuesque with bright blue eyes and was dressed in a form-fitting green silk gown along with a chain around her neck with the sigil of House Amrodan, one of the lesser Dúnedain houses of Rhudaur. Her high cheekbones and full lips set her apart from the other women of the Tirthon. She practically glided across the tiled floor, garnering the attention of the men. Oswy bristled.

"It's time for lunch, dear husband," she said to Oswy in an aristocratic manner, her nose turned up with a finger held to her cheek as a woman of the Cardolan Royal House should. "Surely, you strong, brave men are hungry." She and the servants laid platters of bread and meat down along with pitchers of ale and water.

"Thank you, Éanfled," Oswy said in a cautious voice. "You can leave us now. We are in a conference."

She giggled and then circled the table, touching each of the men on the head and then let her hand stroke Tonfall's beard. "Of course. I wouldn't want to interrupt your important conference," she said mockingly.

He gritted his teeth. "Enough, Éanfled. I will see you this evening."

Éanfled scoffed and then walked past Oswy, making a curtsy that was common in the Court of Cardolan. "Things were so much more exciting in the Court of King Ostoher. Rhudaur lacks the sophistication of such a magnificent royal household. I do so miss the Princess Nirnadel. So cultured and refined and so well read and educated is she. I was once a lady of the Princess, you know."

"Yes, yes, I know this well," Oswy said, standing to escort the ladies from the conference room. "It is something that I know you will always hold over me."

"That you married into a noble house to achieve your title and holdings? I had forgotten." She gestured to the men at the table. "I'm sure my husband has told you of how a Northron knight became a noble? Perhaps if he were more powerful, we would still have Castle Amrodan rather than all of…this splendor," she said with her nostrils flared and one side of her mouth turned up in a sneer as she gestured around the rather spartan room.

"I said enough, Éanfled!" There was a hard edge to his voice as he lost his temper. "Leave us. We have business to attend to."

Éanfled and the ladies left without another word. For a moment, Oswy noticed Tonfall's eyes follow his wife. He was about to say something when Aldhelm spoke. "Oswy, you need to get her under control. How long has this been going on?"

The knight put his hand on his chin. "It's been since…since the evening of the 27th…just like Lord Rhudainor. What's going on? Are there any other incidents of people behaving…oddly?"

Wiglaf shook his head. "Not that I've noticed. But I will admit that this is odd. If you don't mind my saying so, your wife has always been smugly superior, given her noble birth and Dúnedain heritage."

"It's something that she's always held over me," Oswy said sadly. "It was an arranged marriage, but we started off so well. I know that the Tirthon isn't what she expected or hoped for after her time in the Royal Court of Cardolan. She would always talk about the Palace at Thalion, and the royal parties hosted by the King. I can't live up to that."

Aldhelm grunted. "Oswy, we are the defenders of the realm…what's left of it anyway. You cannot be worried about what your wife wants or her petty complaints. We are Northmen. You will get this under control, or it will not turn out well."

The knight gave a sour expression but nodded. Aldhelm was right. This could spin out of control quickly at a critical time, but he was at a loss of how to fix it. And he couldn't shake the feeling that something more was at play. Both the lord and his wife began to behave strangely on the night of the 27th. "Yes, you're right, of course. I will get this under control. Alright. You have your orders. We will meet again tomorrow." A heavy feeling hovered over him and it was like he was drowning. The only cure for this was to grab a lance and tilt against the quintain. He leaned out of one window and called to the stable hands. "Ready my horse and clear the field!"