Notes - I had this mostly written before I got sick. Prequel to The Thieves of Tharbad. It will tie in with Mercatur, the mercenary of Tharbad. It also has a tie in with the Court of Ardor, to be revealed down the road. I'm using the same style as Thieves with shorter vignettes of the characters.
The Dark Mage of Rhudaur
1) The Hall of the Witch-King of Angmar, Carn Dȗm, Early Spring, 1405
Deep within Carn Dûm, the fortress-capitol of the Realm of Angmar, evil plans were being developed to extend the power of the kingdom. In the year 1276, the Witch-King, chief servant of the Necromancer, came to the north to establish a realm in which to destroy the Dúnedain Kingdoms. The Witch-King brought with him minions of trolls and orcs and other evil beasts, but found the land ruled by Dwarves. Within a few years, the Dwarves had been routed and the refugees brought tales of slaughter and the building of a great stronghold of dull red stone.
The fortress was actually two strongholds: one sitting upon the base and shoulders of a huge mountain, and the other, delved within the rock of the mountain. The outer walls were fifty feet high and twelve feet thick. Crossbow loops were placed at regular intervals and portculli could seal off sections of the interior at will, creating killing zones. From there, a series of complex and deadly defenses would pose a serious problem to any attacker. The Lord of Angmar declared that the fortress was impregnable, and it would appear that his words would prove to be true.
Deep within the mountain, the Witch-King, and his High Priests, the Gulmathaur, ruled the land and plotted the conquest of the North. Snow covered the ground of the courtyard and blanketed the surrounding mountain. A horn sounded, shaking snow from the roof of a sentry post and armored men moved to the massive iron gate. They moved wooden bars and trolls upon the battlements hauled heavy chains to open the way for a rider. Horse and rider huffing steam in the cold, men led them to a nearby stable where the man dismounted. A dark priest crunched through the snow and ushered the rider towards the keep.
The rider, a striking middle-aged man wearing well-cut robes in brown hues of cinnamon and rust, walked along a dark corridor within the depths of Carn Dûm, tapping the floor with his staff. The staff, the sign of a user of essence, was topped with a gilded skull vomiting evil-looking vines from its mouth and eyes. The man's dark brown eyes glinted, reflecting the light of the wall torches as his breath came out in steam. His dark skin was wreathed in white hair and a white beard.
As he strode confidently forward, his pace was interrupted by a deep voice. "The Master is waiting. Proceed…" The man, a mage by trade, nodded cautiously to the huge sentry, an 11-foot-tall troll. This monster was one of the elite Hoerk Tereg, personal guards to the Witch-King himself. The plates of its armor reflected the dancing torch fires. Thought smaller than his hill troll cousins, this Olog Hai was faster and smarter. Undaunted, the man passed through the doors of the grand hall where few men have ventured.
Within the cavernous chamber, sinews and ligaments of red porphyry stretched from floor to vaulted ceiling in patterns resembling those of the bowels of some sea monster. At the center of the hall was a pool of blood in which a huge pink swordfish floated. The man focused his eyes on the fish.
Is that a throne? In the mouth of the fish?
The mage stood in awe of the horrific sight before him, glancing at the six glassy figures flanking the pool.
"Approach Ethacali," an eerie, ethereal voice instructed the man.
Ethacali's skin crawled and the hair on the back of his neck prickled up. He took a breath and walked forward until he could see a robe in the shape of a man and a crown floating above the shoulders of the robe.
"The Lord of the Nazgûl," Ethacali whispered under his breath. He could feel an intense chill as he grew closer, as if his very life force was being drained. He grit his teeth and gulped down hard.
The crown nodded. "Indeed. You have risen rapidly in my service and your success in the East has come to the attention of the Necromancer. It is time for you to join the inner circle."
Ethacali gasped quietly. The mage was not one to exhibit much reaction, but this was the culmination of all his life's work: his hopes and dreams.
"However, you must show yourself worthy of this honor. I command you to journey to Rhudaur where you will awaken a long-sleeping force. Take this tome and learn of it well. It will provide you with the knowledge and powers you will need to complete the task. I will give you command over thirty warriors of the Trûpalog Tribe and five of my trackers. Above all, restrict any overt use of your power so as not to show its source. You must depart tomorrow. Until then, enjoy the hospitality of Carn Dûm."
A thick, leather bound book appeared before Ethacali and he stooped to pick it up. He bowed low to the Witch-King and backed away, slightly shaken despite his earlier confidence. As he departed the hall and walked past the massive troll, a man and a woman in priestly robes met Ethacali.
"Come with us. We will show you to your chambers," they said impassively and without expression.
Ethacali's journey to Carn Dûm was difficult. He had passed through the mountains, enduring the torrential spring rains and then into the forbidding cold of Angmar. As a native of Logath in the east, he was unaccustomed to freezing temperatures despite his reputation for being tireless and of iron constitution. He would be glad to get some rest and a hot meal. His first encounter with The Lord of the Nazgûl had gone well. Soon he was soaking in the hot baths of the fortress. Lounging near the side of the bath, he began to read the tome. It was an ancient text bound in a light metal. As Ethacali scanned through it, he noticed some newer writing.
What's this? Runes… written by… by the Necromancer himself… What could possibly be so powerful as to warrant this much attention? By the darkness! This was…this was written towards the end of the First Age!
He poured over the tome for hours, soaking in the words and in the hot water until a Rhûnnish slave approached and knelt, her head down and eyes averted. "The master wishes you to get your rest before your long journey ahead," she said without looking at him.
The mage pulled his eyes away from the tome and looked up to see a young woman from a land that neighbored Logath. She had reddish skin and high cheekbones, but he couldn't see her eyes since she was looking away. He started to rise and shook off some of the water on his arms. The slave stood and offered Ethacali a towel and his robe. The whole time she never made eye contact with the mage. "You are from Rhûn?" he said part as a question, part as a statement.
The woman lowered her head. "I was."
Ethacali could see a hint of pride in her face, but it quickly faded. The lords of Rhûn would send the Witch-King tribute that would include gold and slaves. Their lot was usually miserable, but this woman was well groomed and seemed healthy. "What is your name?"
"I have none. I am a servant of the master. Please, come to your quarters." She led him down a hallway well-lit by lanterns. At the door the woman bowed. "I am for you tonight. The master commands it."
The mage was caught off guard and his voice caught in his throat. "Ummm. I…I am happily married. Please extend my…regrets to the master. I appreciate the thought though." He coughed uncomfortably and nodded to the woman. "Thank you. Have…have a good night," he said as he went through the door. Ethacali closed the door and put his back to it. He pulled a small cameo from his robes with the painting of a dark-haired woman with reddish skin. He let out a deep sigh and lowered his head. He missed Logath more and more with each passing day. He missed the warmth of home and gentle breezes that filled the evening air. He missed the warmth of his wife's touch and smell of her cooking. He missed his sons and their sons and the laughter of children. Then he stopped himself and realized that all the missing in Middle Earth meant nothing. The Witch-King had summoned him and had given him a task. He would see it through and then return to the warmth of Logath.
The Camp of the Macha Mur
Dust kicked up along the road leading up to the camp of the Macha Mur, a Dunnish warband. A rider in a black cloak reined in his horse before the guards who had lowered their spears in his path. "I bring word from the master!" he called. "I must meet with the war chief." He held out a scroll that bore the seal of Angmar. "Make way!" he demanded in an imperious tone.
The two sentries pulled their spears up, allowing the rider to proceed further into the camp. He spurred his horse, and it grunted as it kicked up more dust. As he rode to the largest tent in the camp he pulled the reins hard, causing the horse to rear. "I bring word from the master! The war chief must come forth!" He swung his leg over the saddle and jumped to the ground. He waved the scroll over his head and pulled back the hood of his cloak with his other hand. "Where is the war chief?"
The flap of the tent was pulled back by two warriors clad in leather. Their long, matted hair and bristly beards flowed from beneath steel helmets. A short man with braided brown hair emerged and the rider took a step back. "I am Lumban," the war chief said, swinging his cloak about his shoulders.
The rider gasped. Lumban reeked of alcohol, but what was even more stunning was that his cloak was woven with human and orcish ears, pickled and preserved. "I…I bear a message from the master," the rider said, holding out the scroll. His earlier arrogance had faded at the sight of the war chief.
Lumban stretched his broad shoulders and took the scroll with a huff. He looked the rider up and down. "You are of the high men," he said with disdain, his nostrils flared. "How is it you come to serve the master?"
The rider straightened himself and the haughty expression returned to his face. "I am a lord of Rhudaur," he said, tilting his chin up. "You will obey the master's commands."
Lumban took a sudden step forward, causing the rider to step back again. "You think us barbarians because we are not of the high men. We are the Macha Mur; we are the iron fist of the master. It is because of us that you sleep in your warm chambers at night." Lumban balled up a fist.
The Dúnadan initially grimaced but then looked around at Lumban's guards, a wild, unruly bunch. He took a deep breath and then put his palms out to placate the war chief. "I am but the messenger. I would ask that your read the master's orders."
The war chief cracked the seal on the scroll and began to read. He looked back up at the rider. "The master agrees to this?"
The Dúnadan nodded. "He does. The lands of the rebels will be yours to sack and own. You must begin to march within a fortnight. The tribe of the Siol Nûnaw will march from the north. You will lay waste to those who refuse the master's generosity. You may take slaves and treasure as you will, but what lies in the Yfelwood belongs to the Master."
"I wonder what is in the Yfelwood that is so valuable?" Lumban asked boldly, "that we cannot share in the bounty?" He tugged at one of his braids and looked up at the tall rider.
The rider sneered and looked down his long nose. "You would be wise not to question the commands of the Witch-King," he said, invoking the lord of Angmar's name. He snorted and then turned back to his horse. "Obey or not. The consequences are yours. If you do as he commands, great riches await your…tribe," he said as if the word itself were an object of disgust.
Lumban stood silently as the Dúnadan climbed back into the saddle. A guard released the reins, and the rider sped off, leaving another cloud of dust. The war chief pointed out at the rider and looked to his men. "I still have room for two more ears on my cloak." When the rider had faded from view, he read the scroll again. "This will take some planning," he told his men. "Gather the leaders of the war band. We cannot underestimate the rebels. They are still high men and thus formidable. Soon, all of Rhudaur will be ours and the tribes will be as they were before their invasion."
One of Lumban's bodyguards grunted sourly, scratching his face through his thick ginger beard. "Will we have to share with the Siol Nûnaw? Those prissy twats can barely fight."
"That may be, but I'm not ready to cross the master just yet," Lumban mused. "We must still please Cameth Brin and Angmar…for now. Send a messenger to Garon Monûnaw so we can speak about the march. Once we defeat the remaining high men, we can…renegotiate the spoils."
The Camp of the Siol Nȗnaw
Garon Monûnaw sat on an elegant seat at the war table of the Siol Nûnaw and let out a deep sigh. He pulled at his long white hair and shook his head. "We have finally achieved a lasting peace. Our lands are prosperous, and our people are content. Now, another war," he said in a heavy voice. He turned to his nephew. "Cagh, I'm too old. You will have to lead the war band. You have my trust, nephew. Gather the leaders of the tribe and have them meet here."
Cagh sucked air through his teeth and shook his head. "I will do as you say, uncle, but the Dúnadain are not our enemies. They are our trading partners, and they mean us no harm. We haven't been to war with them for fifty years," he implored. He pointed to his gilt leather cuirass on a nearby stand. "They are craftsmen and philosophers. They know that they've lost control over Rhudaur. Like us, they just want to live in peace. Only five of their towers remain."
Garon put his palm out. "I know, Cagh, I know. You don't have to convince me. I don't like it either. Look around, Cagh, our harvests are plentiful, our trade is profitable. We just planted our crops. Now is not the time to go to war." He then sighed, putting his hand over his face. "But…the Witch-King demands it. We cannot go against him. After all, we are here because he pushed the Dúnadain to the edges of Rhudaur. I fought in the last war almost fifty years ago. We drove the high men back into the Angle. I have no wish for us to go to war again."
"Well, what can we do?" Cagh said, spreading his hands out.
"We have to go to war. We have no choice." Garon pulled out a map of Rhudaur and pointed to the Angle in southwest Rhudaur. "Of the Gondryn towers built a thousand years ago, only the five towers of the Dol Cultirith remain. In the Northern War fifty years ago, we had driven the Dúnadain entirely out of Rhudaur, but bold Vulfredda Melossë counterattacked and retook the Angle. She was an admirable opponent, worthy of respect. House Melossë is the last of the great Dúnadain families in Rhudaur."
Cagh nodded. "They rose against Aldor the Addled. I read about Celebendil Melossë rebelling against King Aldor. Long he stood against the forces of Cameth Brin."
Garon smiled. "I taught you well and you are smart and well read. But Celebendil fell in battle, the last warden of Rhudaur, the Aran-onen-Egladil. I was there when his tower was brought down, and he and his sons slain. I thought the day was won when his grand-daughter Vulfredda rallied the last of the Dúnadain and drove us back. Her stand blocked the passes, preventing our Easterling allies from joining. Arthedain and Cardolan crushed the orcs later that year and we had peace."
Cagh bit his lower lip. "I hate this. War will be the end of us," he said and then turned to go, but Garon caught him by the arm.
"You will find a way for our people to survive. Do what you must. Pretend to fight. March slowly. Say it was the mud. Return to me with our people. Cagh, you will find a way."