Barad Lomin
by Laura White, aka halavana
Chapter XVII
Shadow and Threat
Boriel arrived at the edge of the forest ahead of her mother and uncle
just in time to see a volley of arrows strike the ground at the feet of a
group of men advancing with axes. The men halted and looked down in
disbelief at the darts stuck in the turf just inches from their toes, then
raised their eyes toward the trees. They lifted their axes in defensive
postures and clustered together, speaking to each other in a language somehow
familiar to her, but she couldn’t think from where. Starfoot and Elenlilta
stopped behind her and observed the goings on from a short distance, unnoticed
by the men.
“We do not countenance hewers of trees here,” called
the voice of an elf.
A murmur rose and fell among the men. “Elves!”
“Did you know...?” “How can we...” was all Boriel understood amidst
the babble.
One man raised a hand and the others were silent.
He stepped forward and said in faltering Westron, “We have traveled
long and far and are in need of wood for our fires. Surely you will
not miss one tree...”
Elvish laughter cut him off. A tall, golden haired
elf stepped a few paces out of the trees. “Remind me to visit your farm
when next I have a taste for mutton, for surely you would not miss one sheep.”
Several dozen elves moved into view, all with their bows at the ready.
The man sighed. His companions moved forward but
he raised his hand again and they halted. “Stay, you fools. We
cannot hope to win against so many,” he commanded them in their language.
“We’ll find our wood elsewhere...” he said to the elves in a resigned tone
and turned to go.
A change came over the face of the lead elf. He
seemed to be looking at them with a compassionate eye now, measuring their
tall, thin frames against the size of their clothing, their gaunt expressions
against their apparent youth, the quality of their clothing against the wear
and tear it suffered. Boriel noted all this as well and wondered what
the elf would do, for she had never known him to be exceptionally compassionate,
or at least not toward her. “Whence came you?” he called in a tone less
stern. “We do not often meet men of your speech.”
The men murmured again, and again their leader bade them
be quiet.
“I am not surprised. We are just come from Dunland
and do not travel this way willingly. I beg your forgiveness for we
speak the Westron but haltingly. My name translates into your language
as Osprey. Call me that if you wish. These two are my eldest sons,”
he indicated two youths on his left, “and these three are my younger brothers.”
He waved to the young men at his right. “Our father, wives and children
remain at our camp near the shore of the great sea.”
“We know of your camp and who remains there. It
is a long journey from Dunland for so many,” observed the elf. “And
a hard road for mortal women and children. Have you any need besides
wood?”
The man called Osprey gaped at the elves. He then
watched them askance a moment with a troubled expression on his face.
“We were told elves cared not for the sufferings of mortal kind.”
“Perhaps we grow weary of their constant cycles,” said
the elf. “But we ourselves have suffered such trials and are not unaffected
by them. My name is Taseras. It is my duty to guard the borders
of our land. If all you seek is drift wood for your fires, there will
be plenty along the seashore, which is much closer to your camp than our woods.”
“We hoped to build a home near here...” began the man
but closed his mouth when Taseras looked aside sharply.
“Eregil! What are you doing here?!” said Taseras,
moving a few steps toward Starfoot.
“Just checking up on my baby brother, and wondering if
you still call me by my mothername,” laughed the minstrel.
Osprey rolled his eyes, cast down his ax and threw up
his hands in exasperation when he saw Elenlilta, Boriel and Starfoot. “Even
their women, children and minstrels come against us!” he exclaimed.
“We would not come against you, except that your axes
give us pause,” said Taseras, looking back and forth between Osprey and Starfoot,
a calculating look on his face. “We will not permit you to harm our
trees.”
“You’ve been hurt yourself!” exclaimed Boriel, rushing
toward one of the youths before her mother or uncles could stop her.
The boy raised his ax higher and she said “Oh put that down,” as several elven
archers took aim again.
Osprey snapped at his son in their language and the boy
lowered his ax.
“Well, your wound’s been tended somewhat but we can do
better,” said the elf maiden. She took a vial from her pack and let
a few drops fall on a long gash on the youth’s forearm. “There.
It should stop hurting soon.”
The boy flexed his hand and looked at his father, but
said nothing.
Taseras called Starfoot and Elenlilta to consult with
him. “Your coming is at an opportune moment,” he said to his brother
and sister. “Many messages have I sent to Dor Luin and received many
more in return. I must remain near my post for so have the Mirren commanded
me, but you may go to their camp and discern what you can of their intentions,
if they have spoken truly. Are we aiding Bor or harboring Ulfang, if
you catch my meaning. Also see what other hurts they have. Go,
if you will, for I may not.”
“We will take some others with us,” said Starfoot.
Taseras agreed and indicated a half dozen of his archers
to join them. He then stepped back into the trees with the rest of his
host, and vanished from sight of the men. The men were fearful of the
archers and avoided them, preferring to speak with Boriel, Elenlilta and
Starfoot. They walked the distance to their camp and when those remaining
behind saw their folk returning with an elven escort, they did not know whether
to welcome their kin, or flee from the elves. Osprey called to them
and they stayed in sight. A very old man crept from a tent, shaking
his fist and brandishing a rusted, broken tipped sword. A woman held
him back but he continued to shout at the elves.
“I beg you pardon my father. Since the death of
his wife, my mother, in our flight, and our inability to give her proper burial,
he has been thus,” said Osprey.
“We would hear your whole tale,” said Starfoot, “ as
soon as we see to your hurts, for they are many.”
The other elves joined Starfoot inspecting their reluctant
charges, applying healing ointments and cordials. A woman spoke to Osprey
sternly, and he answered quietly, but with equal force and she nodded and
submitted to Boriel’s ministrations. The rest of the day and all that
night the elves tended the Dunlendings. Osprey observed in silent suspicion,
then spoke to Starfoot when he came to sit beside him.
“All our lives we are taught to fear and hate elves,
we though for good reason. Why are you aiding us? What do you
want?”
Starfoot laughed. “What do you have that we need?
Nothing, except perhaps news, for knowledge is our great love. To seek
out obscurities and tell each other tales. Mortals rarely stay awake
once we begin story telling. And aside from that, it is not our custom
to leave unfortunates without aiding them. Our elven lord has commanded
us to assist when possible, though many elves keep to themselves, I am sure.
And perhaps some good may come of this. A town called Barad Lomin has
recently suffered grievous loss at the hands of goblins. They may, perhaps,
grant you leave to reside in the homes of the slain, or to use the timbers
to build homes to your liking for I think they will not like to use them.”
At the mention of goblins, Osprey gasped and looked with
fear at the elf. “We have had dealings with goblins before. Had
I known that this country was troubled by them...”
“It is troubled no longer. Our elven lord has seen
to that. I cannot blame you for wishing not to live in homes once owned
by those slain so, but if you are willing, it is a possibility. They
are good, well tended homesteads. It would be a shame to see them crumble
to ruin. If you wish, I will speak to the men of Barad Lomin.”
Osprey nodded. “We will think on it. As for
news, that I can give aplenty. Once we lived by consensus in the valleys
of Ered Nimrais until our leaders bade us move to Dunland. Now we live
by edict from masters unseen in the north at a place called Angmar.
They stirred our hatreds and fears, promising anything we wanted. But
my family doubted them. Several of us held counsel and my elder brother
went with questions. His head was returned to us, packed in a box of
salt. In Ered Nimrais we lived peacefully, having little contact with
outsiders of any sort. Now men of Rhudaur take control, impressing our
sons into service, with their sons as captains and ours as foot soldiers,
ripe for slaughter. And all direction and order comes from this Angmar.
I would not sacrifice my sons to such as they so I departed with my family,
thinking to return to Ered Nimrais. But they liked it not that we should
leave and came after us. They have been unable to make us return, so
they have contented themselves with killing. Once we were a strong group
of more than fifty men, not counting women or children. Now those able
to hold a sword, male or female, are dwindled to less than twenty. We
have done deeds which cause us shame and bitter remorse at the remembrance,
having smothered our own infants to keep our pursuers from hearing their cries.
Few of our children and no infants remain. Three days ago we escaped
with the wounds you see upon us here.” Osprey held his head in his
hands. “I wonder if our survival was worth the price we paid for it,”
he murmured.
Starfoot thought a long while after Osprey fell silent.
Then the elf said, “follow us, at what pace you can. I will speak to
men of Barad Lomin. If nothing else, you may build upon lands unclaimed
between here and there.”
Osprey sighed. “That is more than we expected.
Our legends tell of kin who lived in Eryn Vorn, fighting off the ship builders
until elves came. When we were prevented from going south to Ered Nimrais,
we thought to seek for them, but perhaps they fled from the elves long ago.
We have nowhere else to go, and do not much care anymore.”
“I know of which men you speak,” said Starfoot. “Morfindel
sent the Mirren to Eryn Vorn to prevent the Numenoreans from felling all the
trees. Your kin could have lived peacefully among us, for our purpose
was the same, but they were afraid and fled. I think servants of the
enemy whispered lies, putting fear in their hearts. I am uncertain what
became of them. Perhaps our elven lord knows.”
“Who is this elven lord of whom you speak so often?
And what, or who, is the Mirren?” asked Osprey.
“The Mirren are our elven lord and lady’s twin sons,
Mirdan and Mirlin. Our elven lord and lady are Morfindel and...”
Boriel turned way from them, for she had heard the tales
of her father and grandparents so often, she could tell them herself.
While she listened to Osprey and Starfoot discuss dreadful tales, hollow eyed
children had crept near, clustered together, silent and watchful, keeping
away from everyone. Now that the elf maiden knew what they had witnessed,
she understood their complete loss of trust. Boriel held out a bit of
lembas to the child closest to her. The little girl looked at it suspiciously
and would not take it until Boriel put the crumb on a dry leaf and left it
there, moving away a few paces. The girl then snatched it and ate it.
As she chewed and swallowed, a change came over her face, like the first
taste of a delicacy. Then she spoke to her companions, saying something
like “It’s good. See if the elf will give you some too.” Boriel
wondered why their language was so familiar to her but put the thought aside
for at this point the children approached her with hands extended, a cautiously
hopeful look in their eyes. She took a whole wafer of lembas and divided
it among them until they were satisfied.
Once all their hurts were tended, the Dunlendings looked
upon the elves with less fear. They agreed to follow Starfoot to Barad
Lomin and for the first time the elf thought he saw a bit of hope kindled
in their eyes. They packed their few belongings, broke camp and were
on the road in less than an hour, once they came to the decision. When
they arrived at the outskirts of the forest, Taseras called Starfoot aside.
“Have we done well in rendering aid, or have we welcomed
a brood of vipers into our midst?” he asked.
“I know not,” replied Starfoot, “but I will watch them
closely for a time. Bor or Ulfang? I cannot say. Perhaps
Morfindel or the Mirren can. Considering the harsh treatment reported
by Osprey, the Dunlendings are unlikely to spy for their former masters.
I will speak further with Osprey on the subject.”
Taseras bowed slightly to his brother and passed his
eyes over the group one last time. When his eyes lighted upon Boriel,
his upper lip twitched slightly and he turned away, once again vanishing
into the forest with his archers.
The journey to Barad Lomin took many days, even with
the ponies and horses the elves brought. The Dunlendings were almost
worn out because of their flight and Starfoot did not wish to cause them
further trouble by rushing them. Along the way Boriel began to contemplate
her life thus far. She had only recently entered her 36th year and
was still quite young for an elf, but at times she felt much older.
There were a few elves in Eryn Vorn and Dor Luin she knew had returned for
rebirth who mentioned having such feelings when they were younger.
As she walked alongside her mother she asked “Who am I?”
Elenlilta smiled at the obvious question, but grew serious
when she saw her daughter’s earnest, troubled countenance. Rather than
offering a witty retort, she responded with a question of her own. “Why
do you ask?”
“Because I know things I’m not supposed to. And
I hear people talk in a language I’ve never learned, yet I still am able to
pick out some meaning. Are all elves like this at my age?”
Elenlilta drew her daughter near and draped an arm around
her shoulders. “Only those who have lived before experience such things
when their memories begin to awaken. I do not know exactly who you are.
Only that you are one of my ancestors, or one of Mirdan’s. Perhaps
your grandparents will know.”
“Was I sent back? Why does Taseras dislike me so?
Do I remind him of someone?”
“I cannot speak for Taseras but those who return to us
come only of their own free will. You are here because you chose to be.”
“But why? Might grandpa and grandma know that too?
Can we ask them? When will I know?”
“You will know when the time is right. When next
we visit Dor Luin, of course you may ask them anything, but...”
Boriel would have spoken again, but Elenlilta took her
daughter’s chin in her hand and said, “Right now you are an elf maiden of
36 years of the sun. You are a child at the beginning of a long, wondrous
adventure called life. Rejoice in that while you may. The weight
of memory will be yours to bear soon enough.”
Boriel contemplated this advice briefly, then spied one
of the children wandering from the path and went to fetch him. Elenlilta
laughed at the sudden transition and walked on. Once the child was brought
back, Boriel followed him, deep in thought. Perhaps her mother was
right. Let things come in their time and don’t rush them.
They camped about a mile away from the town. Osprey
explained their reluctance to approach the town saying they wished not to
be presented as beggars. Starfoot rode ahead, having called Nimthalion
from his leisure, with Osprey and one of his brothers, and Elenlilta with
several other elves. Boriel remained behind with the Dunlending women
and children and three elf archers who now carried their unstrung bows fastened
to their quivers.
As they approached the town, the bells of the tower greeted
the elves, but made no sound regarding the Dunlendings. Starfoot counted
this a good sign and led them to the home of the magistrate.
The magistrate of Barad Lomin was reluctant to welcome
them without a counsel meeting and sent messages to many of the towns men
that they should come immediately. Brown, Green, Seamster and Vines
were the first to arrive, then five others and last, being farthest from town,
came Woodman who these days rarely left his farm. Once the men arrived,
they moved to the Ringing Well where the discussion lasted many hours.
Osprey related to them all he had told Starfoot and the elven minstrel in
his turn told his side of the tale. The entire town came and went by
turns, listening to the story as it unfolded. Nimris, Cory and Galen,
Woodman’s triplet sons, found a place in the back and kept it by relay.
Morwen followed unbidden and watched the newcomers with
a strange light in her eyes. She was silent however, so no one paid
her much mind, except her husband Nimris, the lead triplet. He listened
closely to her translation of what she understood of the discussion between
Osprey and his brother while the others debated. “They are discouraged.
They think we don’t believe them, or that they are here to spy for the goblins
or their master. All they want is a place to live quietly. They
say ‘talking is over valued, but necessary all the same and while they talk
we languish.’ Perhaps you might tell your father what they are saying
when they think no one understands.”
Vines, who had moved to the back, also listened to Morwen’s
translation and suddenly stepped forward to reenter the debate. He had
undergone a change of heart since the death of his family and was even more
deeply affected by the departure of his wife, who returned to her family in
Duinbar with neither farewell nor backward glance. “Let them come among
us if they will. If no where else, they can occupy my father’s old
place until they wish to buy it, or move elsewhere. I want never to set foot
upon even the threshold of the door, ever again.”
The townspeople murmured in surprise. Vines had
been closest in confidence with Millerson and no one expected such a statement
from him, who had at first been so vehement in his accusations of the elves.
Vines knew this and said “Turn no such surprised faces at me. Even I
can see through a wall eventually. And recognize folly for what it is.
My heart may change again many times in the future, but for now, I have not
such an interest in gain as before, considering what I’ve lost. Millerson
promised much and delivered little. And took even more. You’ll
hear no charitable word for him from me. If these refugees are willing
to inhabit the place, let them.”
The magistrate called the gathering to order and said,
“Are we all in agreement?” to which the others replied “Aye!” When he
asked “Any oppose?” the room was silent. He then turned to Vines.
“Your property is yours to do with as you see fit, but taking into consideration
the events of the recent past, we ask that you act as their host, until we
are more sure of them.” He turned to Osprey and said, “we mean no offense,
but we are not so trusting to outsiders these days.”
Osprey bowed. “Were our places reversed, I think
you would not find my people so generous,” he said. “We thank you, and
for this kindness, we shall be your first line of defense against the enemy
in the east, rangers on your borders to drive away the enemy when we can
and warn of their coming when we cannot. Also we will freely teach all
we can for the benefit of both our peoples. Angmar is coming.
Perhaps not soon, but we have seen their preparations. The Witch King’s
armies will descend as a flood. We cannot hope to defeat them, but we
can make ways of escape. I suggest we make our own preparations to
that end.”
The people of Barad Lomin felt a renewal of sorts, though
many were skeptical that the threat from Angmar was as dire as Osprey claimed.
They were very willing to learn what skills Osprey could teach, however.
Over time they supposed their young men and women would marry, eventually
absorbing the Dunlendings, but for now both were content to dwell as neighbors
somewhat apart.
One thing which must be said for Millerson, he was not stupid. Under
the tutelage of Angmar’s sword master, he learned quickly and discovered much
of his heritage. The Witch King was also called The Nazgul, or the
Captain of the Nazgul. His name were reported as Tindomul Er-Murâzor
but Millerson was warned never to use that name or call him by it. He
was the brother of a Numenorean king, but also descended from the same Numenorean
sea captain and elf woman as Keren. The kings had to find wives for
their princes from somewhere. Another half-elven line seemed ideal
to them. Millerson was a descendant from another branch of the same
line. There was much coming and going in those days. Few could
keep lines of descent straight. But the Witch King knew. Morfindel
was his ancestor as well as Millerson’s. And through this elf, all
were descended from the legendary Fëanor. Millerson took delight
in the fact that Morfindel also knew of the relationship. No doubt
it caused the elf lord great distress to know that his flesh and blood were
aligned with the Witch King, and his master, Sauron.
Only descendants of renowned Black Numenoreans were welcome
into the confidence of Angmar and of those, few were invited to become captains
and generals. The rest remained dutiful sergeants and lieutenants, knowing
that their lives depended upon the faithful performance of their duties.
Quick death in battle was preferable to being brought before their masters
in disgrace.
How things had come full circle! More than 500
years ago, one of Millerson’s ancestors stole the sword he now carried from
its supposed rightful owner, a cousin who took the name Taurnir. Woodman.
The elf Morfindel, who was a sword smith of some renown, had forged it for
the Numenorean who wed his daughter. It was handed down, father to eldest
son, for many centuries. When it was discovered missing, that cousin
sought for it with all his power, but it was lost to him. He relocated
to Barad Lomin and never again spoke to his kin who remained in Duinbar.
Millerson was privately amused by all this, but had little
opportunity to reflect on it. The Witch King had a mission for him which
took many hours and days and weeks in preparation. He swore he would
not fail this time. His instructors dealt with him in a precise mixture
of ruthlessness and leniency, demanding absolute obedience, but patiently
reinforcing those things he did not understand and offering reserved praise
when he met their expectations.
“We must be patient,” said Angmar’s sword master, who
served as Millerson’s primary tutor, at their first meeting. “We strive
for a goal beyond ourselves. Think of it. We shall reach from the depths
to the heights. If you are to take my place, be prepared to be tested
to your limits and beyond. Elves are powerful beings who enjoy peace
and quiet, but they are fearful and vigilant. We must not show our hand
too soon. There is an elf who escaped our master’s grasp once.
He was very close to becoming one of us, and our supreme lord still covets
him. If not as a vassal, at least as a prisoner, either here in Angmar,
in Mordor’s Barad Dur, or of his own fear in his own realm. It matters
not which. He is the last of the great elven smiths who know of the
making of rings of power and would be a prize trophy. We think to finish
the job, or frighten him so that he will not move against us, but we can wait.
Elves grow weary of the fight, being weighed down with memory, while men
are renewed with each generation. We can defeat them, and we shall
in time, though this will not happen during my life, and perhaps not in yours
either. We will permit no question from you, only obedience. If
we are sure of you, that our goals are your goals, we will tolerate mistakes,
for you have much to learn. However, if in our estimation you prove
disloyal, we shall kill you. But do not be dismayed or judge yourself
too harshly. We have only begun our preparations. Let us be your
judges and our goals be your goals. Be patient...”
So Millerson studied, and worked, and fought as never
before in his life. Where once he had despised his lessons, now he absorbed
them and wanted more. Old Mr. Brown, the school master, would never
believe this, he thought with a laugh. But then Brown’s lessons were
so dry and boring. Now Millerson discovered things about himself and
his lineage that put desire for conquest in his heart. He learned all
he could of the Black Numenoreans and their science and lore. Spells,
incantations, enchantments invoking the name Melkor amazed him with their
efficacy. The farther he delved, the deeper he desired to go.
And that ring. The one the Witch King loaned him. Wearing it he
saw things far away, in distance and time. Goblins obeyed him.
Underlings bowed to him. Soon only his tutor and the Witch King himself
were the only ones who showed him no deference, and to these he willingly
bowed. His ambition grew daily and his superiors fed it, as well as
fed upon it. He was loath to return the ring, but in its place the Witch
King gave him a bracelet like a narrow shackle. On it was the same
fiery eye as on the ring and Millerson supposed some how the two were connected,
for the bracelet had a similar effect.
They gave him a wife, a woman of like temperament and
learning, and similar lineage, who hated elves and their allies as strongly
as did he. Soon she was a closer companion than anyone in his life before.
She laughed when he told her about Keren Woodman.
At times Millerson grew angry, raging against his father
for his laxness. “I am too soft!” he growled at his wife one day after
a particularly grueling session with the sword master. “My father should not
have allowed me to be so fat and lazy! He should have forced me to
attend to my lessons! When the goblins ate him he got what he deserved
for his inattention to my instruction. He should have let me suffer
want instead of allowing me to snatch food from his plate when the harvest
was spare. It would have made me tougher now.”
His wife only laughed. “When you were a child,
did you ever cease to whine when you thought yourself over worked? Or when
a brother or sister received even a morsel more than you did? It was
your own doing. Spare me your self pity, allow me to see to your scratches,
and get back to work.”
He would have slapped her, but she pulled a knife concealed
in her skirt. Glowering at him, she said, “Do not think to intimidate
me the way you would that Keren Woodman you once courted. I’ll not stand
for it. Particularly if you expect me to bear your children. You
think your life has become hard, but you don’t know the half of it.
Didn’t you know that the man you are in training to replace is my grandfather?
I’ve but to whisper a word in his ear, and he’ll have you thrown to the goblins
that now grovel so nicely for you. I will be your partner, but I’ll
never be your lackey. And if you raise your hand to me once more, you’ll
not regret it long.”
At first Millerson was even more angry, but now that
he knew who his wife really was, he laughed. The Witch King must have
plans for him to arrange a marriage with such a woman for him. He sighed
and pointed to his back, submitting to her attention. As she massaged
his shoulders he thought of news regarding the departure of an entire clan
of Dunlendings which angered his master. Now most of them were dead,
but a small number escaped. Millerson wanted to go after them but his
masters said that was the duty of another and they wanted him to continue
following instructions given to him so far regarding this mission they wanted
him to take. Something to do with finishing the job of snaring that
elf. They said they would tell him what he needed to know, when he needed
to know it. Appeared to be a test of sorts, of his loyalty if nothing
else. Well, they would find him loyal.
For the first time in his life, he was being instructed
by men who knew more than he and were obviously his betters. He would
have to learn humility, he supposed. The absolute obedience they expected
from him, they promised that he would receive from his army, once he proved
worthy of it. Were the Witch King merely a mortal man like any other
leader, Millerson was sure he could usurp him eventually. But how does
one usurp the deathless? He shuddered, whether from the way his wife
struck a nerve in her massage or from thinking of his master, Millerson was
unsure.
A messenger arrived, calling them to the audience chamber
of the Witch King and they followed immediately. Two captains returned
from pursuit of the escaped Dunlendings stood to give their reports to the
sword master. The first, contrite, stated his part in the events, saying
he thought the murder of their leader was what set them off and it should
not have been done. Rather they should have been promised anything they
wanted and their questions answered until they were more securely united with
Angmar. The other boasted of his part in the action, claiming cruelty
was the only thing the riffraff would understand, and besides, it gave good
sport to watch the goblins do their work.
In the back of the audience chamber, a dark figure stirred
in the seat, lifting a hand, bidding the two to approach. The first
gulped and walked slowly forward, his head bowed. The second strode
ahead and halted just a few feet from the throne, peering with confidence
into the shadow. The figure arose and moved forward, its long black
cloak dragging the ground behind. As the Witch King approached, the
first man began to tremble, clenching his fists and shutting his eyes tightly.
The specter seemed to hover over him a moment, then moved him aside.
The captain’s knees nearly buckled but he kept his feet. All this time
the second man stood with his arms crossed over his chest, a smirk on his
face, gloating at his companion’s discomfiture. Now the figure moved
closer to him and a look of confusion replaced the man’s leer. He began
to tremble also and looked about him as if a swarm of bees were descending
upon him.
“We wanted them as our allies,” rasped the Witch King,
each word drawn out in a harsh whisper. “Your companion was correct.
You should have answered their questions, promised anything and kept them
near. We counted upon them to increase our armies. You should
not have let your amusement interfere with our plans. Now you have set
us back many years. We find your boasting tedious. You have disobeyed
us for the last time...”
The man covered his ears, making babbling noises.
Then shrieking wildly and swatting about with his hands, he ran to a door
which led to a balcony, burst through and was carried by his momentum over
the balustrade. No one went to look over the side. No one even
moved until the Witch King spoke again in the ear of the first captain.
“Be more forceful with your underlings when you serve
us,” the wraith whispered. “Do not doubt what you know of our commands.”
“Yes master,” said the man and bowed. The Witch
King waved a hand toward the exit and the captain departed. Millerson
wondered why his wife followed the captain but stopped short of going after
them.
“Millerson,” said the wraith as he slowly moved back
to his throne, not looking at the one whose name he had spoken.
At the sound of his name, Millerson turned about, his
heart pounding on his ribcage as if it wanted to follow the fallen captain.
“Your time approaches. Be ready when you are called.”
Slowly the Witch King returned to the seat in the shadows and sat there, unmoving
as before.
Millerson chose to imitate the first captain and bowed.
“Yes master,” he said and obeyed when the wraith motioned for him to leave
the chamber by the same door the captain and his wife had taken. He
found them speaking quietly a short way down the corridor. They took
no notice of him when he approached them and kept talking.
“You did well, my brother,” said his wife. “Our
father would be proud of you...”
“Ah. Family matters,” said Millerson, and would
have withdrawn but they drew him in now. The captain greeted him and
together they went to his chambers for a meal.
Later in the evening they strolled the grounds of the
fortress. Millerson had to admit that if he had been involved in the
pursuit of the Dunlendings, he would have done as the second captain.
He knew it. The sudden realization of all he had yet to learn before
he was ready for his mission descended upon him heavily. He resolved
to double his efforts. Clearly there was no turning back for him now.