Notes - Work is still off the charts and the FAA seems to be in complete chaos. We begin Act II. The Dark Mage begins to bend. Dagar finds himself. More on House Rhudainor which feeds into The Thieves of Tharbad.

The Dunnish Camp, Cerveth 11th, 1407

The baying of the tracker wolves filled Ethacali's ears as they rushed through the forest in pursuit of the escaped prisoners. Only the moon through the pine trees and the light of torches illuminated the way forward. How did this happen right under his nose? The prisoners were all accounted for as Naranantur and Skrykalian tore the one wounded man apart, devouring him and drinking his blood. Every life that they took made them more powerful and he knew not to let them become too strong. He could barely handle Skrykalian, and she was the weakest of the Blood-Wights. But in some ways, her manipulations made her the most dangerous.

Lumban and the Macha Mur were out ahead, crashing through the brush, their torches lighting up the night forest. Deer bounded away and birds took flight at their approach. Ethacali thought the barbarian leader was a drunken fool, but he had his uses. That cloak of ears was downright vile. At least he could deal with Cagh, though he expected that his father, Garon, would be in the lead. Cagh had a level of culture and sophistication that impressed him. He was intelligent and reasonable, which could be a double-edged sword in the service of the Witch-King.

Earlier, when a guard reported that most of the prisoners had escaped, his heart skipped a beat. He had planned everything out to the smallest detail and most of it had gone according to plan. But now, only a handful of old villagers and wounded men, unable to walk, were left. They would be dealt with later.

The mage was beginning to dislike the cold and the primeval forests of Rhudaur. What a wild and untamed land this was. He missed the warm, open plains and cities of Logath even more now as his old body ached from the chill and the fast pace of the pursuit. The three orc shamans bounded ahead of him, snarling and gnashing their teeth in anticipation of blood. Way ahead, Lumban called out, "The tracks keep going west. They're trying to escape to Cardolan!" Ethacali was breathing hard now, and he bent over, putting a hand on his knee to get some air.

He felt a tender hand on his shoulder and turned to see Skrykalian, an almost sympathetic look on her face, that now had a more human color. Her cheeks were positively rosy after she had fed. "Tired, Ethacali? You should rest. You humans age so quickly, and then you tire and fade away. It's the gift of Illuvatar…if you could call it a gift," she said sarcastically, baiting him. "I could fly ahead and see where they are, if you wish," she said in a voice that seemed genuinely helpful, but the mage knew otherwise.

He took a couple of gasps and then shook his head. She could easily get beyond the range in which he could control her. "No…no, stay with me. We will…we will catch them."

She made a mock sad face. "You still don't trust me. But you're so tired. Look at those old skin and bones," she said, pinching the flesh on his arm. "I can give you some of my energy. You'll like it, trust me."

He started to raise his hand to wave her off, but he began coughing and Lumban kept getting further ahead. The baying of the wolves was more distant, and he knew he couldn't keep up. Still coughing, he nodded, knowing that he would regret it. It would just be this one time though.

Skrykalian motioned Naranantur to go on ahead and she pulled Ethacali back up to stand straight. He knew that the other Blood-Wight might move beyond his ability to control, but he was too tired to fight it. She gently took hold of his face, and he gasped, his lungs feeling clear again. He felt an unseen force envelop him and he tried to fight, but his fatigue made him weak. He couldn't help but look down at her body and he felt his face and body flush. She smiled warmly as she leaned in and kissed him passionately. Sparks flew as some sort of electrical field surrounded them and he could taste the blood in her mouth. Strength flowed back into his limbs and his mind seemed awake and alive. Skrykalian stepped back, her fanged teeth showing through her red lips. Ethacali felt positively euphoric.

"There, that wasn't so bad, was it?" she cooed as she nuzzled his neck, smelling his skin.

The mage felt giddy, like a schoolboy on his first date in Logath. "It was…it was wonderful." He tried to push her away, but he couldn't. He wanted more. He wanted her.

She play bit his neck, letting her fangs tickle him. "Yes, and there's more. Much more." Then, she pushed back, and he felt like a child, whose toy was taken. "But enough for now. We are, after all, falling behind. We best catch up," she said as if to a child.

"Yes…yes, thank you. Thank you. We need to catch up," he said, almost mechanically.

She took his hand and put it on her breast. "I'm so glad you've come around, my dear. Come, we must hurry." She released his hand and leapt ahead, giggling like an adolescent. She looked back over her shoulder and grinned broadly, now showing normal teeth.

Ethacali watched her body as she skipped along, humming a long-forgotten tune. Then, he shook his head, shaking out the cobwebs and began to run after her, feeling like he was a boy again, free from pain and fatigue. They soon came upon Lumban and the Macha Mur warriors at a swift creek. Cagh and the Siol Nȗnaw were on their northern flank, waving at them to let them know where they were. Cagh was reliable as ever.

The orc shaman, Urfase, bowed and licked the back of his hand. "Master Ethacali, the snaga crossed here and are escaping to Cardolan. We will run them down and make them pay."

"Where are the tracks?" the mage asked, scanning around the creek and Lumban pointed to a mass of footprints in the mud up to the stream and on the other side. Ethacali nodded. "Very good. Lumban take your warriors across and continue to pursue."

One of the other orc shamans, Athrug, shook his head. "Are we sending all of us across and west? That's just foolish, Ethacali. We need to split up. I don't trust this, mage. They could have gone north, south or doubled back and we would be beating around the woods like idiots. These are only villagers. Any of us could kill the lot of them."

Ethacali curled his lip up in irritation. Athrug had been far too contrary lately and it seemed that he just wanted to get under the mage's skin sometimes. And the way that Athrug and Skrykalian would look at each other now made him jealous. But there was some wisdom in what the orc said. "Hmmm, very well." He pointed at Lumban. "Take your tribe across and pursue. I'll head south. They may want to head to Thuin Boid." He waved over to Cagh and yelled, "Take your tribe back towards the camp in case they doubled back!" There. That should address nearly all of the contingencies. Contingency plans were what made Ethacali great back in Logath. Few there could outthink him, much less try to stay up with him.

Lumban, three dozen warriors and the wolves forded the creek and continued to follow the tracks while Cagh led his two dozen back east. Ethacali gestured south along the creek and he, the orcs and the Blood-Wights stepped into the water and began walking swiftly. They would have to pay for disrupting his plans and he could not risk word getting out about the Blood-Wights and coming conquest of Rhudaur.

The Dunnish Track, Cerveth 11th, 1407

Just before dawn, Dagar could see the waenhosh in the gathering light as hues of purple and orange appeared on the eastern horizon. He was exhausted, but there was a sense of pride mixed with sadness. He could still see Manodoc and Darli in his mind, weeping for what they knew would come for them. But part way to the waenhosh, Mirthi held his hand, and he carried Cicrid on his back. He was not a strong man, but he would not let them down. He would carry the girl to Tharbad if he needed to. Nasen and Old Pad could see them now as they jogged up.

"Nasen! We rescued the prisoners from Maig Tuira! Prepare to leave! We need to leave quickly! We threw the tribes off of our trail, but they're still looking for us!"

Nig and Cisgid sprang into action, burying the campfire and throwing supplies back into the wagon as Old Pad helped. Even Baga was sitting up in the lead wagon, helping to store boxes. Dagar nodded. "Good job, Old Pad, and welcome back, my good Baga. Hurry, we must hurry."

Mercatur, Gamrid and Jaabran yoked the oxen and tethered them to the "falling tongue" as Penda and his men did the same with the other wagons. Dagar pulled down the back door of his wagon and motioned to some of the villagers. "Quickly, women and children in. Anyone having trouble walking, get in. We will find room. I'm sorry, some of you will have to walk," he said with confidence and authority. He lifted Cicrid into the back and then helped Mirthi in.

In just about five minutes the waenhosh was ready, and Dagar snapped the reins, getting the four oxen to move forward. The mercenaries and many of the villagers were still on the road, walking swiftly alongside. He looked over at Mercatur and felt bad, pausing a moment in thought. "Old Pad, come up here. You're driving us!" Once the old man had taken the reins, he jumped down and began walking with the mercenaries, looking around to make sure the villagers were alright. Gamrid and Jaabran slapped him on the back while Mercatur gave him a solemn nod. Dagar's bones and muscles ached, but he was not going to be weak, and he would be damned if he didn't share in the pain of those he had hired.

The waenhosh made good progress as the sun rose. Dagar raised his hand and called out, "Any villager feeling fatigued, please trade with someone in a wagon. We need to keep everyone fresh and moving." By about Eight in the morning, they had covered half the length of the forest.

Mercatur pointed north with his axe. "The East Road is just a couple of hours ahead."

Walking with them, Nasen nodded. "And the Tirthon is an hour past that. We are very close now, Master Dagar. I think we're going to get through this. You've led your first waenhosh."

This made the young man feel wonderful inside. He had been a failure for too many years, a wastrel as his father once said to him. Now, not only was he nearing success, but he had played a key role in saving so many people. But then, his attention was brought to loud shouts at the rear of the waenhosh.

"Alarm! We have enemies to the rear!" shouted Penda Oxkiller.

Dagar looked back and could see about two dozen Dunnish warriors in the distance, running towards them. "Keep going!" he yelled to Old Pad. "Nasen, keep them going!" He saw Mercatur draw his crossbow and signal the other mercenaries. They moved to the rear as the wagons drove on. He took a look back and made eye contact with Mirthi and her face was full of fear. She held Cicrid close and then Dagar turned to follow the mercenaries. They were joined by Penda and his men, who now wore chainmail shirts and conical helms, holding round shields in front of them. Mercatur pointed to the ground. "Form a line here! Crossbows behind! We stay between them and the wagons!" He gestured towards the Dunmen. "That's the banner of the Siol Nȗnaw, thank the stars. If we lose, they'll at least treat us with respect, but we're not losing. Not if I can help it." He put his steel bascinet helm on and raised the visor.

"You know them too?" asked Dagar.

Mercatur nodded. "I worked for their chief, Garon, one year. He's a decent sort. He doesn't abuse prisoners, and he doesn't keep slaves like Lumban does. Fight hard and we stand a good chance of coming out of this."

The tribesman slowed when just out of bow range and began to deploy into a line of battle. "They're disciplined," Mercatur began. "They fight like Dúnedain. In some ways, I'd rather scrap with Lumban and his freaks. There's more of them, but they're just a damn horde." Dunnish archers moved to the flanks of the formation, and they began to advance. "Our crossbows outrange them, but we fire slower," he told Dagar. He raised a hand. "Shields up!" he commanded and Penda's men along with Jaabran raised shields.

Dagar had recently seen a lot of firsts in a short time. He saw his first orc, killed his first enemy, rescued his first prisoners and would shortly fight his first battle. That old pit blossomed in his stomach, and he felt hot despite the chill in the air. The leader of the Siol Nȗnaw raised his hand and shouted, "Thangail!" and the tribesman raised shields and interlocked them together in a shield wall. Dagar's hands began to shake again, but he recognized that the chief was speaking in Sindarin.

"Crossbows up!" shouted Mercatur. "Fire!" Dagar raised his weapon, pressed the trigger and his bolt hissed through the air and thunked into a wooden shield along with two others. "Reload!"

"Tȗgul!" the Dunnish chief ordered, and the tribesmen stopped and drew their shields even closer, showing no exposed flesh. It looked much like a tortoise. Another volley shot into the shield wall, but the Dunmen did not move or waver. Mercatur growled. "The line will retire towards the wagons in good order!" he shouted, and they began to move slowly backward.

Dagar peered around the taller mercenary's shoulder and could see that the Dunmen were not following. Soon, they were well out of bowshot and the tribal warriors recovered from the tortoise formation and began to retreat back towards the forest. The young man felt ecstatic, and his fear faded. They had won another victory. "Look at that, my good Mercatur. We've won again."

"Don't count this as a win yet. They let us get away. The Siol Nȗnaw aren't as reckless as Lumban's freaks, but they're brave and disciplined. They had us outnumbered three to one and they didn't take advantage of it. This isn't what we think it is, kiddo and I don't know why."

Dagar nodded, listening to his words. He had learned so much in so short a time and he realized the value of watching and listening. They began to move more quickly now back to the waenhosh, and he could see a copper reflection to the north. "I think I see it! I think I see the Tirthon!"

Mercatur put his hand above his eyes and peered in that direction. "Yup, I see it. Just past the north road. Just a couple of hours to go." He gripped Dagar's shoulder. "Now keep your guard up. I swear, this is the most dangerous part of the trip. Something is going on that I can't explain."

As they closed with the waenhosh, Dagar could see five mounted soldiers trotting towards the wagons from the north. They were all blonde and clad in chainmail with conical helmets that had a nosepiece. Their spears glistened in the sunlight, sharp and deadly. They wore surcoats with the image of a red rose flanked by a white stallion, rampant, rearing up with hooves extended and a bronze wyvern, segreant, wings unfurled and claws extended. Dagar moved to grab his crossbow, but Mercatur stayed his hand. "It's the Vulseggi guard of the Tirthon," said the mercenary. "They owe loyalty to Vulfredda, the Lady of House Melossë and to Marendil of House Rhudainor…my cousin. They're on patrol and probably know to expect us."

Jaabran chuckled. "Eh, remember that scrap we had with them when we fought for the Siol Nȗnaw? I'm not anxious to repeat that. Those riders cannot be beaten on open ground."

Mercatur nodded with a smirk. "I remember that the money was lousy, but the women and ale were…" he started but then began to laugh.

Jaabran and Gamrid joined in the laughter. "We were going to say, also lousy."

Mercatur shook his head, still laughing. "Yeah, yeah, but Garon was a good host and his son, Cagh, was a pretty decent guy." He waved to the riders, showing his empty hand and they waved back.

Arriving at the waenhosh, Nasen was already talking to their leader, a young Northron. The leader looked at the approaching team and dismounted. "Mercatur, you dog. I thought I'd find you on the road at some point. I'm never sure if I should stick you in the face with my spear or hug you. Damned mercenaries. And you too, Jaabran…Gamrid. What happened to Folgar? He still soiling his pants at every battle?"

Mercatur shook his head. "Nah, he bought it on last year's waenhosh to the Sirtathar, the River Willow or what have you in elven. It's smelled better ever since. Dagar, this is Ecegar, one of the lead lances of the Tirthon. He's a dumb, young buck, but you'll find no finer lancer in Rhudaur. And this is Dagar, Culberth's son. He'll be taking over eventually. So, Lassar and Vilhelm with you?"

"Nah, Lassar's making love with his horse and Vilhelm and Leofwaena are fighting again. So, it's me here to save your hide."

Mercatur snorted. "Hah, nothing ever changes around here. Best you idiots prepare. We saw the Dunnish camp in those woods yonder. That freak, Lumban, has about forty and the Siol Nȗnaw have maybe thirty."

Ecegar shook Dagar's hand while assessing the waenhosh. "Awww, that's nothing. They'll surround us, fling some arrows, throw some rocks and be gone by the Tregtagan."

Mercatur shook his head. "No, listen. This is more than that. Yeah, they have the usual wolves, but we saw this mage there. Looks like he comes from out east. And snow in summer? What's going on with that?"

Dagar chimed in. "We also saw three orcs dressed as priests and two elves…who were naked."

Ecegar cocked his head and narrowed one eye as if skeptical. "Let me get this straight. An Easterling mage, a few religious orcs and a couple of naked elves. Are they going to walk into a bar? Because it sounds like a joke is coming."

"No, the kid is right," said Mercatur. "Something more is going on this year. And we fought the Nȗnaw an hour ago on the Track. We shot some bolts at them, and they just stopped. I was expecting a brawl, but nothing happened. They turtled up and nobody got hurt on either side."

Ecegar thought for a moment and then nodded. "That is weird for them to not even make a play for the supplies. Well, let's get you up to Ynarri's Drift and you can clean up and rest. I'll let Tonfall know you're here and he can run it up to Oswy."

Mercatur wrinkled his nose. "Ynarri's Drift? Not that I mind some ale, but why not let us up to the tower? We'd like to unload these supplies and be on our way."

Ecegar shrugged. "Lord Rhudainor's orders. All visitors spend one night at the Drift. Besides, you know Ynarri's a good guy and he could use the business. He doesn't get a lot of customers other than the garrison."

Mercatur climbed up on the wagon and pulled Dagar up behind him. "Yeah, yeah, fine. We all could use a bath and some grub. Thanks for coming, by the way." He looked at Dagar. "You'll like Ynarri. Like you, he can talk your ear off. Poor guy went lame after one fight, years ago. Now, his mouth is his best weapon."

The waenhosh rolled up the Dunnish Track until it branched off towards the Tirthon. A river, known as the Caru Run, ran parallel to the Track. Dagar could see a high, wooden wall surrounding the Tirthon and some barns along with a small tavern a few hundred yards south along the road. The end of his journey was in sight. One more day and they could deliver their goods and return home. He would have enough to buy the medication that his mother needed and she would be healed. Then…what would happen then? Did he really want to be the chief victualler for Thuin Boid and make this run every year? He felt proud of what he had accomplished, but did he want this for his life? He thought about telling Nasen that he didn't want the job.

As they pulled up to Ynarri's Drift, a stocky, middle-aged man, in almost clownish yellow clothing and a comical red cap, hobbled out with a cane. "Welcome! Welcome my friends," he called to Dagar and Nasen. "I am Ynarri, your host! Come, come! Bring your oxen into the barn this way. Oh, we have a lot of guests, oh my!" he said, pointing to the survivors of Maig Tuira. "We're going to have to put people in the yard, but that's fine. I knew to expect you, so we have food a plenty for now. Your supplies will really help out so thank you!" Ynarri and his servant, Olbaddol, helped Nig and Cisgid untether the oxen and guided them into the barn.

Dagar helped Baga down and the boy wobbled a bit. "We have a wounded man here, Ecegar, can we get him some healing?"

The lancer nodded. "I don't see a problem with it. Lady Éanfled can look at him. She's been a…little moody lately, but I'll see to it that she treats him." He pulled the boy up on his horse. "I'll see you all tomorrow. Have a nice night at the inn," he said and then trotted off with the riders.

Ynarri gestured for the waenhosh members to follow. "Come, come in. Beywyn will start setting the tables. Olbaddol! Get back up here, you lazy oaf! Get the smoked meat out of the pen and don't anger the pig! It's bad for her complexion!"

The young, Dunnish man rushed out and ran across the yard to a smoke house, where beef, pork and mutton were curing. Dagar could smell it from here and his mouth watered. He went back to the wagon and helped Mirthi down and then turned around to let Cicrid climb on his back. He looked at Mirthi. She was a pretty, Dunnish woman, a little older than him with brown hair and eyes. Dirt with streaked dry tears coated her face from their captivity. She might not be Princess Nirnadel, but she was here, and he had rescued her. He took her hand. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry about your parents. I wish I could have saved them."

Mirthi lowered her head. "They had me when they were older. All three of my brothers died fighting the Macha Mur. My father was a great warrior once. I know that he will die as one," she said with conviction, and then wiped her eyes. She looked him in the eye. "You were brave. We have you and your friends to thank for our rescue. You four dared to defy the tribes. This is something that we would sing about. We will make a song about your courage."

Dagar was taken aback, and his jaw fell open. If only Haedorial could see him now. He would be sure to write a letter at his earliest opportunity. He smiled at her and made a bow and flourish, fit for the Court of King Ostoher. "I am…I am honored, good Mirthi."

A loud squeal came from the smoke house and Olbaddol sprinted back like a Nazgȗl was behind him. "Damn pig! Damn pig!" he screamed, over and over.

Ynarri shook his head and growled. "I told you not to anger the pig! How many times do I have to tell you not to anger the pig!" He turned towards Dagar. "Mehitable is my prize pig. Probably the finest pig in the north, if you ask me. She's won the grand pig faire in Thuin Boid, three years running now."

Dagar followed him into the dining room where two teenaged girls set the tables with metal plates and mugs as Olbaddol put the smoked meats on a tray and began cutting. He was mumbling angrily as he sliced cuts of smoked ham and pork from a bone. "Why do we have to have the damn pig in the same pen as the smoked meat?"

"Because she likes it in there!" yelled Ynarri. "Now shut up and do your job!"

Dagar and Mirthi couldn't help but laugh at the exchange. It seemed like Ynarri and Olbaddol had been doing this routine for a while now. It felt good to laugh. The sense of relief that they were now safe was overwhelming and he didn't know whether to keep laughing or cry. He looked Mirthi in the eye and felt himself blushing, so he looked away. They sat down at a table with the mercenaries and some of the villagers as Nasen, Penda and the others sat nearby.

Ynarri walked by and poured a round of drinks. "Drink up! Drink up, my friends. You have come just in time to restock our winter stores. Another two weeks and I would have to ration food for my prized pig. That would make her very angry, and we don't want that," he said and then raised his voice, "would we, Olbaddol!"

"No sir! Happy pig, happy Ynarri!"

The meal was the best thing Dagar had eaten since he left Thuin Boid. Fine cuts of roast beef and smoked sausages, a vegetable broth that was thick and tasty, a sweet rice pudding and some homemade apple pie. All fresh. Before he knew it, he was stuffed.

With more than a few ales in him, Mercatur was bellowing out stories and singing badly. With a full mug, he gestured at Jaabran and Gamrid, sloshing ale on them. "These two! These two men…I've fought besides them, up and down the Track for the last ten years. I trust no one more than them!" He put his hand on Jaabran's shoulder. "I…I got kicked out of House Rhudainor ten years ago…for a minor indiscretion, mind you, and these guys. These guys took me in and made me the mercenary I am today!" He downed another mug and started slurring his words again. "And I'm here to collect from my cousin some things that they owe me!"

He moved around the table and tousled Dagar's dirty hair. "And this guy! This guy! I thought he was gonna lose his shit back there, but he came through! I never saw anyone that scared, but he came through! I'd work for him any day!" he shouted, and a cheer went up.

Gamrid raised his mug. "You mean like the first time you travelled in our company, Mercatur? I distinctly remember the smell of piss coming from you at our first battle!" he yelled, eliciting laughter.

"Nonsense! Nonsense…well, maybe just a little…uh, maybe a lot! But the point of this is that this man, Dagar, has a lot of potential! Here's to our boss!"

Dagar blushed furiously, unused to the attention and praise. He raised his mug and took a few gulps before he began to cough. The crowd cheered again. He glanced around the room to see happy faces. They had come through for the Tirthon. His eyes settled on Mirthi, and she smiled up at him as did Cicrid. He thought that this was the best night of his life.

Eventually, the party wound down and Olbaddol and the serving girls began to clean the tables. Many of the villagers were already sleeping on the ground and a few had wandered off to the bedrooms. Mercatur was already slumped down on the table, snoring as were Jaabran and Gamrid. He was feeling very tired and more than a little drunk by now and settled on the ground with Mirthi and Cicrid and drifted off to a pleasant dream.

It seemed like just a few minutes since he fell asleep when he was shaken awake. "Get up! Get up! We're under attack!" He focused his eyes, and it was Mercatur. The mercenary peeked out of the dining room window and an arrow flew by his head. "It's those damn Cultirith rangers! Dagar, get everyone ready to move!"