Treachery of Men RPG

[piosenniel]

"Yet neither by Wolf, nor by Balrog, nor by Dragon, would Morgoth have achieved his end, but for the treachery of Men."

~~~

For the first year since the Battle of Sudden Flame, it felt as if spring had repelled the pitiless touch of the north, as if the Earthqueen’s power had pervaded Beleriand after a long estrangement. The pair of riders upon iron-grey mounts forded the rivulets off the Gelion, careered through the meadows succoured by the waters beyond its banks, and cut swift, leafy paths through copses.

Only one indication of the danger that this temporary idyll still risked could be discerned – the speed which the riders maintained. It spoke of urgency and intensity. There was something insatiable about the journey of the two Elves, as if even the spans of their lives were limited after all, as if bare months of this vitality remained to be enjoyed, raced through, swigged to their dregs. And so, as it turned out, it came to pass.

But such reflections are suitable only for melancholic lays, for sad dreamers who hope that thinking of the past and lamenting it may bring it back again. Lachrandir, Knight of the Dispossessed, formerly of Thargelion, was no dreamer; and this was not a memory of the past, rather a duty of the present. He galloped on, his eyes on his path, his hands calm and inert at his side, belying the frenetic activity that gripped the messenger and the stallion that bore him. In lieu of a saddle-bag – for his was a high-blooded beast, and he did not presume to sully it with harness and reins, instead riding bareback in the usual Elven fashion – he bore a leather haversack slung across his back; its contents, carefully arranged, did not make a sound or apparently jostle at all on the journey.

The same could not quite be said of the other rider’s burden. There was a strange symmetry about the pair of mounted travellers and their steeds; for they were much of the same stamp in colouring and feature – the Elves dark haired and long-limbed, the horses pale - but one rider and his horse were younger and smaller, with a combination of impetuosity and hesitance that called to mind apprentices before their masters. A jangle of metal now rang out from this younger Elf’s bundle.

“I told you, Tathren, to be careful with the silver,” Lachrandir hectored at him. “We’re riding to a country where nine Men in ten have never seen a coin before; a country still wild and far from tamed with law. The summons we carry is of vital importance, boy; we can’t let it go astray due to some adan thug’s excitement over a glint of...”

“Sorry,” the other said, sounding a little crestfallen.

“Never mind, boy, it’s of little importance. But don’t let it happen again, Tathren.”

Lachrandir gave a short look back at his companion before resuming his watch on the road, spurring his stallion to a slightly higher pace. He has something of his uncle about him, I suppose. He’ll learn yet, he concluded to himself.

~~~

“...Forinasmuch as thou, Ulfang, called the Black, hath been accustomed to owe liege-homage, saving thy dignity amidst the tribes, to us, Caranthir, fourth son of Fëanor, rightful lord of Thargelion but for the false disseisin of the Enemy; by this and by the ties of loyalty between thy vassals and mine, thou art bidden to provide fighting men in service, to the number of seven thousand, under thine own command or under such a proxy as it pleases thee to dispatch, to meet with our own powers and those of our youngest brothers, the Lords Amrod and Amras, on the twenty-seventh day of the month of May; this army being dispatched, under the lordship of our eldest brother Maedhros, Lord of Himring, to avenge upon the Enemy the grievous and perfidious hurts that he hath inflicted. For amongst these art listed the slaying traitorly of our sire and grandsire, the ruin of our realms in the north, and the unlawful withholding of the Silmarilli, greatest work upon Arda, that our father Fëanor crafted, and that we hath sworn, on pain of the Everlasting Darkness, to regain. So it is ordained on this, the eleventh day of April. And we hath sworn, once having raised up this great Union of Maedhros, never to abandon it, and charge thee to swear likewise.”

Such was the main part of the missive of Caranthir, which Lachrandir carried.

~~~

“Lachrandir!” Tathren cried with gladness. “I see smoke rising not far off among homesteads, surrounding a great hall, hewn of oak and ash...”

“I have seen it too, pup,” Lachrandir answered, smiling. “Do not think that my sight is so greatly shadowed by age and toil. That is the rude dwelling of Ulfang, Chieftain of the Southern Easterlings. What do you think of it, lad?”

“Well...” Tathren started, his brow creasing and lips twisting as he tried to find the words. Lachrandir laughed, and his mirth, coming from such a stern visage, was surpassingly bright and clear.

“Well, exactly. I hope you weren’t expecting much in the way of hospitality...this is no Hithlum, Tathren, and it is no Hador Goldenhead who rules it. Put all you have seen and heard of the Edain from your head! This is Easterling country,” Lachrandir murmured, his smile thin now, “and it is another state of affairs altogether.”

They paused in thought for a few moments. Tathren was the first to speak.

“Stop dawdling, Uncle! Don’t you know the summons we carry is of vital importance?”

“Mind that minstrel’s glib tongue, you,” Lachrandir replied. And I’m not your uncle either; he was a better Elf than I’ll ever be, even if he did charge me with looking after you, young wastrel.

“Very well. Race me, boy,” he added, kicking his horse into a run and charging after the tiny stockade and palisade walls that beckoned in the distance. After a short while the envoy and his page bid their steeds halt in front of the gate into the settlement. As they passed, they had seen the first Ulfings of their journey, who had stared at the towering, fair-featured strangers bearing the star of Fëanor on their tunics in curiosity mixed with no little fright. The guards, too, goggled as they shuffled the gates open. Tathren quickly assumed an air of composure, though he rode tentatively, all too aware that he, an Elf far from mature, towered almost a foot over most of the Ulfings.

In such a manner the envoys reached their journey’s conclusion, passing under the wall where the two banners, Ulfang’s claw and Fëanor’s star on their black field, shifted together in the April breeze.


--- Anguirel

[piosenniel]

Celuien's post

The night before the Envoy's arrival


Stars gleamed brightly in the midnight sky over the Ulfings' settlement. A warm breeze mingled with the new-budding branches, stirring them to a gentle whisper that played behind the song of the night birds. Peace reigned over all, save in one house, where even at the late hour, a light still moved in the windows.

Ulfast knew no rest. For hours he had lain awake in bed, staring ahead as though he could will his sight beyond the wooden beams to gaze beyond the ceiling of his chamber to the still darkness of the night. His spirit was troubled, though he could not say why. Time dragged by and sleep yet failed him until, at last, he lit a lamp and stirred uneasily in the room, changing his nightshirt for a brown tunic and breeches with a black cloak and boots. Perhaps a walk in the open air would settle his spirits.

Concealing a dagger on his belt, Ulfast stole out into the night. He walked in the dark, savoring the odors of loam and cut wood that filled the air, but ever alert and with one hand on the dagger handle. No enemy would catch him unaware.

A turn near the town's gate brought him to the standards of the Claw and Star. Though the symbols could not be seen under the dim moonlight, Ulfast heard the standards flapping in the breeze, and the images were clear as day in his mind. The Star of Fëanor. Not long ago, the Ulfings had been alone, allied only to themselves and a few other tribes in the east. The Dark Lord who held sway from the north was far away, a name to be feared, but not a presence in the daily lives of the people of Ulfang. But now they had thrown their lots in with the Elves. Ulfast had spoken in favor of that choice. The Dark Lord was slipping. The Elves were in open rebellion against him, and were ever seeking new allies for their cause. A new power was rising. Not today, or for a year of tomorrows, or even for long winters after that, but it was rising, and the Ulfings would rise with it to new power beyond their wildest imaginings in the old days.

Ulfast walked on, still lost in his thought, until the sun peered over the horizon. He then turned back to his house to rest before the business of the day began.

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Mithalwen's post


Exhilaration and apprehension had been the emotions duelling in Tathren's heart the length of their journey, for he was young and high hearted and no danger or duty could dispel the delight of youth freed from maternal supervision to ride far and fast on one of the finest horses his people possessed alongside - well at the heels of - their swiftest rider. Yet this was no essay of skill to fill a time of leisure; though he had spoken in jest to Lachrandir he had wit enough to appreciate the significance of their mission and the honour that had been accorded him.

An honour he hoped that was not entirely to the charge put on Lachrandir some fifteen years ago by his brother in arms. Tathren's mischievous form of address had masked a certain sincerity, for he admired Lachrandir as much as his late uncle and, if truth be told, liked him rather better, never having quite forgiven or forgotten.... but this was not a time for walking the paths of memory. He dispelled the recollection. as his senses were assaulted by the sights sounds and indeed smells of the Ulfing settlement.

Lachrandir had spoken truly; this was unlike anything he had experienced before. Though their own dwellings since the loss of Thargelion were far from the finest of the Noldor, it was in the nature of his people to make things fair even when they made for necessity. He doubted that any straits would lead them to make buildings as crudely as this. The roughly thatched huts seemed to be built of wattle and daub and were arranged haphazardly within the stockade . In such buildings we might house our beasts, thought Tathren, as indeed they seem to… but we would not dwell so close by them. The young elf was hard put not to gawp as much as the guards. He found these people quite as astonishing as they did him. To his eyes they were no more finely constructed than their dwellings - short, squat and crude. Scarce taller than dwarves, he realised having dismounted and somewhat reluctantly entrusted his colt to one of them. His face betrayed none of the wonderment he felt; he used every scrap of self control to assume the dignity he deemed essential to his role as he followed Lachrandir into the great hall. Tathren had tried to ride by his side, now he walked carefully in his shadow, his dark grey eyes watching, waiting …

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Folwren's post

The day was uncommon fine, and Uldor realized it. The wind felt warm on his face, unlike the usual, brisk, cold breeze that had been coming down the past month. The cape on his back was almost unnecessary. Yet, somehow, he liked the way it blew up in the wind as he paced the foot of the wall. He reached the gate and stepped out of the shadow of the wall. The guards leaped to their feet and to attention. He cast them a sharp look.

“Anything new?” he asked, merely to make one of the guards take that ridiculous grimace off his face.

“No, sir.”

Uldor grunted, cast one more critical glance at the men, and passed on. He wandered back towards the great house. He bound up the stairs onto the broad porch and pushed through the great, heavy, wood doors.

“Where’ve you been all this time?” a voice demanded at once. He turned sharply, to find his brother at his elbow. He sighed.

“My dear Ulwarth,” he said, placing his hand on his poor, half-witted brother’s shoulder. “I’ve just been out walking. Surely you did not miss me? I have not been gone long, and you don’t usually notice my absence,” he added with a sneer.

Ulwarth pushed Uldor’s hand away with surprising speed and impatience for a man supposed to be slow. “Our father has been waiting for you this past half hour. Two elven ambassadors have arrived and father wanted to wait for all of us to be there before receiving the message that they bring.”

“Elven? Elves?” Uldor repeated. His black eyes sharpened significantly and nearly flashed under his lowering brows. “Who are they? Who are they from?”

“No questions, no questions, brother, hurry, hurry. . .” Ulwarth grasped Uldor’s hand and led him forward quickly. He reached closed door and laid his hand on the handle. Uldor pulled his hand back abruptly. He cleared his throat, straightened the cape at his shoulders, ran a quick hand through his hair, laying it nicely, and nodded to Ulwarth.

Ulwarth turned, rolling his eyes as his face turned away from his brother, and opened the door. He led the way in.

The room that they entered was a considerable size. A window on the wall opposite the door allowed broad beams of sunlight to stream in. His third brother and his father sat within, as did two strangers. All of them, save his father, rose as the Uldor and Ulwarth entered. Ulfang made the introduction.

“Uldor, this is Lachrandir, of the house of Feanor, messenger from Caranthir, our overlord.”

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Durelin's post

Passing in front of a mirror in her temporary bedchamber, which the King Ulfang had so “graciously” presented to her for her services (services he had never received but which his son had, who might as well be seated in the old man’s throne), Thuringwethil, Women of the Secret Shadow, shuddered, she herself a mirror to her soul as a ripple of disgust passed through it. What was this horrible body?

Her bones themselves dripped with a deep hatred for the creatures called ‘Men,’ but even more so for the Children of Ilúvatar: silly children who could not even play nicely with their friends, which had made it all too easy for Morgoth to bring the little Ulfing king to his knees. Thankfully the dark powers which she served would use these beings and then dispose of them. Thuringwethil felt she might just have to hang around long enough to see that disposal, but not if it meant remaining in this body for any longer than was necessary. To think that now she, Woman of the Secret Shadow and faithful servant to Sauron, acting often as his voice itself, was now something Men low and base could admire with hungry eyes that say prey within read. She had not been the one to fail! O, but her poor master…

She had to endure one man in particular, though his simple ways could sometimes amuse her. Uldor really though he had power, that he was manipulating, that he was triumphing and would show everyone, even the Dark Lord himself, what he was made of. But Thuringwethil already knew, which her master knew even better – he was but flesh and bone and warm, thin blood. As soon as that blood went cold, he would pass into the dirt, and men to come would leave their bold footprints in him, forgetting that they too would join him sooner rather than later. For beings like her, these lives were blinked away, if they could be called ‘lives.’

War was coming, and she shook with excitement because of it. She would be the one to secure the victory, and Morgoth would not be able to forget it. When Sauron rose again she would undoubtedly be allowed to join her Lord again, and she would have the strength to be rid of this body forever. Then she could take on forms that were more pleasing to her master as well as to her. Maybe she would be rid of this mocking body that locked her in a fleshy prison before the battle began, and she would finally be able to feel the blood of those Elves – those pitiful fools who mourned the loss of that harlot, Luthien, who would bind herself to a being of an even lower race – on a skin she chose.

But alas, she knew her work would not be done until well into the bloodshed, for the treachery ran deep, and the Woman of the Secret Shadow would not dream of abandoning her work. Once the lies had seeped in, and as long as the boy who played with being puppet master danced to her tune, the Dark One’s victory was secure. Doubtless Uldor would see it her way without too much trouble: planting ideas in a mind so malleable in tainted hands was too simple.

Who Thuringwethil had to step more lightly around, though, were the men not mired in a sickness of the mind like their leaders were, and that was many of the Ulfing people, so clueless and innocent. If they ever did catch some sort of clue, they could be a risk. Such things as war and alliances were beyond those simple folk, left for the hearts of lords and kings, predisposed to disease and corruption. Rumours, even whispers, spreading fear and doubt were pleasing to her as long as they did not involve her. Remaining in the shadows was the way it had to be done, and it was the way in which she was accustomed to working.

She knew how the minds of men worked – deceit was not something done in the light of day: it was done in the dark when the eyes could not see what the hands were doing. That was the beauty of it, and what made it the sweetest perfection of a business for Thuringwethil to use to her liking. There was no way she could fail: the treachery of men was on her side.

[piosenniel]

Noinkling's post


‘Kata! Kata, are you there?’ Dulaan stood blinking in the dimmer light of Kata’s house. She stepped further in, letting thick wool blankets which covered the entry way to fall back into place behind her. The old women thumped her walking stick a few times on the rug covered floor of the dwelling, a muffled sound at best. ‘I let the goats and sheep out into the side pasture. Is there something hot to drink, something to warm an old woman’s bones?’

The room was coming more into view as her rheumy eyes adjusted to the small light of the fire and the shadows which it threw about the homey interior. She tapped her stick lightly against one of the carved wood benches and smiled down at the child who sat there.

‘Slide over, won’t you sweeting? Let Granny rest a bit by the fire.’

[piosenniel]

piosenniel's post


‘Oh fuss and bother!’ Jóra looked quickly up at Granny Dulaan, her cheeks reddening at the old woman’s bemused look. ‘Well not you, Granny,’ she went on in way of explanation as she slid over on the long oaken bench. She fetched a soft cushion from beneath the bench and put it on the seat for Granny, patting it in invitation.

‘It’s just that I’m all thumbs this morning! I’ve managed to tangle this piece all up.’ She held up her knitting needles with as forlorn a look as she could manage on her eleven year old face. There, hanging between them, was what was supposed to be a cap for her father’s birthday. The start of a cap, that is…about twenty rows of bright red yarn; most of which were fairly even at the start, but had given up all hope in the last three or four rows. A number of the stitches were too tight, and a number too loose; the rows uneven.

Snick….snick…. The sharpening stone sang out against the arrowheads. Valr, with his thirteen years of wisdom, offered his brotherly opinion as he sat sharpening the twins’ arrows. ‘Looks like some great, old spider fell into the mead vat!’ He ducked quickly as his sister let go her ball of yarn in a quick aimed throw at his head. ‘Can’t throw either, can ya?!’ he snorted.

Before the skirmish could erupt into a full scale battle, Káta thumped on the hardwood frame of her loom with her shuttle, clearing her throat in a decisive manner. From across the large room, her black eyes sparkled with authority as she turned her face toward Valr and Jóra. ‘I like to keep a peaceful house,’ she said in a quiet voice that nonetheless was heard quite distinctly. ‘Take your little spat outdoors if you think you need to continue it.’ She sent her shuttle sliding between the loom threads. ‘Oh, and while you’re out there, we could use a few more rounds split and stacked on the woodpile.’

A duet of groans was heard as knitting and arrows were put away. Jóra stuck out her tongue at her brother as she passed near him on the way to the door. She pushed on the thick wool blanket which hung in the doorway and started to exit, then paused midstride. Ducking back inside she turned with a big grin on her face. ‘Hey! Papi and the twins are back from hunting!’ She peeked outside once more. Her muffled voice drifted back into the room. ‘Oh! And it looks like he’s brought Erling back with him.’ There were sounds of heavy footsteps as the men approached the doorway.

‘Hurry now!’ Káta said, rising up from her cushion. She smoothed down the skirt of her dress and pushed back a few stray hairs, securing them behind her ears. ‘Get the bread and cheese out from the food chest, Jóra. And you, Valr, get a big pitcher of ale from the new barrel. Just put them on the table, there, children. Granny, won’t you set out the cups, please.’

‘There you are, light of my life!’ Grimr’s voice boomed about the room as he entered. He grinned round at Granny and his two youngest children, his eyes falling at last upon his wife. ‘And haven’t your sons and I brought you a fine brace of geese and young buck to keep our bellies filled for a while. Fálki and Falarr are hanging them outside.’ He ruffled the hair of Jóra and Valr as they drew near to lean up against him. ‘Be a change from mutton, eh?’

He looked behind him, surprised not to see Erling. ‘Let the young fellows take care of our prizes, Erling,’ he called out the door. ‘Come and have a cup of ale with us!’

[piosenniel]

Rune Son of Bjarne's post

Erling’s hair flowed in the wind as he and his hunting companions walked home from their successful hunt.

They were quiet as they walked along. Not an awkward silence at all. It was just that they did not need to talk much; they never did. There them, which enabled them to enjoy socializing in silence as much as if they were merrily drinking and singing together.

For Erling there was nothing as good at these kinds of hunts, they left him with a splendid feeling of happiness. Not even the feeling of accomplishment after a successful harvest could satisfy Erling as much.

The small company approached their destination point, a nice little house, Grimr’s home. Erling knew from previous experiences that it was a friendly house, a bit too noisy and lively, but cozy and friendly. As they drew nearer to the house Erling for some reason started to pick up pace, as if the hunt had made him long for such homely coziness.

As they stood at the front of the house, a fair bit of movement could be heard through the door. “By the sound of it, our arrival has not gone unnoticed,” Erling said with a smile upon his lips. It was impossible to tell whether Grimr had heard him or not. For in two steps Grimr had opened the door and gone in.

“Let the young fellows take care of our prizes, Erling! Come and have a cup of ale with us!” came Grimr’s call to him from within the house. After leaving his share of the hunting “spoils” with the twins, Erling went in. He greeted Granny with a smile and a deep bow and took the large cup of ale offered him.

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bill_n_sam's post

Dag swept the back of his hand across his brow, pushing the droplets of sweat aside before they fell into his eyes. Despite the spring chill still lingering in the air, the heat of his forge made his skin glow a ruddy copper and he perspired freely under his woolen tunic. Stopping long enough to strip the tunic over his head and hanging it carefully on the wooden peg protruding from the wall of the shed, he considered returning to his home to retrieve the leather head band he usually wore, to keep the stinging beads from obscuring his sight. But the day marched forward and the work flowed from his head to his hands easily, effortlessly. No, he would not leave the metal, not now.

This morning had been still cold enough for him to delay rising from the warm bed he shared with his wife and small daughter. The sun had risen over the eastern hills as he drowsily watched Gunna preparing the morning meal. When it was ready, he had eaten leisurely, enjoying the baby playing at his feet, his sister-in-law, Mem, chatting merrily to the child and Gunna, making them all laugh with one of her outrageous stories. It wasn’t until the sound of heavy boots crunching on the path outside the door and men calling to one another as the village awoke and began to stir, that he recalled to himself the task for the day. Dag had slipped his arms around his wife, squeezing her comfortably familiar body to his, and said succinctly, “Bring me food at the forge, I’ll be there all day”

Without any comment, Gunna had placed her hand to his cheek and held his gaze for a moment. So much of their communications took place with such looks and gestures, that sometimes it almost seemed that they had no need of words. In the almost four years of their marriage, the young couple had developed a deep sense of rhythm, in their thinking, in their feelings. To Dag, it was a great comfort to have a wife who did not always demand that he talk, talk, talk. It seemed to him some men never shut up – and women more so. Some talked so long and so loud they never even heard what they were saying.

Dag much preferred to listen and to then consider, so much so there were those in this new home of his that had at first thought him simple, or stupid, or deaf. But his reluctance to prove his vocal skills was more than made up for by the skill of his hands at the forge. Soon enough, his new acquaintances were praising how well he could craft a plow blade, or a roasting spit, or, more importantly, a sword, and overlooking his reticence. After all, they needed a smith who could work metal, not spin a tale or tell a joke.

The skill to hammer, to shape, to sharpen, this was what was wanted, and today that want was palpable. The night before, as he has rested after his day’s labor, a heavy pounding had shaken the door to his home. Dag had motioned the women to quiet. As Gunna cradled the child to her breast, he had warily opened the door, his eyes narrowing as one of Ulfast’s men pushed arrogantly inside, not bothering to ask for leave to enter another man’s home. With a slight frown on his face, Dag had listened to the demand - not a mere request, but a demand - for a new sword, a fine sword, wrought of the sturdiest iron and with a keen blade, for the son of Ulfang. It was wanted, he had been told, immediately.

Having no desire to run afoul of any of the three brothers whose father was the chieftain of the Ulfings, and therefore Dag’s own liege lord, and knowing that such a commission, if well executed, would almost certainly increase the value of his other work, Dag still hesitated before granting a simple acknowledgement to the demand. Not that he had any real choice in the matter. These men were known for their viciousness and a refusal would certainly mean a violent retribution of one kind or another. Dag’s hesitation was merely the result of that inner voice which spoke to him when he was stepping into dark territory. The potential for either a rise in fortunes or a fall into disaster was equally as probably when dealing with those who lived for power. But being unable to predict which would be his, and his small family’s, fate, Dag had nodded his head solemnly and said only “Three days hence, he shall have it”.

Dag had set aside his other commissions and set to work on the new weapon at once. If fortune smiled on him, the metal would hold true. The ore had been well smelted and was of high quality. Only the best, for a chieftain’s son. He had lain awake for long hours, carefully going over each step of the making in his mind. Morning found the phantom sword complete, down to the honing of the edge and the crafting of the intricate wire work which would decorate the handle. He had spoken no word of his planned work to Gunna, but as she lay awake beside him through the night, he knew that she was keenly aware that all of their futures lay in her husband’s hands. When had they ever not?

And so, it was with a look of hope mixed with an unvoiced warning to caution, that she had sent him on his way to complete his task. As Dag recalled the gentleness with which she had touched his face earlier, he smiled to himself. Don’t worry, he thought. This will truly be a weapon worthy of a great leader of men.

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Dimturiel's post

The morning dawned clear and cold. it was a typical spring morning as many others had been before it. Tora was walking through the village. She did not have much to do that morning, so she had decided to go for a walk. She loved being out in the cool spring air, alone with her thoughts. There was little time for thinking when she had two younger brothers to take care of, not to mention her elder brother, who required her help with his small child. She usually spent the time working. yet she did not complain. She usually prefered to have something to keep her busy.

Tora found a spot that was warmed by the morning sun, and sat down on the grass. She looked around thoughtfully. Memories linked her to that place, memories of feelings that she had found hard to understand then. Yet they had ended, as abruptly as they had started. But what could she do about it? It had not been her fault, nor his. If anyone was to blame, it was fate. How convenient, she thought, that the notion of a power greater than themselves existed. It was so easy to blame their troubles on it, and to think that things could not be better, simply because that power did not want them to be. It made people feel better, comforted even, in a strangve sort of way.

So her lover had been dead for over two years now, and her father was now planning to give her to someone else, someone she had never spoken to before. What was the use of complaining about that? It would not have changed the situation. It would not have turned back time. And she was sure she was not the only person in the world to whom such things had happened. That had been plenty of others that had lived the same tale that she had. Yet the world had not ciesed moving because of them. Life and time had gone on, ignoring such happenings, that seemed of little concern to those who were not involved in them.

Tora got up abruptly. She had better return home, she thought. Her mother might need her. And so, she turned her back to her past, and retraced her steps to the village.

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Volo's post

The sun was high and there was barely any wind. A rare phenomenon was happening, the guard of Ulfang's door was getting really irritated. Not that Anydor showed it. His water skin was empty, but he didn't dare leave his post: if Anydor was ordered to stand guard, he would. He thought a himself a bitter smile. It was one of those bad days: in the morning Anydor had accidentally broken one of his best knives, later he overheard from a passing man that the smith wouldn't sell anything to anybody for a reason Anydor didn't hear. And now he was standing under the burning sun longer that he should, just because the other guard, a new, carefree lad Anydor didn't know well, had somehow gotten himself free time by persuading Anydor to stand for a part of his change.

It was really crowdy in the village today, a merchant had brought something everybody wanted to see. Anydor couldn't care less. Then all of a sudden shouts were heared, some were screaming and some were cursing. In appeared that a thief was spotted and now a fight was starting, some men were gathouring around the thief. The thief, dressed in rough leather trousers and a leather jacket, he also wore a hat out of fur. He was broad even by Easterling standards, but a bit shorter than Anydor. The circle around him closened in. Anydor felt amused, this stuff didn't happen that often in a place where he could see. He even dared to stand on his toes and grin broadly. It wasn't his job to interfere with fights not concerning Ulfang or his posessions.

The thief drew a long slightly curved knife and handled it rather skillfully. The men around him backed a bit. The ones perfering violence more than others drew their knives, but before they could act the thief lunged for a gap between two confused men. He did not notice that a guard had come up behind the corner. The guard thrust his scimitar at the thief. Being a skillful fighter, the thief managed to dodge most of the blow, but still receaved a cut in his chest. He staggered few feet backwards and then ran behind the corner. The guard and some of the braver other men followed him.

Any more Anydor didn't see. The incident brightened his mood and he was thinking over the moves of the thief and what he himself would have done. While Anydor was thinking would he have done any better, a ragged dirty man walked slowly towards him. Anydor was mightly suprised when he noticed the beggar so close to him, he tossed the thoughts about the thief, losing consentration like this may be fatal. The beggar walked uncertainly towards Anydor and stopped about five feet from him.

"Please, mighty warrior, spare an old man few coins, bless you and bless the chieftain", said the beggar in a miserable voice and dropped on his knees. Anydor didn't show any response and stood with his armes crossed just like he did before. The beggar hesitated for a while and then desided to say, "My children are dying of hunger and my wife is ill. I beg you, just warrior, give this poor man a coin". Anydor lifted his eyebrow but otherwise stood still, it wasn't often that someone had the nerve to beg from him. He remembered the time when he was just a lad and begging to live aswell, he sure didn't beg from guards, especially guards of the chieftain. Something started bothering Anydor and he wanted to get rid of this fool. "Please..." groaned the beggar. And then Anydor was filled with sudden rage for some unknown reason, he quickly strode to the beggar and grabbed him by his raggs lifting him up easily, "Some nerve you've got. If you wish to have any nerve left in you for later then leave now you scum, your children can rot for all that I care". The beggar was stiff with fear eyes wide open. Anydor tossed him on the ground and laughed intimidatingly. The beggar crawled away. People were gazing at Anydor, but he didn't care. His bad mood had returned. He went back to his post and stood there for the rest of his change without any more strange things thinking only of different curses for the beggar.

[piosenniel]

Garen LiLorian's post

"And that is why!" the crockery rattled from the thump as he be brought his fist down, staring feverishly around the dinner table at his companions. "Don't you see? What have they ever done for us? How have they helped us? By giving us what is already ours?! No! And no again!" His head traversed from side to side in an emphatic shake, but his too bright eyes remained fixed on his audience. On the table, his fist trembled with restrained passions. "This... this slavery, yes, slavery is an affront to our proud house that cannot, nay, will not be borne. Justice will out, friends." He dropped into a prophetic whisper at this last. "Mark my words. And you would be wise to side with the people rather then with the overlords when we rise up and throw off this yoke of elvish imperialism." He punctuated his impassioned talk with a deep swallow from his earthenware cup, revolutionary fervor burning deeply in his breast, his strange eyes darting over his audience.

"Yes, yes, just as you say dear." His mother pushed back in her chair uncomfortably, hands dry washing themselves in her lap as she looked imploringly at her husband. The other person at the table brought the palm of his large, hairy hand down on the table with a thump not unlike his son's, only a moment before. "And I say, that is enough of that nonsense, boy." He growled, foul breath washing over the intervening space, his small black eyes glinting dangerously. "Three times already ye've escaped having yer throat cut and fed to the crows, and each time ye come back more lunatic then the last. I'll na' have it under my roof anymore, d'y'hear?" The revolutionary started to speak strongly, but the hairy limb slammed the table again, a cup leaping off in fright, preferring the cool safety of the packed earth ground to the increasingly abused table. "No! I said no an' I mean no, boy! While ye live under my roof, ye'll do as I say, or it'll be me feedin' ye to the crows." The small part of his face not yet claimed by the ongoing struggle of beard, hair and eyebrows was a dangerous red and the hand not used for so scaring the cookware clutched the wooden handle of a long dirk at his belt unconsciously, the barest gleam of iron reflecting candlelight.

The revolutionary leaned forward in his chair, his passion turned cold. His bright eyes glittered like a snake's and, as though taken with the metaphor, his body appeared coiled and tense, ready to strike. His voice, perhaps feeling left out, came in a hiss. "You cannot suppress the truth, father. You cannot kill it with your cold iron or stamp on it with your boots. You are just like every other fat, self satisfied house carl, living off the work of the people, offering nothing in return. A mangy wolf, living off of the scraps the elves feed you, and the meat you can steal without bringing down the wrath of the people upon you." His head made another slow traverse. "No more, father. Strike me all you wish. I never wanted your protection, and I renounce your soveriegnty over me."

The bearded thundercloud darkened and he reached for a handful of the rough shirt his son was wearing, but the younger man slipped his grasp and moved to the door gracefully. "Farewell mother. Find the truth before it finds you." He intoned, and was gone. "Damn blast that Elf-spawned, goblin loving excuse for a milk blooded son of a pox-ridden -!" His father's bellow cut through the night. "You know it's only a phase, dear..." The peacemaker laid her hand on her husband's arm, her voice soothing. "This is the third time this month, and he always comes back, talking about filial piety and the values of this revolution he seems to want so much." She looked out the door sadly. Her still glowering husband clenched and unclenched his ham-like hands, looking for something to hit. "... I'm for the lord's house." He said after a moment through gritted teeth. "If that blasted goblin lover gets his feet too cold and runs back, he can sleep in the field with the animals, d'y'hear?" His wife nodded obediently, privately resolving to do nothing of the sort. "Well then." The man of the house took another look around, as if daring the furniture to utter revolutionary slogans, then ducked into the night after his son.

[piosenniel]

Child of the 7the Age's post - Khandr

With a weary sigh, Khadr leaned back in his chair and tried without success to sort out the tangled events of the day. He had been home from the great hall for more than two hours, yet his head was still throbbing. He could hear the angry voice of his first wife Briga issuing from down the hall as she criticized second wife Embla for her lack of cooperation and continuing bad spirits. The two women constantly disagreed about household arrangements. Briga would point out when Embla was shirking her share of the work, while the latter would glare out at her, saying nothing but with a nasty scowl on her face.

Not that Khandr would place the major share of blame on Briga! The house had run flawlessly in the old days when she had been the only one on board. He had taken a second wife to extend his own network of alliances and influence and to provide a female friend for his first wife. All his good intentions did not seem to be working. The newcomer Embla had upset the delicate household balance with her sullen face and bitter words. As second wife, Embla should have the good sense to accept that she was not going to be the one on top. Khandr was not an unthinking brute, and a little graciousness and cheerfulness on Embla’s part would have gone far towards earning her many special favors and rewards.

The arguments, however, showed little sign of abating. While Embla did not openly challenge his authority or that of Briga, she sometimes flung out occasional side insults or vague sounding threats which left no doubt that she was bitterly unhappy. Once in a while Khandr glimpsed a real sadness in Embla’s eyes and wondered if he shouldn’t make some effort to sit down and talk to her and try to figure out what was wrong. He did not like confrontations, however, and tended to shy away from Embla rather than run the risk of finding himself in the middle of a very unpleasant conversation.

In any case, Khandr did not have the leisure to deal with the matter now. He had enough on his hands trying to untangle the increasingly confusing web of diplomacy. Any serious attempt to improve the situation with Embla would need to wait till they returned back home to the land of the Borrim. That day could not come too soon as far as Khandr was concerned. This was the fourth week that he and his wives had been in the encampment of the Ulfings. He missed his daughters, and there had been absolutely no progress in trying to forge a marriage alliance between the two kindred peoples. All his effort to negotiate a union between one of Ulfang’s sons and the young niece of Bor had been unsuccessful, despite the assurance that generous gifts would be made as part of the bride price. Some members of the Ulfing entourage even seemed to take offense that the woman would be designated a second wife. That was part of the traditional ways, and Khandr could not understand why this should be a problem.

Khandr felt increasingly baffled over what was happening with the Ulfings. He and his father had always enjoyed good relations with Ulfang. But Ulfang now seemed incapable of making a decision and constantly referred problems and issues over to his sons, especially Uldor. Khandr’s conversations with the sons had been singularly unproductive. They seemed to talk in circles, promising much but never committing themselves to signing an agreement. On top of all that, there were numerous rumors sweeping through the general populace that the delicate balance of peace and war was about to be upset, and they would all find themselves in the middle of a war. Khandr had heard nothing official along those lines, yet he could not help feeling that there was some truth behind these gloomy prognostications.

Khandr bent over his desk and began work on the list of gifts to be sent with the new bride once an agreement was reached. He was still having trouble concentrating. One further regret tugged at the back of Khandr’s mind. If only he had been blessed with a son! The young man could have acted as the arbiter in the disagreements between the two women or, even more likely, Khandr could have avoided the marriage and put forward his son as the bridegroom instead. His son would have been closer to Embla in age and perhaps understood her more. With a weary sigh, Khandr turned his mind away from personal affairs and redirected his attention to the matter of deciding whether twenty or twenty-five goats should be included as part of the bride price.

[piosenniel]

Nogrod's post


It was getting dark as Fastarr came back to his tent. He lit the greaselamp and took off the boots he had worn all day. The stench was bad enough. Slowly he streched out and dropped the boots between the first and second linen walls of the tent. Then he got up and took the lamp into the tent itself. Even though the rugs on the ground were thick they felt a bit cold to the feet. The spring seemed to have taken a few steps back.

Fastarr took a couple of the firewood and lit a small fire. Only after the fire started dancing did he took his belt and scimitar away. It was a bliss to be on one’s own after a busy day. The kettle he had put on the fire started hissing slowly, marking that something was happening but that there was no hurry whatsoever. Lazily he studied his stores to find some tea, honey and wine. Ah, the water is almost used. I should get some more. It’s easier to do it now than as a first thing in the morning... Well, not just now...

The water boiled. He added similar amount of wine into the water and waited for the right sound to emerge from the kettle. Then he put some leaves to his cup and carved a piece of solid honey to join them. As the wine-water was about to boil, he poured it over the leaves and honey and put them aside to steep. The sweet and comfortable fragrance spreaded all over the tent and took him over.

Fastarr laid on his back waiting for the tea. Why is Khandr still waiting? Can’t he see that this is not going to work? Too much power-play, too little love, I say. We should go home the first thing tomorrow. I should tell him that. And all these rumours, and the Ulfings in the first place... What do we do here? We should be with our own kin if something does happen, not here among strangers who wish us no good...

He was feeling so nice and lazy laying down on the rugs that had only started to warm up under his body that he had to really make an effort to sit back up again and take the tea before it would get cold. The air outside really felt chilling right now. But the cup happily was still hot and the scent of the drink filled his head. It was indeed hot enough to burn his mouth so he sipped it carefully, turning the cup around between his fingers as not to burn his hands. He could feel the warmth of the drink going down his throat all the way to his stomach. Life’s little luxuries this is... this surely is...

It surely had been a busy day. From the early morning onwards Fastarr had been on the move. First he had taken Khandr’s and his wifes horses to an outing in the surrounding countryside. They had made a good sport of it and the horses seemed to be happy with it, as usual. After the lunch he had walked around trying to hear what people were talking, making a few discussions with the locals himself too. That was not something he especially liked but he was told to do so and so he had to do it. There was lots of talk, lots of ranting and lots of just mere boasting. There was nothing he could report Khandr about, if not for the overall tension and talk of evil that clearly surpassed his taste in quantity as well as quality, even if it was just joking. Maybe it was just the way these Ulfings were?

In the afternoon Briga had asked him to join her on her way to the market and he had made her company. Even though it had ended him carrying all the stuff she had wished to buy, he liked Briga. She was a Borrim-lady of the house with all the qualities and good to her husband’s retainers. Fastarr had nothing to complain. But shopping with ladies were a lot of work.

The evening had went with a lengthy bargain with a local smith who was trying to take a preposterous payment for the little work of changing one of Hengst’s horseshoe and changing some worn parts of the bridles. He had actually managed to settle the dispute to a reasonable level but was more than angry afterwards. It was near he ran over a couple of kids that called him, the foreigner, names when he was getting down the street with Hengst towards their place.

But still he had had to take a tour on the local inns to hear the latest. There had been nothing new tonight. Just the usual gloating and whispering outside the hearing of the stranger. No one was friendly and Fastarr saw no reason to be friendly either.

The tea run out soon enough. Fastarr took the last draught of it and got slowly up. He went to his bed and draw the quilt over him. Different persons he had met today whirled through his mind. Embla... she was one of the Bairka, one of those who had turned his life into a misery a long time ago and now she was there everyday to remind him of it. And still it was unsettling to him. But it was not just hate he felt.

[piosenniel]

Lalaith's post

Embla stirred the fire and smiled to herself. It was not a very pleasant smile.
Briga, the senior wife - the hag, as she privately called her - had lit this fire in the hearth, and then told her to tend it. She, proud daughter of the Bairka, had obeyed - but she had her revenge. Small, unimportant victory, but sweet nevertheless.

Open conflict was not her method. After all, Khandr, her husband…she clenched her jaw in anger at this last word, now so empty of any meaning it had carried in her girlish dreams. In those days, she imagined she would wed according to the customs of her people. A hand-fasting with a young man of her own choosing, each cleaving solely to the other. Yes, in open conflict, her “husband”, Khandr would take, as always, the hag’s part.

When her worthless father had sold her into what she regarded as little better than concubinage, she was horrified. But she at least imagined her existence would be soft and pampered - that the ageing husband would dote on his new young bride. Inexplicably, her youth seemed to hold little allure for Khandr. Instead, he clung to the familiar, middle-aged comforts offered by the hag. His infrequent visits to Embla’s tent were due to his longing for a son, not for her nubile charms.

So, when ordered to sit by the hearth, Embla made sure her retort had nothing to do with the task at hand, nothing to which Briga could reasonably object. You will not choke on big words and pig fat, sister wife, she said grinning. The older woman was discomfited, Embla could tell, and puzzled. Was this perhaps a curse or insult among the Bairka? Then Embla gazed deep into the fire, rubbed her ear-lobes, touched the skin beneath her eye and muttered dark and obscure words.
Axe-time, sword-time, shields are sundered,
After the wolf do wild men follow.

Embla knew well that her people had a somewhat mysterious and even oracular reputation among the Borrim. And now this gave her great satisfaction – the older woman looked distinctly alarmed, and left the room hastily. Of course, it did not take much to unsettle or intimidate Briga at this time. None of the Borrim were comfortable in their current surroundings. None except Embla herself. She was used to living in an alien, hostile environment – she had, after all, been doing so since her marriage. In fact, she rather enjoyed observing the discomfiture of the rest of the party - her husband, the hag, and those two doltish hunters - watching them feel as unwelcome, as wary, as ill at ease as she herself had always been since she first arrived among the Borrim.

As for her menacing pronouncements….Embla smirked again. Many of the women in her family did indeed have the sight. She remembered well the gestures of the Bairka sybils, and the kind of words they spoke when their visions came upon them, and she knew how sinister they could be. But she also knew enough about the sight to know that her Eye – if she did possess the gift - was too clouded by hate and anger to reveal any real truths.

[piosenniel]

Kath's post


Stalking into his home Bergr threw his catch down onto the low table that sat near the glowing embers of the fire and threw himself down to the floor next to it. Taking out his knives he dealt with the reward of the hunt quickly and efficiently, some going into the pot he would have his evening meal in that night, some he prepared to keep, and some he set aside for those who needed it more than he did. For the widows whose children were barely able to survive on the little their mother could provide them with, the only ones that even half accepted him here.

Since the day he’d arrived he’d received nothing more than suspicious glances and whispered comments behind his back. Few said anything to his face, they were not that stupid, but he knew of it all the same. Still there was no love lost on his part either, Bergr disliked this area. It had too many hidden secrets and too much hostility. However, it served his purposes for the moment, and so he would stay.

With a grunt Bergr pulled himself out of his maudlin thoughts and busied himself with cleaning his knives and the table. This done, he carefully wrapped the meat he was not keeping in cloths and, taking up the small packages, left.

As he neared his first stop the children of the hut ran out to him, used now to his heavy footsteps, and the younger ones threw themselves at his legs. Barely breaking his stride he allowed two to cling on to his lower limbs and pulled a third up to dangle from his arm.

“Yours, ma’am.” He spoke gruffly but gently to the woman standing over the fire, indicating both the children and the package he held in his one free arm. She had smiled and taken his burdens from him, allowing him to make his escape and continue on.

He returned, empty handed but lighter hearted, having garnered a similar reaction from every household. Sitting down to his own meal he stared into the contents of the pot for a few moments, wishing there was someone to share it with as he did every day, and then set to, his hunger outweighing his desire for reflection.

Later he found himself sitting in a corner of the small inn that he went to on occasion. He usually stayed out of places where there were going to be a lot of Ulfings as his presence was bound to cause trouble, especially when the men had imbibed a little more than was good for them. Today though he had decided that he did not want to be alone, even if the alternative meant being surrounded by these people.

So far things had been quiet. He had kept to his corner, only venturing out when the bar was clear to order a drink, and then skulking back into the shadows again. Most of the inhabitants were too busy discussing the happenings of the day to pay any attention to him, and Bregr appreciated that, enjoying being able to find out what he had missed while hunting, and it seemed that todays news was particularly interesting.

[piosenniel]

Fordim Hedgethistle's post:


Laylah ran ahead pulsing with the excitement of the hunt, silent in anticipation of the kill. They had tracked the buck for leagues and now it was close. Hunta could smell its spoor himself and hardly needed his companion’s more sensitive nose now, but after her many hours faithful labour he could not deny her. He swept through the low brush with no more sound than the wind, his rapid footfalls little more than the scurrying of small animals through the brush. They came to the edge of a clearing and pulled themselves close to the ground. The buck was standing now, his great brown head with its tall antlers erect and alert.

Their quarry was cunning. He had come to the field to flush out his hunters, to force them into the open where he could see them better and know what he should do. Hunta smiled and stroked Laylah’s thick neck. She acknowledged his hand with a low whimper and turned her head to lick his hand. Her lips were pulled back revealing long teeth, and her short golden coat stood up in a long ridge down her back. “Good girl,” he told her. “That was a good run and a fine pursuit.” Laylah merely returned her gaze to the buck; she knew there was still work to do. They began slowly to track their way around the edge of the clearing, looking for a place where Hunta could loose his bow.

The buck stirred and stamped his hoof, looking at the woods for the predators that he knew lurked within, but he could neither smell nor hear anything. He knew they were still there with the instinct of the hunted, but he was an old and wise in the ways of the forest and kept his head where a younger animal would have panicked and fled. A noise came to his ears which twitched and swivelled the better to hear. Lifting his head he heard the sound of fast approach, and the calls of musical voices in the air. He turned and fled toward the forest, and there came a sudden shaft from the side. Too late he tried to flinch and it buried itself in his flank, bringing agonising pain with every stride. He crashed into the forest wall and ran on into the trees, but the pain mounted with each step and he could feel something wet and hot running down his legs.

Hunta cursed foully the ill fortune of the hunt – and the riders who had so stupidly thundered past the clearing. His wonderment at their appearance and bearing was overcome by his anger. His shot had merely wounded the buck, meaning many more hours of tracking through the woods looking for his prey. The arrow had struck deep and hard and though the buck did not know it yet, it was already dead. But Hunta felt sick at the thought of the great beast wandering in pain and bewilderment, only to be dispatched at the end of struggle with a knife through the throat. It had deserved a cleaner death.

Calling Laylah to him he followed the blood trail back into the forest.

[piosenniel]

Anguirel's post - Gausen/Drenda

The quietness of the hovel was disturbed only by the recurring circles of Gausen’s distaff. She span the greyish flax, and watched it form, coagulate, like some eerie shadow of a marsh. Once brought out of this dim room, peered at by her narrowed, unadulterated glance, it would become a garment like any other. It would be given, along with the rest of the batch, to the horse-trader’s wife, and the horse-trader would in turn allow Gausen’s son to retain his steed for another month.

Any service that could be done for him was worth any length of gropings upon a darkened loom. She would have worked outside, for the day was bright – she could see that from where she sat – and it would have allowed her eyes more rest. But that would not, in this instance, do at all. Only lesser women worked outside, where the female art, the feminine struggle, for illusion failed them; where tears and stains and lines were mercilessly revealed. Better by far to shroud herself in propriety, Gausen knew.

She had not seen the subject of all her toils, the redoubt of all her hopes, for above a week. Gausen did not consider blaming her son for this; far from it. She had brought him up now; he was a man, in all, she wryly thought, but his extravagance. But that too was Drenda’s affair, not hers. He was by right, she thought in fury, a chieftain’s son; a right confirmed in oath by Ulfang himself! Why should he not live like one? It was reasonable, then, that he dwelt at Ulfang’s hall, burning with the splendour of his youth, and kept his horse, two hounds and a falcon. How her pride blazed for him then. For Drenda was beautiful, not merely to her, but to all others. He towered already among the tallest of the Ulfings. His features, which were her features, shone with grace and power. And if she had to labour in the dirt to maintain that power? Then by the gods, labour she would.

And then she heard the word, its unenthusiastic tone belying its enchanting significance, at the entrance to the hut.

The word was “Mother”.

Like a lapdog Gausen leapt from her seat, throwing back her veil, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. He had come. He never came here now, never usually. But he made an exception now. What filial piety... she ran to the threshold and embraced his tall, thin, figure, like a sapling still, she thought fondly, a handsome sapling, but no tree yet.

“Drenda...” she cried, but he endured her clutches with an ambivalent glance, and stepped uneasily out of them.

“Mother, we should talk.”

“Come in, then, come in!” But still Drenda hesitated upon the wooden doorstep. The look in his eyes moistened his mother’s. He is ashamed, now he is a great man, she thought, to enter the room where he lived as a boy.

“Drenda,” she said, summoning some of the sternness she reserved for all but her child into her voice, “it is not the feeling of a nobleman to quail at his mother’s house.”

Drenda bowed his head, surly but not wishing to argue, and stepped in. At once Gausen reproached herself. Had she been too sharp with him? Would he leave more quickly now? Had she squandered minutes with her son over a point of pride?

“Mother,” Drenda said, “have you got Father’s things? I need them.”

“Your father’s things?” Confusion mingled with relief in Gausen’s mind that Drenda had not taken offence. “The circlet of his lordship and the sword-belt of his authority? Are...are you certain you need them, my dear?”

“I’m not going to pawn or sell them, if that’s what you mean,” Drenda answered sullenly. “Yes, Mother, I need them. Things are happening fast outside your hut. There’s...there are going to be opportunities, Mother. I need all the dignity I can muster.”

But Gausen had shrunk back further into the darkness of her dwelling; partly to find the relics of her husband she had stored for fourteen years, but also to conceal the fear that spread across her face.

“Will there be war, then?” she asked quietly, her back to her son.

“I do not know for sure,” Drenda answered without emotion. “But an envoy has come from the Eldar. Whatever happens...”

“Oh, Drenda, Drenda, my boy, be careful with your life,” Gausen exclaimed, the sobs starting to conquer her soft voice, “which I have preserved with all that remained of mine.”

Drenda coughed, embarrassed. “Have you the circlet and the belt, mother? I should be present at the Hall to watch the Envoy’s reception.”

“Ay, my son, ay, my good lord,” Gausen whispered. “Take the emblems of your right, my boy, and stand tall in the hall. I know you will have no equals there.”

She passed over a bundle of black silk, laid her hand on her son’s shoulder, and stole a swift kiss from him before he left, laughing at the bristles of his fresh beard. He did not give her another look, but she listened, rapt, to the beating of his horse’s hooves as he made his way to the hall.

When they died away, she considered the news he had brought. If war was to come, she had but little time. She must see Uldor, must convince him to accept her, must solemnize their bond, before the men of the Ulfings left for the north. That way lay glory and preferment for her son.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Khandr found it impossible to focus on the stack of papers sitting in front of him. The noise of the street drifted in from outside. There was the usual assortment of sounds: braying donkeys, clucking hens, peddlers advertising their wares, along with the continual rattle of turning wheels as carts slowly made their way amid the piles of tossed dinner leavings and deep mud ruts. But the envoy from Bor soon picked up an undercurrent that went far beyond the expected hubbub of the street.

A number of the Ulfings were huddled in small groups pointing excitedly towards the dwelling of the Chief of the Southern Easterlings. A babble of words came rushing through the window, mostly rumors and speculation. All that was really known was that riders from the Eldar had come storming into town and made their way to Ulfang and his household, carrying a message from their overlord Caranthir.

Khandr growled with displeasure. Why had he not been told of this? Back home, he would have been given an immediate summons to court at the appearance of such important and unexpected guests. Now he was left behind in his apartments and could only scratch his head and wonder what was about to happen. His suspicions, however, had been right. Something was taking place at the very highest level of the court that could definitely affect the Borrim and their relations with the Ulfings. Since Khandr was the envoy, he considered it his responsibility to find out exactly what was going on and why. At least part of this puzzle involved Caranthir and the Elves, something Khandr had not recognized before. But even if Ulfang decided to release an official version of his meeting with the Elves, the Borrim diplomat suspected that there was a lot more to the story than the Chieftain was willing to admit.

Khandr cursed his own lack of activity. His attention had been so fixed on his own household that he had not made an effort to find out what was going on. No wonder the marriage negotiations had stalled! Any envoy who could not disentangle the usual web of court intrigue was utterly worthless. For all Khandr knew, Ulfang was about to embark on a policy that would damage the interests of Bor and the Easterlings of the North. Khandr vowed that this situation must change. The obvious place to start was to gather information from those closest to him. He must set up a banquet and ask all the Borrim in the settlement to attend. Barking out orders to his two wives and to several of the servants, he commanded that a fine meal be laid out tonight and that invitations be delivered immediately to Fastarr, Bergr, and Hunta.

Even Embla and Briga must come, although having wives in attendance at a function where business was discussed did not sit comfortably with Khandr who preferred the traditional ways. Still, women were often good at gathering gossip and that was precisely what he needed. Perhaps they could all agree to make a joint effort to ferret out information and make sense out of what seemed like an increasingly tangled and confusing web.

[Noinkling]

Dulaan took the cup offered her by Jóra. ‘Oh, just what Granny needed, my sweet little sparrow.’ She wrapped her chilly fingers about the cup gratefully, letting the warmth of the mulled wine within seep into them. She waved away the platter of cheese Káta was offering around, taking instead a small chunk of bread from the basket as it was offered. She dunked the bread in her wine and chewed on it thoughtfully.

‘Say,’ she said, at a lull in the happy babble of conversation. ‘I heard something today from one of the other women out in the west pasture. Grinna, it was. Birla’s daughter. The middle one that just got wed this past autumn. She’s big as a house with her first child.’ Dulaan chortled. ‘Stars above, I thought she might deliver right then and there among her goats.’ She shifted on the bench, trying to ease the pressure on her old bones. ‘Twins run in that family, you know. Her mother’s sister had two sets. Of course, she died after that second birthing . . .’

The room had gone silent as she rambled on, waiting patiently for the old woman to come to the point of her story. Dulaan looked up, giving a half smile at their respectful attention. ‘Yes, well,’ she went on after a small sip at her wine. ‘Grinna said her husband had said his father had gone up to the Great Hall. To see about some messenger from those Elvish folks as had come to see Lord Ulfang.’ She nodded her head as she recollected what the woman had told her. ‘Now there’s someone long in the tooth. Even for a manchild. Time he was looking to hand down the rule, don’t you think? Though as I hear it, it’s Uldor as really speaks through his father.’

She looked up again and laughed. ‘Well, anyway, I was wondering what you men had heard about all this Elves and their visiting. Is there anything to be made of it? ’ She took a few more sips of her warm wine and looked expectantly toward Erling and Grimr.

[Anguirel]

Lachrandir's eyes shone with a dark fire as he watched the human groom, a thin man in the rough livery of Ulfang's suite, lead away, with the assistance of two other bow-legged, weathered fellows, the pair of white horses, among the finest of the breed of Amon Ereb. He locked the groom's glance with his own, smiling broadly but without mirth.

"Of course, sirrah, it goes without saying that you will attend to these steeds as if they belonged to Caranthir himself. Which, in a manner of speaking, " he added firmly, "they do."

Tathren's mouth was tight shut, Lachrandir observed, and he surmised it was all the lad could do to choke back a mental rebuke. So, his page thought he needed a little more delicacy? Well, he would see it done.

"Aye," the groom replied with a blunt nod, and Lachrandir nodded back as the men and the horses receded into the press of Ulfings.

It had taken no little wrench of his heart to part with the beasts; he would have ridden into the Hall of the Chieftain on the horse's back, had the beggarly height of the gates, he thought with scorn as he stared ahead, not obstructed him. He felt as if he had been forced to surrender some priceless sword, an ancestral blade of his line perhaps, to some jester of a human hall-carl. He frowned slightly and then shrugged his resentment into the part of his mind where grudges slept soundly.

"Come, boy," he said to Tathren in Quenya, a language useful for its impenetrability to the Easterlings about them. "Remember, speak precisely, if you're called on to talk, and not for long. That should serve well enough. Now, to the Hall."

The Envoy looked ahead at the Chieftain's residence. In human terms, it had a certain harshness about it that was probably mistaken for the great mass of Men for stern commandment. He was no fiddler of the Sindar, but his eyes could only mourn the fine, straightly grown ashes and pines, no doubt once forming such grand forests for the hunts of the Seven, that had been hewn and nailed into its gables. He already saw in the chamber of his inmost mind its interior, trivial gloominess lit by fume-reeking torches and dull splashes of vulgar gold.

The two Eldar stepped up the curving logs of elm that formed the stairs to the entrance, and entered the Hall of Ulfang. At their side stood six guards, a trio on either flank of the Elves, spears in their hands, crimson tasseled and raised upwards. More of their number stood in ranks, some at tables, some lining the walls, some thronging about close to the far dais of their Chieftain.

The soldiers of Ulfang's court were not, it had to be said, in the crispest of order. Many looked as if they were newly straightened up, their helmets jauntily angled on their heads, scimitars left at the floor, spear-hafts slipping in their hands. Among them flashes of gold, bars of gold, fetters of gold, revealed the circlets of the nobles and petty chieftains in attendance. They were fewer in number than Ulfang's sentries, and one might almost have thought they were imprisoned by them; knots of the guards surrounded each coroneted brow. No women were apparently in attendance.

But Lachrandir thought of the news he brought, the muster his liege commanded, and each lacklustre guard became a doughty warrior, a noted slayer of Orcs; each chieftain could be imagined with a throng of carls and vassals behind him, calling his bondsmen to battle in a surging horde. Lachrandir had travelled in these lands before and knew that his mental picture was not wholly accurate; that the guards were in place because of their ability to bully their fellow men, that many of the chieflets were poor wastrels who spent all they had, and much more, to keep their noble diadems. But his ardour transmuted them to something more...

"Hail, Ulfang," he cried, striding without pause towards the dais, "Chieftain of Men! I am Lachrandir of Amon Ereb. In momentous times have I been sent, by Caranthir, Prince of the House of Fëanor. Bright are my tidings and great is the haste of my master."

The dais was topped by a throne that, despite the poverty of its material, made the rest of the court shappy enough; a chair of lead, forged by the craftsmen of Caranthir and sent to Ulfang as a surety of goodwill. And good lordship. In the chair of lead sat a grey haired, bearded old man, his eyes glinting in the dimness of the Hall.

"Welcome to my company and my council, friend of Caranthir," came the reply. "We have, I do not doubt, much to talk of."

The two glinting eyes turned one way and then the other, to the two men seated at the dais' next step. Positioned between them, just below Ulfang, stood an empty seat of stone. Three sons, he has, Lachrandir remembered. Ulfast, Ulwarth, and...the name of the other escaped him. Is it the custom of the ancient among the Adani to lean upon their offspring? Let us see...

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

When Hunta finally arrived back at the settlement he was exhausted. Laylah’s steps came slowly and her tail and ears were drooped to the earth, even the sights and smells of their temporary home failing to rouse her. The chase had been long and hard, for the buck had sought to hide himself in the densest parts of the forest. They had spent hours in difficult and trackless terrain following the thread of blood left by their prey. At long last they had found him lying on the ground and heaving out the remnants of his life. Death, when it came at last, had been swift and painless – the least that Hunta could do. Late as it was he had performed all the propitiatory rites owed to the beast, ensuring that its spirit would not remain the forest, angrily driving away future game to spite Hunta. But as soon as the fire had fully consumed the liver and gall, Hunta threw the carcass over his shoulder and staggered back to the settlement.

He had used what paths he could find, but the going was still hard, particularly with the great brown mass of the beast on his shoulders. He had been forced to stop frequently to breathe and rest, but at least he had not gone hungry. The buck’s tongue had been his supper, still warm and soft so soon after life, and Laylah had enjoyed a fetlock.

As they made their way past the guards Hunta barely acknowledged or even noticed the sharp whispers and quick glances of those he passed in the street. His skill as a hunter had made him an unpopular figure among these people, who fancied themselves quite capable in the hunt, but his proficiency was such that he always returned with the greatest prize, and that made many people jealous. Indeed, as he walked along he heard some malicious folk taunting the man Grimr, asking him if he had ever seen a buck of the size and majesty brought in by barrakar. Hunta winced at the name but did not react. He had been dubbed the barrakar – the man-animal – almost upon arrival. It was an insult so cunningly made that he could not challenge those who made it. A wily animal who evaded capture was often accorded the honour of being compared to those who hunted it by being described as barrak. So on the face of it, the application of the word to Hunta was a compliment in praise of his woodcraft and cunning; but when it was uttered to his face and, even more so, behind his back, it was uttered with such a twist in the mouth that the result seemed to imply that Hunta himself was part animal, and that his cunning was merely that of a beast. Part of him longed for the day when one of the Ulfings would overstep the bounds and use the insult too openly…he smiled grimly.

For all that Hunta longed to retire to his own tent, he stopped first at the home of the old woman Gausen to give her the gift-meat. Pausing at her door, he quickly cut three long strips of flesh from the richest part of the buck’s haunch, each one enough to fill her pot twice over. She smiled and thanked him, but what did that veiled look in her eye mean? Hunta no longer had the energy to decipher the attitudes of the Ulfings, and every day he longed to hear from Khandr that he had given up the hopeless plan of marriage and that they were returning to their own lands. Hunta had come on this journey for adventure and escape, but the land of the Ulfings had proven instead to be a prison of mistrust and deception.

Leaving the old woman, Hunta returned to the house that Khandr had been given and went into the yard where he gutted and slaughtered the buck. When the skin and antlers were hanging on the curing rack and the village dogs were fighting over the offal – Laylah, as usual, had sought her sleeping place beneath the tall tree – Hunta wiped his knife and carried the meat into Embla, hoping to find her in a good mood this day…or, at least, not in so terrible a mood as she was usually.

[Rune Son of Bjarne]

Erling smiled as he met her gaze and replied to her question.
“I do not know much about Elves in general, I have only seldom seen them pass through the lands and even less rarely have I spoken with them. Strange folks they are these elves, I am not sure what to think of them.” Erling said, he moved around on his stool as if he was uncomfortable talking about the subject.

With his eyes scouring the room he continued: “I mean, they are fair to look at and all, but something is definitely not right with them! Once I saw some of them walk across my field, being afraid of them damaging my crops I of course hurried to the field, but when I got there they were all gone with out a trace! Would you believe it, non of my crops had been stomped, not a straw had been snapped and I could not find one foot print, even in the soft ground where I know they must have walked. I have never before in my life seen anything like it, if I did not trust my own two eyes I would think I was mistaken. - One could almost be led to believe that they float above the ground rather than walk on it. There is definitely something strange, one might say magical, about them and magic is not something for men to meddle with.”

As he finished his story, Erling noticed that everybody had stopped talking and was sitting in silence with eyes fixed on him. Clearly a bit nervous about the attention Erling continued talking.

“I do not know what these Elves want here and I do not know them, but it could seem that Lord Ulfang thinks highly of them, although I don’t know exactly why. Lets hope they don’t use any of their Elven-magic on him, everyone needs to be alert when around such strange beings; even the Lords.”

Erling took a huge gulp of ale from his mug, as he put the mug back down he leand back and shook his head while mumbling “strange folks indeed”. He then grew quiet for a few seconds, before looking to Grimr hoping for him to give his views and knowledge on the subject.

[Durelin]

The woman, known to those who must know her as “Jord,” was walking in the small courtyard in which she knew the recent visitors to the King had been greeted only a few moments before. She had come down to observe the day’s happenings, and particularly to watch Uldor and his behavior. He had been working carefully on his father for years, and with her help, he now might as well be sitting in that throne...if it could be called that. Even she was perfectly willing to admit that these Men of the East were so far lower than the Elves that she nearly would have preferred the company of the latter. Nearly.

For most, a walk in the courtyard was a stroll, something leisurely and done out of please: but Jord paced restlessly, not paying attention to where she was going. She was not accustomed to paying such great heed to a body before, though she had now grown used to it enough that she often found the body moving without her remembering telling it to. It was unfortunate that the connection between it and her mind was so deeply welded by her master, and it was far too much of a bother trying to keep the skin from betraying her soul. If only it had not been so long since she had to wear a mask. The times had been so prosperous – she had grown too complacent.

Her mind wandered, so to speak, to inside the King’s hall. It was still a strange sensation, almost painful, like running into a wall or being tugged back suddenly by a chain. She was bound in a way she had not been in... Her mind had strayed a little too far into the recesses of her memory, and was pulled back with a snap. She shook with anger and anticipation as her self-awareness fell into place again in the drab reality around her.

Careful to keep her awareness, she let her thoughts creep towards what was going on in that hall, reserving herself simply to possibilities, worries, assumptions, predictions, checking her mind from trying to venture into the absolute: into that room, into the minds of those present.

Things were moving quickly now. The emissary from the Elves had arrived, sent by Caranthir himself, the Child who had determined he was in charge of this bunch of Men. Likely he thought himself a godsend, a light in the darkness for these people. And perhaps he was perfect in his understanding of one thing: that this land was certainly a dark one, these days. Morgoth had been wise to get his hands on Ulfang so quickly.

If the emissary were here, that meant things were already starting to fall in after it, and she had only to make sure that they fell in the right places. The Ulfings would have to go through all the motions of an alliance with the Elves, and things would have to remain as peaceful between them as possible. She was assured that the Ulfing people had no love for the Elves, and so it might be difficult to keep them silent for too long. But those Borrims were much more of a nuisance. Their descendants had not been tempted by Morgoth’s offer, so they were now far beyond his notice. She would have to notice them, though. Jord felt so insulted by this, but she knew she could not let them get in the way, though they would surely try.

But there was nothing that could not be taken care of, quickly and quietly. She needed only to continually insure that Uldor’s mind remained loyal to hers.

At the thought of the man, she smiled.

The body began to slow its pace, both in heart and step, as she settled her mind on her target. She was prepared in every way for this war, but had no need of steel. It would be a good, clean fight, and even in the end, her hands would be spotless.

[bill_n_sam]

Gunna cradled the warm bowl in the crook of her arm as she balanced the bread in one hand, the stone jar of ale in her other. Giving the door a shove with her foot, she called back to her sister over her shoulder. “I’m going now. I’ve banked the fire, so if the baby awakes . . . “

“I know, I know.” Mem interrupted good naturedly, her unseeing eyes staring vacantly from her pinched face, but her mouth drawn up in a mischievous smile. “If the baby wakes I’ll make sure I stir up the embers and feed the fire until the flames are higher than my head and then I’ll turn my back and pay her no mind . . . “

Gunna smiled in response. “Alright, just . . . just, take care, and I’ll be back quickly.” She stepped through the door into the spring sunshine.

“I’ll be here!” Mem chuckled softly, her hands never ceasing their labor as she deftly spun a thread as delicate as gossamer from the spindle she held in her lap.

As Gunna walked the short distance under the town’s eastern wall, from where they had their small home to where her husband had his forge, she frowned slightly. It wasn’t only her uneasiness of what might happen every time she was required to leave Mem by herself which creased her brow. The growing tension amongst the Ulfings had many of her neighbors on edge. Gunna usually tried to mind her own business and not pay too much attention to the gossip of the women. This was growing harder to do however, since the return of Ulfang’s eldest son. The reconciliation between the two had certainly taken many by surprise, including Ulfast, who had apparently nursed great ambitions of succeeding to the leadership of their people. But his brother’s recall from exile had brought those hopes into serious doubt, and now . . . and now Ulfast called upon her husband to craft a fine sword.

Well, there was nothing to be done about it, she thought resignedly. All the inhabitants of the settlement, it would seem, were being called upon in such oblique ways to cast their lots in with one or the other of Ulfang’s contentious offspring. Her husband might try to walk the knife’s edge and remain neutral, but sooner, rather than later, every man would have to declare for either Ulfast or Uldor.

Dag’s back was to her as she slipped unnoticed into the shed. As always, she spared a moment to admire the muscles spread taught over his spare frame. The strength needed to wield a hammer for hours at a time was well evident in the contours of his shoulders and neck. Sweat gleamed on his skin as the warmth of the day grew. Turning around, he caught sight of her but did not immediately hail her or stop his labors. But she could tell, from the slight relaxation of the muscles around his jaw, and the easing of his features, that he was glad of her presence. Gunna set the food and drink down carefully and waited, arms across her chest, for him to speak.

Finally reaching a point where he could safely set aside the blade, Dag carefully replaced each tool in its proper place and then crossed to his wife. His fingers traced the crease in her brow where the frown rested still. “I hope this isn’t for me.” He teased gently, a slow smile spreading over his lips.

The frown flew from her face, as his wife smiled in return. “It is – and it isn’t.”

Dag raised one eyebrow quizzically, as he reached for the bowl of food and took a seat on one of the upturned stumps which he used either as fuel or furniture, as the need arose. Ploughing a piece of bread through the thick pottage and shoveling it into his mouth, he waited patiently for her to continue.

Gunna did not sit but took a wooden cup from a shelf and poured it full of ale, handing it to Dag. “You know why I’m worried. The rumors . . . about Uldor and Ulfast. I hear more every day. I’m afraid. Afraid you’ll be caught up in all of this. Afraid that you’ll be forced to pick a side. And what if you choose the wrong son? I’ve heard . . . “

Dag spoke around a huge mouthful of food. “Have you heard yet of our visitors?”

Gunna’s frown returned. “Visitors? What visitors? No, I haven’t left the house this morning. The baby was fussy and Mem . . . “ The thoughtful look on her husband’s face brought her words to a halt as she waited for him to down half the cup of ale in one long gulp.

“Elves, from the north.” His words meant little to her but the seriousness of his tone was enough.

“Elves? What does that mean? Why are they here? What do they want? They’re here – in town?”

“They take counsel with Ulfang and his sons as we speak.” Dag replied with deliberation. “I do not know why they have come. But it may be that we’ll have larger worries than the squabbling of a chieftain’s sons to deal with soon.”

“Are there many? Have they come in peace?” Gunna asked anxiously, her nimble mind trying to grapple with the unknown factor which had just been introduced into their lives.

Dag set the empty bowl at his feet and pulled his young wife onto his lap. Wrapping his arms around her, he wished in his heart that this was all that was required of a man to protect his family from the vagaries of fate. “No, there are only two, at least, so far. I don’t know why they’re here, but it’s no secret that Ulfast pledged himself long ago to one of their kind. This is why we have been allowed to settle here, to hunt and farm without fear of attack. Perhaps now, they require the debt be honored.”

Gunna laid her head on Dag’s shoulder, feeling the calm, the reassurance she always felt when he held her. “Perhaps they are just paying their respects to our Chieftain. Perhaps they are just wanting further pledges of his continued loyalty.” She said hopefully.

“Perhaps.” Dag repeated, although the skepticism in his voice was clear. “Well,” he said, standing abruptly and setting Gunna firmly on her feet. “It’s back to the forge for me. Are you away home?”

“I thought I would drop by the house given to the Borrim for a moment. I hear they are having some sort of a feasting for their own people and are looking for some extra provisions. I thought perhaps they would welcome that wheel of fine goat cheese Mem got for the thread she sent to Belig, in exchange for some fresh meat. Belig told me the Borrim are good hunters and have fresh game practically every day.”

Dag snorted disdainfully. “What’s wrong with the meat we get from Tokr? Why do we need to trade with the northerners?”

“That last haunch of venison had maggots in it already.” Gunna explained simply. “Tokr keeps the fresher meat for himself and gives us the old. I just thought we should . . . “

Yes, yes, alright.” Dag said smiling once more and waving his hand dismissively. "I have no time for women’s concerns. Trade with who you like, but don’t be wandering all over the settlement. This visit of these elves makes me uneasy, and I don’t want you to leave Mem and the baby alone for very long.” He pulled Gunna to him quickly and kissed her forehead affectionately. “Now leave a man in peace to do his work.”

[Dimturiel]

Tora was standing outside her house, her eyes fixed on some unseen point somewhere in the distance. Her expresion was thoughtful, sad even. She wished she had something to do, something to take her mind off her thoughts. There were days when she would do nothing but work from morning until night, when she would sink into the blessed oblivion of sleep. And then there would be no time to think or to remember who she was and where she was living and in what times.

She would often hear the people talking about the troubles that they had, about the things that happened in the world outside their settlement, and she could very well realise that things were not quite right, that the world was unsafe and that something perilous was stiring. And then there were the two Elves that had arived that morning. Why were they there? No one knew clearly, or else they would not tell, not even to themselves. Some foretold great changes, yet what kind of changes? It was too much to hope that they were to be for the better. In a world like this? How could they be?

Yet it was not only the sudden intrest of the Elves in their small settlement that bothered Tora. Nor was she only troubled by the fact that things were going bad in the world. There were other things too, that clouded her mind, things that were threatening to break the composure that she had had for so long.

Tora was well known for the way she handled things. Whatever had happened to her, she had always been calm and resigned, an attitude that made many admire her. She never complained. She never wept or cursed fate shaking her fist at the merciless sky. Her way of behaving seemed grand to some, the way she seemed to be defying fate's decissions.

Yet was it really bravery and defiance what she was doing? To her it sometimes seemed that she was merely protecting herself from life's sorrows. It was easier to grind your teeth and accept destiny's ways, if only openly. It was always easier to pretend that if the world did not care much of your story then neither do you. There was nothing to admire in such attitude. It was nothing more than an act of defence against sorrow and madness.

[CaptainofDespair]

Never one to enjoy courtly procedure, Ulfang only tolerated the petty vassal-chiefs that laid about his hall. In his younger years, back in the East, it had been a necessary tool to keeping them in line, to protect his own power. But he was old now, and under the watch of the Elves. These minor ‘lords’ no longer mattered to him. His rule was law, and none would dare challenge him in his own kingdom.

Having wasted most of his day among the rabble of his court, the Ulfing chief was not pleased when he heard of the coming of the Elves. He had hoped to retire away to spend some time hunting before the darkness of night prevented him from doing so. Being so old had limited those few pleasures he did gain from the world, and to have even those taken from him by usually trivial assemblies left him prone to a good deal of anger and resentment. Though many still cowered away from him when angered, a good number of his own people recognized he was not as fearsome as he had been even a few years earlier.

When the Elves announced their presence before him, Ulfang greeted them in the most civil way he could. Even for him it would not be wise to belittle those who came on Caranthir’s behalf. Ulfang’s own minions were yet another matter. But the land he now stood on, after all, had been practically gifted to him. Despite a failing memory, the chieftain reckoned that he knew why the Elves had come. He had, after all, entered into a military pact with a Son of Fëanor. Perhaps it was that time now, for his able-bodied warriors to be called into action against the Darkness of Angband.

Stroking his grey beard, with the envoy standing before him, Ulfang posed a question. He desired to see if exactly what he thought was true. “Tell me…Lachrandir,” he said gruffly, having almost forgotten the envoy’s name. “Do you come to speak on the alliance I entered into with your lord, Caranthir?”

Before the Elves could answer, Ulfang became extremely animated without even the moment elapsing. A haggard warrior, standing guard near the entrance of the Hall, had left the door open. In his old age, it was minor infractions such as these that could set off Ulfang. His face turned red in mere seconds, and his breathing became heavy and labored. Pointing and shouting, with bits of white spittle flying from his mouth, stray droplets clinging to his beard, the chieftain ordered him removed. The court remained silent, and the chief’s sons did not even flinch in their stone-carved seats. Such outbursts had become normal. Settling back into his throne, Ulfang spoke once more to the Elves. “I apologize,” he stated, “for the lack of decorum by my people. They need a firm hand to guide them.”

[bill_n_sam]

Leaving the stone jar of ale for her husband’s thirst, Gunna gathered up the empty bowl and hurried out into the afternoon sun. Her thoughts whirled as her feet carried her through the twisted lanes that crisscrossed the Ulfing settlement. Unconsciously sidestepping the scattered piles of refuse which threatened her fine leather slippers, Gunna mulled over all that the arrival of these elves might imply for their family. The arrival of the hunters from the north had been unsettling enough, at least at first. Although distantly related, these men and women had quite definitely been regarded as strangers by most of the Ulfings. Even after a month, they were treated with at least skepticism, if not downright suspicion, by the inhabitants of the town. If it hadn’t been for Belig’s assertions that the Borrim were not so very different after all from their southern cousins, Gunna would not have dared approach the house which now lay just around this last corner.

Even holding tight in her mind to Belig’s assurances, Gunna found her stomach muscles contracting as she regarded the facade of the house which had been given over to the Borrim dignitary, his family and retainers. Belig had opined that she had seen this man, Khandr by name, and that he did not seem at all that imposing a personage to her (which she had emphasized with a sharp sniff). Gunna thought, however, that one who came seeking to bind one of Ulfang’s sons in marriage must wield some power in his own land, and in his own home, certainly. As she steeled herself to approach the residence, Gunna wondered how the women of such a house would conduct themselves, and whether she would seem coarse and common to such as these.

It was with great relief that Gunna saw the house was extended in the back by a walled in yard. Perhaps, she thought hopefully, she could enter that way and attract the attention of one of the servants, and not even be required to deal with a wife or daughter of the house. Pulling nervously to straighten out invisible wrinkles in her wool tunic, she steeled herself and stepped nervously through the open postern door in the gate.

Immediately, Gunna spied a woman pulling water from a cistern at the far side of the yard. From the woman’s garb, it was difficult for Gunna to decide whether she was servant or family, for her clothes were plain, but the cloth was of good quality. Unsure of how to address her, Gunna opted for a simple and direct, “Good day to you, mistress. I’ve come to see about bartering some cheese for fresh meat.”

The woman turned and regarded Gunna with a sharp eye. For a moment she did not speak and Gunna wondered if she had heard her. Gunna had just opened her mouth to repeat her offer, when the other said abruptly, “Goat or cow?”

Somewhat nonplussed, Gunna hesitated before realizing what the woman was asking. “Oh, oh, goat! Of a very good quality. About this size.” Gunna tucked the bowl under her arm and held her hands apart to indicate the size of the wheel. “Well ripened.” She added, the woman’s dour countenance for some odd reason compelling her to find convincing reasons for the trade. “My sister received it from one of our chieftain’s wives, in exchange for the fine thread she spins. It was she that told me that you have fine fresh meat to trade, for your feasting.” Realizing that she was virtually babbling, a rare occurrence for the usually taciturn Gunna, she abruptly shut her mouth and gazed at the ground, feeling the woman’s eyes still upon her.

“Who is this, Embla?” A second female voice, softer than the first, caused Gunna to raise her head. This other woman, who was standing in the threshold of a door leading into the house, smiled encouragingly at her, saying, “Can I be of service?”

Being so politely addressed made Gunna stammer a bit. “Y-yes, mistress. I . . . I’ve come to see . . . to see if you’d like to trade. Some cheese for some fresh game.” Gunna’s eyes darted nervously to the first woman, still not sure if she was servant or family. That one’s face had darkened as she glared at the one in the doorway. Not wishing to give offense, yet not knowing what to say, or to whom to say, Gunna once more stared down at her shoes, miserably wishing she had not been such a fool as to come here in the first place.

[Anguirel]

Caranthir's ambassador watched the Easterling leader with an impassive face, but in his mind he could not help feeling contemptuous towards the human ruler. Perhaps, as he had suspected moments before, the old Adan was in his dotage; but even so, it did not do to reveal such an indignified rage with a subordinate to an envoy of one's overlord. Lachrandir kept his features immobile as Ulfang raved at the hapless guard, the Elf's eyes fixed, staring without deviation at the empty stone chair. He saw, with a hint of amusement, that young Tathren had adopted the same tactic.

When the choleric old barbarian appeared to have settled down, muttering his apologies, Lachrandir inclined his head slightly.

"Very well, friend. May we proceed to business? You were right to remember the accord you signed as a vassal of the Lord Caranthir. The time has come to fulfil your vows."

Ulfang's greying brows brindled slightly. It was unlikely, perhaps, Lachrandir reflected, that he enjoyed being referred to as a vassal in front of his nobles. He decided to make a more deliberate effort towards courtesy.

"You must be aware that our armies have been strained for some time by the onslaught of the Enemy," he continued. "My master has determined that the security of all our lands, the lands of Men and Elves, must be defended, likewise, by Men and Elves. I come with a summons, my lord Ulfang, a summons to muster your forces directly you can prepare suitable numbers."

Lachrandir produced Caranthir's missive, a roll of silvery vellum bound with a loop of grey Elven-twine; he had previously transferred it from his other possessions and slipped it inside his cloak. The eyes of Ulfang as he saw the letter seemed to encapsulate contradictory emotions; a little excitement, even lust in its sharpest form; but weariness also, the Elf thought. If mortals curdle in age, then this one is surely nigh on rotten and beyond use.

A pause hung for half a minute or so, before Lachrandir pressed a little further. "Shall I read it to your lordship?"

"I can read it for myself," the old man answered, half muttering, half growling.

"Of course," Lachrandir said carefully, "but it is the custom for the herald of a lord to read it to the lord's vassal first." Vassal. Again he had dropped a dangerous word, but in his irritation he had felt the Man could profit from such a reminder.

"I know the custom," Ulfang said quietly, "but in any case, we ought to wait."

Lachrandir was puzzled now, and nigh on exasperation. Was this some absurd superstition among the Easterlings, that a letter could not be read before twilight, or something similar? Tathren glanced at him, and to his annoyance it seemed to him that the younger Elf was attempting to calm him.

"You see, this empty chair," Ulfang explained, faltering somewhat, "and these two full ones. You can see that my third son, that my son, my third son, is not yet here."

Silence settled again, before the chieftain continued to elucidate.

"Uldor. My son Uldor. I will not have Lord Caranthir's letter read until he is here,"

"I see," Lachrandir replied. "Well, could it not be arranged that..."

But the chieftain was unexpectedly rearing himself up off his leaden throne. His head was still scarcely on a level with Lachrandir's, but in his moment of uncharacteristic decision he seemed altogether taller and firmer.

"Ulwarth!" he barked, and the corpulent occupant of the left-hand throne got up. Ulfang nodded with a grim smile.

"That's more like it. Go and find Uldor, lad. We can't keep Master...Lachrandir here waiting, can we?"

"Ay," Ulwarth muttered, and retired, his mail clanging, from the hall, swiftly loping out with bitterness on his unsightly face. The Elves refrained from watching him go.

"You have been standing for too long," the chieftain remarked, his tone now measured, even merry. "Guards! Stop idling and bring Caranthir's messengers some seats, now!"

[Celuien]

The guards, not wishing to fall under Ulfang's capricious wrath, hurried to obey their lord's command. Two chairs, shabbily cushioned in fading red velvet, were brought forward from behind a screen and gently placed behind the Elves. Very carefully, for the aged chieftain was watching for carelessness as a cat stalks its prey, and the jarring sound of too quickly dropped chairs against the elm covered floor would surely disturb Ulfang's thin veneer of good humor again.

Such concerns mattered little to Ulfast. His eyes followed Ulwarth in his passage from the hall, and he glowered from his stone chair. The court waited yet again upon Uldor's ease. The lazing fool. Ulfast held him in contempt, and that distaste now spread to his father for his dependence on his eldest son. Why must we wait? Does Uldor rule here, or do you? Ulfast longed to give voice to the thought.

"Aye. You have been kept waiting on your feet too long. Please, be seated. I am sure my brother will join us shortly, if he does not sleep the morning away." Ulfast laughed, and the sound echoed merrily in the timbers as though the jest had been genuine, but there was no mirth in his eyes. Ulfang glared, and the threat of another outburst brought a palpable tension to the room. Cursing himself for his weakness, Ulfast turned from his father's gaze, and calm returned.

"Well. Since we cannot yet speak of serious matters, perhaps we can talk of other things. Tell me, Master Lachrandir, how did you find your journey?"

[Anguirel]

Though the discourse between the Elvish delegation and Ulfang was one thwart with awkward silences, the restive Ulfing court was not over concerned with precedence, and a gradual hum of talking, drinking, and quarrelling reasserted itself throughout the hall. Guards and petty nobles alike came and went, both through the main gates and through entries at the side, without any fuss. None of the lordlings bothered bringing weapons, and by the same token none of the guards bothered searching them, though occasionally one of the hopeful circleted incomers, out of favour, would be roughly turned away without an explanation.

Among the new arrivals was a group of young bloods, seventeen years old at most. Their regalia was bright with polish, their voices were loud, brash, and confident, and their developing beards waxed into as coherent a form as possible. The young men were the very acme and exaggeration of the insecurity that characterised the cowed nobility as a whole.

Among this band was Drenda, son of Drenduld, and last hope, all-absorbing love, of his mother Gausen. Of the gang he stood tallest - indeed he was among the tallest men in the hall - but his features betrayed definite unease, and he seemed made self-conscious by his height. He spoke but rarely, leaving it to more comfortable, more powerful, companions to prattle and waste words.

The truth was, Drenda was a nobody, and standing in this assembly of ragged chiefs was a potentially vast risk. He possessed no land. He ruled no tribe. He was a chieftain's son, but not a full chieftain, by order of Ulfang's decree; but so were all manner of base-born men, if they could buy the title.

Yet he was his father's heir by right! A right robbed, he thought with hatred, by Ulfast, son of Ulfang, who sat yonder; the slayer of his father...

That was why he was here. That was why he paid not a whit of attention to his companions, and kept his gaze fixed on the lofty Elves, the scowling Chieftain, the tentative politics. Drenda was mortal, he well knew; but he meant to build his fortunes if war came; to win distinction, reclaim his lands and settle a long over-due score, on behalf of a father he had never known.

Ulfang was a dotard, Ulwarth a frowning fool. Ulfast was his foe. That left Uldor only, even if Drenda distrusted him, and disapproved of the attentions Ulfang's heir occasionally paid to his mother. He would enter Uldor's service, and set himself upon a path that would make the name of Drenda great.

[Folwren]

The company in the throne room did not have to wait long. Five minutes passed perhaps, but to those that endured it, it well might have seemed like twenty. All the same, in little time, the door opened again and Ulwarth entered, stooped slightly and frowning. A taller man came behind him – Uldor. He stopped a few paces in the room as the two elves and his third brother rose to their feet. Ulfang told him the elven ambassador’s name and Uldor bowed, as was due.

“I apologize to have kept you waiting,” Uldor said as he straightened again. “But I’m sure my father and brother made ample company and amusement for you.” He cast a sharp eye on Ulfast. Their eyes met momentarily before both looked away. Something was rankling Ulfast, that much was certain. Uldor thought that he really shouldn’t care. Something was always rankling Ulfast. “Please, don’t stand any longer. Sit down, and let us hear what has brought you so far and across so many hard lands.”

He turned as he finished and walked to his place by his father’s chair and sat down. Ulwarth returned to his chair and slumped into the wooden depth of it. A look of complete boredom filled his face and his eyes half closed in lethargy. But beneath the pale eyelids, his dark eyes glinted as they turned towards the elf.

Lachrandir did not sit again as Uldor had bidden him. He took a step forward and in his hand he held a scroll.

“Wait a moment,” Uldor interrupted before the elf had even begun. “You will excuse my asking, but I know nothing about what is going on and would like to have an explanation before we plunge into things like this.” He looked first at his father, then at Ulfast, and lastly upon Lachrandir.

[piosenniel]

Grimr looked quickly at Káta and then away as Erling spoke. He tapped the fingers of his right hand in an uneasy rhythm against the side of his mug. There had been any number of hushed conversations in the long winter nights as he and Káta lay in their bed. Most about their Elvish hosts; some about Lord Ulfang himself.

It was Káta who had first brought up her fears concerning those strange folk from west of west as she termed the Elves. They made her uneasy with their looks, their manners. Their words were fair spoken she would say to him, but behind the fair planes of their countenances seemed a coldness that cared not for the concerns of men. ‘Ours is a piddling welfare in their wintry grey eyes,’ she had told him once. ‘Of little concern to them save for the fact that the bodies of our men and sons will be offered as fodder for the battles they plan against their foe.’

She had raised herself up on her elbow, pinning him with her dark eyes. ‘And what is that foe to us, heart of mine? That one has not done any wrongs to us.’ She put her finger to his lips as he started to speak. ‘I thought we were to be given good sized parcels of land to be our own. Places to run our stock, grow food, raise many children and them to raise many of their own. We are crowded in this land as much as in our homeland.’ She’d narrowed her eyes as she shook her head. ‘And what do we hear but promises of how we will be rewarded when their foe is defeated.’

‘I don’t want to go back,’ she went on, ‘but we must do something for ourselves somehow, even if the old Lord thinks otherwise. Not just sit about waiting for those.....Elves.....to give us a handout.....’

~*~

‘Strange folk indeed.....’ Grimr said in only a slightly louder voice than that which Erling had used. He motioned for Fálki to make fast the thick woolen door of their dwelling as he and his twin entered. ‘We should be careful how we speak about our.....hosts. It is said they are keen-eared. And I’ve heard it also that these magics you speak of may be all too true.’ He frowned as he looked about at his family and then back to Erling. ‘I have heard they can look into a person’s thoughts.’

He hunched closer to Erling, lowering his voice so that it could barely be heard above the crackle of the little cookfire. ‘Some of us men have been talking about the Elves and such.....’bout the old Lord, too. Talking bout what might be best for us plain folk.’ He motioned for Káta to pass round with the ale jug, and took a deep draught of it when she’d passed beyond him to Erling, then on to Granny.

‘If you wish,’ he went on. ‘If you’re of a like mind I’ll bring you to our next meeting.’ He took another long swig and wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve.

[Noinkling]

‘Long-eared!’ Dulaan cackled thinking about those few Elves she’d seen from a distance. ‘Well that they are from what these poor old eyes have seen.’ She dipped a small chunk of bread in her cup of warmed wine, softening it enough for her nearly toothless gums to handle. A small dribble of the dark red liquid dripped down her chin as she chewed the soggy morsel. She wiped it away with the hem of her sleeve.

Granny’s eyes followed the small stream of smoke as it trailed up to the smokehole at the top of the room. ‘We could use more pasture land,’ she continued. ‘Add a few more rams among the nannies and we could enlarge our flock. Be more meat and milk to trade . . . and goats’ wool for your weaving,’ she said nodding thoughtfully to Káta. Dulaan took a bit of cheese on a stick one of the children had toasted for her over the coals to soften it. As she blew on it to cool it just a bit she began to speak about Ulfang.

‘The old wolf’s near as toothless as m’self, you know. Thinking’s none too sharp either, so I hear tell from some of the women as go up to the lord’s house to help with cleaning and such. Seems his sons are circling round about him, waiting for him to draw his last breath.’ She snorted. ‘Shameful thought, but I wouldn’t put it past one o’them to hurry him along to his Last Ride.’ Granny wriggled about on her cushion trying to find a more comfortable position. ‘Well, maybe not that youngest boy – though from what I’ve seen of him, he could be pushed to do it by one of his brothers. And the middle one, now there’s a sly fox. But he’d find some way to do in his older brother, too. He’d have to, don’t you think? Otherwise the power’d be slipping through his fingers for good when the old man dies and Uldor takes the lordship. Land’s sake! Now that one’d do in his two younger brothers just to make sure they’d never make a try for him.’

Granny popped the soft cheese in her mouth and mashed it about with her tongue, savoring the sweet taste and creamy texture of it. ‘Old Rinna’s milk does make the best cheese just doesn’t it now,’ she commented once the morsel was swallowed. She took the stick and poked at the coals along the perimeter of the little fire. ‘If I was a fellow looking to put myself in a good position,’ she went on, shoving the coals against the hotter embers. ‘And of course I’m not. Just a toothless old woman who spends too much time with her goats. I wouldn’t waste time currying favor with those outlandish Elves. Be of no use to us in the long run, so I’m thinking.’ She raised up the stick and blew out the small blaze that had blossomed at the end of it.

'Anyways, I think I might be sending a gift along to the Lord’s family.....making sure, of course, that it was Uldor as got the best of the lot. Be making sure he understood my family’s bows and blade were backing him. He’s the one as will be, as is already, really, the power among men in this place. And who knows.....he might be inclined then to see to us once the dust settles.’

[Child of the 7th Age]

Khandr could vaguely hear the women squabbling down the hall just outside the back door. He had told them both to prepare for this evening. Embla was probably finding ways to step on Briga's toes and to avoid doing the work that his first wife had set for her. He could also make out the voice of one of the locals who had come over to hawk foodstuffs in preparation for the feast. For one moment, Khandr considered rising to his feet and marching over to tell the three of them to lower their voices so he could have a moment of peace and quiet. But he did not want to embarrass Briga by intruding on her sphere, making it look as if he had no confidence in her.

Khandr plugged his ears and turned his attention back to the letter he was composing. After a few moments of earnest writing, he set the pen down on the table and picked up the parchment to read it:

To the liegemen of good King Bor,

As I am sure you have heard, Elvish messengers have arrived in the city and are negotiating with the Ulfing leaders even as I write this. I regret that neither King Ulfang or any of his sons had the courtesy to send me a message to join them in these discussions. As usual in recent weeks, the Borrim have been set aside and all my attempts at honest negotiations on the matter of the wedding have come to naught.

I am no longer content to sit at the side and do nothing to defend our interests. Increasingly, I feel that there are strange doings at the court and that it is our responsibility as liegemen of King Bor to try and find out what is going on. As much as I would like to pack my bags and leave this miserable place, I can not do that in good faith. I owe a responsibility to my King. Indeed, I would remind you that this is true for all of us.

I therefore request your presence at my household this evening. I will provide a great feast and tankards of good ale that we may come together and talk. Perhaps, with all your good wits and renewed efforts, we will be able to learn a bit more about what is going on and how all these developments reflect on the honor of our liege lord.

Please convey a message back to me either in writing or a few words spoken to my servant Hugo as to whether you will be able to attend.

I am, as always, your faithful envoy Khandr.

It had taken Khandr some time to make three copies of this missive. He had not wanted to leave something so important to one of the servants, and most of them were not able to write. Fortunately, all his guests were of good station and would be able to read his message to them. He flagged down Hugo out in the stables and instructed him to deliver each of the small scrolls to the other Borrim presently in the city.

[piosenniel]

As Granny finished talking, Káta slipped up behind her. ‘Let’s leave the men to talk,’ she said, smiling at Grimr as he picked up the pitcher of ale she’d left near him and topped off his mug. Erling had not spoken yet, and Káta felt it might be easier to talk about such things if the women were to leave.

‘You, too, Jóra,’ she said in a firm voice, ignoring her daughter’s hmmph! of disgust. ‘And no arguing, please,’ she went on, effectively cutting off the about-to-be loud protest of how unfair it all was. ‘We’re going to Gunna’s house. I want to pick up some skeins of yarn Mem was spinning for me. And Granny has a sack of our goats’ hair to bring to her.’ Jóra’s face brightened at the mention of Gunna and Mem. She loved playing with the baby and Mem always told the best stories.

Valr ducked his head when his mother looked over at him, pretending he had not seen her beckoning gesture. He could not avoid her spoken request, and with some reluctance got up from his seat by his older brothers. A few soft words from Káta and Valr’s head was nodding; his frown changed to a grin. He wouldn’t have to go with them, she’d told him – only fetch one of the geese father and the others had brought back from hunting. They’d bring it in trade for the fine yarns that Mem spun.

Granny and Jóra loaded up the family’s little two-wheeled cart once Káta and Valr had hitched the donkey to it. Two fair-sized leather bags of the fine, soft hair were stacked in the back. And the goose, wrapped securely in a piece of heavy plain cloth, was stowed securely beneath the seat. Káta drove, with Granny on the seat beside her. Jóra settled in the back, resting comfortably against the wool sacks.

~*~

‘Gunna, are you there?’ Káta knocked softly on the door of the little house.

‘I see the little fire’s going,’ Jóra cried, pointing to where the smoke curled upwards from the chimney. ‘I’m sure someone’s home,’ she said pushing past her mother and trying the door’s handle. It opened easily and the young girl rushed in. ‘Oh, there’s my little giggle-bunny!’ she said, clapping her hands as she spied the sleeping baby. ‘Hey, Mem! It’s me Jóra. Sorry! Din't mean to wake her up. She's so sweet! Can I hold her?’ She knelt down near Mem and put her hand lightly on the woman’s arm.

‘We’re here, too!’ Káta’s voice came lightly into the room as she and Granny entered. ‘Káta and Granny Dulaan. Is Gunna here?’ Káta’s eyes took in the little tableau. She must be.... she thought to herself, noting the baby.

‘Gunna?’ she said a little louder.....

[Nogrod]

Fastarr had gotten his nickname the ”Horse-Man” pretty soon after they had settled in to the town. Most of the townsfolk seemed to at least have heard of this big man who strode through the streets with four horses practically every day. Exercising the horses on the surrounding, sparsely forrested hills, was a daily duty but it also gave him a welcome chance to escape the town he had learned to hate during the months of their stay. The streets were narrow and stinking. The houses were small and their walls were blackened by the smoke of the coal they used to warm them. And no one seemed to care. And there were almost no open spaces in the village. It felt there was no space whatsoever, not even to breath.

And the inhabitants then? There weren’t too many locals whose company Fastarr had enjoyed. A few, to be sure, but at most a handful. The mood these people were able to generate was just depressing. The lack of laughter was the most obvious thing that Fastarr had noticed when they settled in. Oh no, they laugh, yes they do. With malicious pleasure, cunning, sneer... Wonder if all people around here are born from rape as there seems to be no love and care around... Fastarr frowned but then he had to smile. That had been a bit too much, even coming from himself. He shook his head and patted his horse to the neck: “Now, a bright friend you have my lad, one sunshine he seems to be today”.

Fastarr passed the gate to the yard of the house Khandr had been given and headed for the stables to return the exercised horses of his master and his wifes. Maybe I’m a bit harsh towards the locals... Or have they just infected me with the ways they think about other people? Gah, we should get out of here. Or I must at least get something else to do than hanging around in those smoky and unwelcoming inns... And what information is there anymore that could be of any use? We know these people already. From pure frustration Fastarr kicked a pebble that laid on the stony pathway. It rolled over the lawn and hit the wall of the stables. He opened the doors to the stables and took the horses in.

He was closing the doors as he heard his name called from the direction of the house. It was Khandr’s servant Hugo who was coming towards him, half running. “Master Fastarr, there you are! I’ve been looking for you. A letter from lord Khandr!” Fastarr nodded and took the letter. He read it immediately, smiling thinly at times, shaking his head slightly at others.

“Tell our lord that I will be attending.” he said. Hugo nodded and was about to turn away when Fastarr added: “After you have brushed the horses you could pay a visit to my tent and give me a good brushing too.” He winked an eye to Hugo and smiled. Hugo gave it a laugh and answered: “Are you in need of new shoes as well, I could bring some nails with me?” They both laughed. “You’re a good man, Hugo. It’s good to have you around in the thick of all these grimfaced brutes”, Fastarr said now more solemnly.

Fastarr walked back to his tent, still feeling dirty allover but definitively in a better mood.

[bill_n_sam]

Mem’s sharp hearing had picked up the sound of Kata’s donkey cart well before Jóra had scampered in through the unbarred door. In the few years since moving into the west with Gunna and her husband, Mem had formed close relationships with many of the women of Ulfang’s town, despite spending almost all of her time within the four walls of the little house. It hadn’t taken long for word to spread of the queer, sightless woman’s fine spinning ability, and the quality of her work often prompted busier wives, sisters and daughters to come calling. The relentless grind of daily chores frequently prevented these women from being able to take the time needed to spin the wool or flax into the gossamer weight threads that Mem’s deft hands were able to produce. The garments then woven or knit from such yarn were soft and light and slid luxuriously over the skin. In exchange, the women were happy to trade whatever products of their own hard labor, or their families, that could be spared. Thus many a fine piece of cloth, woven mats, cloaks and bedding of warm skins, and, most commonly, food stuffs were received by Mem and her sister. When the little family of three, now four, had first arrived in the settlement, there had been a few shaken heads and rolled eyes. But pity and wonderment at Dag’s extra burden of providing for his blind sister-in-law had since turned to acknowledgement that he was a lucky man to have one so skilled in his household.

Still, Mem was reluctant to call out a welcome to Kata and old Granny Dulaan, for she had soon recognized the shuffling gait of the old one amongst the springing steps of young Jóra. Gunna was taking longer than Mem had anticipated, and she was shy of speaking to the other women on her own. Usually, it was Gunna who led the way, greeting and offering refreshments, conducting the bargaining and trading bits of gossip once the deal had been concluded. Mem preferred to sit quietly and listen intently, occasionally throwing in a joke or a funny story, often being asked to sing one of her comic songs, which frequently centered around poking fun at the men in their lives. One old crone had asked Mem how she could have such an astute perception of men, when she had no man of her own. “Oh, but I feel that I have many” Mem quipped. “All those in the town in fact, after hearing all I have from their wives and daughters. I have the benefit of knowing how men are, without the labor of having had to find out.”

“Well, that may be so, girl.” The old one had jibed back. “But your stories and songs are little enough to warm you on a cold winter night.”

Thus, Mem hesitated as Kata called out, “Gunna, are you there?” “I see the little fire’s going!” she heard Jóra’s high pitched voice saying as the door opened and the girl rushed in. As usual, the girl went straight to the baby, exclaiming over her, and then Mem felt Jóra’s light touch on her frail arm. “Can I hold her?”

Before Mem could answer, Kata gently announced her entrance into the little house, and Granny Dulaan’s too. Mem first turned her unseeing eyes in the direction of Jóra’s voice. “Yes, of course, sweet one. She would be waking soon in any case. She’ll be thrilled to see you.” Jóra clapped happily and went to tenderly lift the child from its wooden cradle.

“Is Gunna here?” Mem heard the doubt and then the concern in Kata’s voice, as the woman called again, “Gunna?”

“Welcome Kata! How are you Granny Dulaan?” Mem said politely. “Gunna is not here at the moment, Kata. But please, sit. Be comfortable. I’m sorry, the fire is low, the day being so warm. But I can have it stirred up in a moment, and will put the water pot on to boil and we can have tea. I’m sure Gunna will be back any moment.”

Unthinkingly, Mem turned her face to the doorway, wondering what was taking Gunna so long. Meanwhile, her hands found their way unerringly to the small pile of faggots which lay by the fire pit. Carefully, she laid them in a pattern on top of the embers and bent to blow on the banked fire gently. Having been confined to sitting by the fire for so much of her life, she was readily able to tell from the feel of the heat on her body where it was safe to place her hands and where it was not. But she could hear a sharp gasp from Kata as she blew the embers to life. Even for those who knew her, Mem realized it was hard for them to imagine how much she could do, for herself, and for her family. She prided herself on trying to be as much of a help, and as little of a burden, as possible to Gunna.

Hoping to reassure and distract the women, Mem said merrily, “And what is this I hear Dulaan, how one of those handsome young Borrim hunters has fallen in love with you and has sworn to carry you off to the far north when they leave, and that he will die of a broken heart if you will not have him?”

[Noinkling]

‘Is that what they told you, Mem?!’ Dulaan cackled as the woman turned toward the sound of her voice. ‘Well, handsome is as handsome does, I suppose. And young, is it? Have mercy!’ Granny groaned just a bit as she lowered herself down to sit near Mem. ‘Well, he has got all his teeth, I’ll grant him that. Leg’s a little gimpy on the left side. One of his mares kicked him hard, caught the knee. Guess she didn’t like how he was helping with her foaling.’ She picked up a piece of kindling and poked at the fire Mem had stirred up. ‘Name’s Raudi,’ she whispered, leaning in and touching Mem lightly on the knee. ‘There! Now you have a bit of gossip to pass about.’

‘Jóra,’ Dulaan called out to the young girl. ‘Bring that baby over here for Granny to see for a bit.’ She held the baby out at arms’ length, cooing at her. ‘Pretty little thing. Sweet little bunny-girl,’ she cooed at the dangling infant. Granny handed her back to the eager Jóra.

‘Know what some little bird told me?’ she said in a soft voice. ‘Someone’s kinda sweet on you, too. And this’s no gossip either. I had it straight from the bird’s beak, so to speak.’ She glanced up to where Kata stood waiting for the arrival of Gunna. ‘Fálki.....you know, one of Kata’s twins. He’s the one as always volunteered to drive us womenfolk to your house with the wool. He’d have come with us for this trip, I’m sure. But there was men’s business going on he had to see to.’

‘He’s quite the shy boots, f’you know what I mean. Most likely never get up the courage to let you know his feelings. Thought I might ease the way for him, letting you know, and all.’

She glanced at Mem, trying to read the young woman’s face.

‘Anyways, probably said too much, always do.....’

[Celuien]

Ulfast allowed a smile, harsh though it was, to creep over his features. "Surely, brother," he said to Uldor, "Lord Caranthir's letter would tell you all that you need know of his messenger's purpose. Why delay its reading again?"

Uldor scowled, displeased with Ulfast's ill-temper. The smile did not conceal the anger behind Ulfast's words. If anything, it turned the words from a simple question to a mocking sneer. "I wish to know. Is that not enough?"

For a half of a breath, Ulfast thought of revealing his mind. It was not enough for Uldor, a foul swine who did not belong among the company of the Ulfing hall, to wish to know. Uldor ought to have remained in exile forever rather than returning to usurp power which he could little wield in his sloth. Uldor was a fool, thought Ulfast, but one who feared nothing.

And in the other half, Ulfast quailed under his brother's glance. He answered flatly, "Lachrandir comes with a message for us to gather our forces for the defense of Lord Caranthir's realm. Are you satisfied?"

[Dimturiel]

Tora was making her way towards Dag's forge with resolute steps. She was glad that her father had sent her to go and not her brother. She prefered to be out of her house at the moment, being fed up by her mother's excited talk about the coming of the two elves. That was the way her mother always behaved. She liked to see signs that thier lives would get better in every event, even in the ones that were clear to have bad consequences. Not that Tora found the presence of the elves an event with bad consequences. Of course, things were bound to change one way or the other, but there was the possibility that the change would not affect them too much.

But why did everyone had to be so enthralled by their coming? What did they think they would do for the settlement? From what Tora had heard of the elves, she knew that they were proud and very hard to please. What could they feel for the inhabitants of the settlement save contempt, if not even disgust? And how could their coming improve the way things went in the settlement? Could her mother not see that it was a foolish thing to believe?

Tora had reached the forge. She knocked at the door and then entered. She could see that Dag was not too pleased at her coming, but there was nothing that she could do about that now. And standing in front of the door without saying anything would surely not improve Dag's mood. Therefore, she took a deep breath and began:

"Greetings, master Dag." she said. "You know that my father has asked you to mend his knife and you told him that it would be ready today. Well, my father has sent me for it. Could you possibly give it to me?" She paused, looking at Dag uncertainly.

[Kath]

"Bergr?" Came a familiar cry from behind. "Bergr! I have a message from my lord Khandr!"

Bergr straightened, ugly words in his head. Idiot, Hugo, he muttered under his breath, that's any idea of a hunt gone today, and just when I needed one. He cut off his own train of thought, aware that he was being unfair on the messenger. Turning he placed as broad a smile as he could on his face.

"Well what is this message then?" He asked walking toward Hugo, sheathing his knives as he went.

Hugo held a letter out to him, and Bergr regarded it with wary eyes. He could read well enough, but he did not want someone waiting while he did so.

"I suppose you can't just give me the general idea of what it says?" He inquired, receiving a small laugh from Hugo in response.

"No I cannot, sir, for I do not know what the message says myself. I will take a verbal answer though if you would rather that than write one down."

Grunting at the compromise Bergr read, his features darkening as he learnt of the rudeness being shown to the Borrim even at higher levels than he experienced. The bars had been increasingly cold toward him of late, with his requests for ale being ignored and the door shut in his face. He wondered now if this had anything to do with the arrival of their Elvish friends. The invite to a feast was met with more pleasure. It had been some time since the small number of Borrim in this place had all been together and he looked forward to speaking with them again.

"Tell our lord I will be there." He instructed Hugo, and watched as the man made his way back toward the city, presumably searching for the other Borrim. Sighing he took a knife from his belt and marked the tree he was standing by to remind him of the place of his latest quarry and began his own walk home.

[Folwren]

Was the miserable wretch going to refuse to answer him? Uldor’s glance darkened as he settled his black eyes on his brother. He saw Ulfast hesitate, draw back, and finally answer him. “Lachrandir comes with a message for us to gather our forces for the defense of Lord Caranthir’s realm. Are you satisfied?”

Uldor’s mouth opened in a silent ‘Ah’ and he cast a sharp look towards the two elven ambassadors, standing mute while they waited until he was ready. His first thought was to make some sort of retort. “Does our lord Caranthir imagine that we do not have our own lands to defend?” was particularly tempting to say. But, no, that would not be fitting.

What is more. . .perhaps this summons could help him. For a brief moment his mind darted around with thoughts of certain possibilities. Then, with a softer look, he set his eyes again on Lachrandir. “Proceed. We will hear the letter.”

[Child of the 7th Age]

Briga purposefully stepped to the front and addressed Gunna. She chose her words with care, all the while keeping a wary eye on the other woman who stood a short distance away, "Cheese for fresh game? Yes, we would be interested. The hunters do a good job of keeping my husband supplied with meat. Just this afternoon, Hunta came to me with a great slab of venison. It is too much for our own household, even with the feast tonight. Rather than take it to the smokehouse or trade it at the market, I'd gladly do an exchange with you for some cheese."

The younger woman who had first answered the door stood sullen and silent. Even though her eyes were guarded, it was apparent that there was considerable bad blood between these two. Before Gunna could reply, Briga turned to address the younger woman, "Embla? Did you not have something to do? I believe my husband asked you to polish the silver cups in preparation for the festivities tonight. As Khandr has been kind enough to ask both of us to grace his table, surely you will want to help?" Embla shot back a sharp glance but then turned and disappeared down the hallway.

Briga turned back to Gunna and began speaking in a relaxed and confidential tone. "I am sorry. You must excuse her behavior. She is new to our household.....a second wife. And it is taking her a while to understand her duties." There was no anger or derision in her voice, just a hint of disapproval as if Briga was genuinely puzzled why Embla should not immediately jump to her command and do as she was bid.

"What say you then, my friend? But before we shake hands on the bargain, may I see the cheese first, or do you plan to drop it off later? Ad please do tell me what your name is. I know so few folk in this town."

[bill_n_sam]

Dag:

Dag paused in his work long enough to hear the girl’s enquiry. Just as he had known it would, Ulfast’s imperious commission for a sword would necessarily put on hold all the other mending and crafting he had obligated himself to do. This was the power that birth brought – the power to shove aside others less fortunate in the circumstances of their conception and drink first and longest from the cup of prosperity. The utilitarian knife of a common farmer, what did that matter when it came to the demands of a chieftain’s son? Those beneath could wait, while the few who rode upon the shoulders of the many took what they wanted, simply because they could.

These thoughts flowed through Dag’s mind as he began hammering once more on the sword. No more than ten blows had fallen though, as Tora waited patiently, before Dag carefully laid aside the red hot blade and finally turned to her, wiping his hand over his face. “The metal must be worked just so, while it is at the right temperature, or the blade will be brittle.” he explained without preamble. Tora nodded her head in apparent comprehension, although her face betrayed her puzzling over what this might have to do with her father’s knife.

“I’m sorry. You must tell your father that his knife isn’t fixed yet. I’ve been . . . required to provide a weapon, for Ulfang’s son.” Dag noted Tora’s gaze fixing upon the still glowing metal he had been working on. His eyes slid sideways to the sword also, then back to her own dark ones, hoping her father would not take out any disappointment over the delay on the innocent messenger.

He hesitated, then said, “Well, the repair should not take long, no more than an hour’s work. I’ll do it now, and let the blade there rest.” He regarded the girl, considering that she had probably a long enough walk from her farm to make it not worth her while to return there and then walk all the way back to the forge a second time.

“You may wait here, if you wish, or if you have other business hereabouts, you might want to see to it while I work on the knife.” Dag walked a pace over to where a small pile of implements awaited his attention. A thought struck him, then, and he waved his hand casually in the direction of his own home. “Or, if you prefer, pass the time visiting with my wife and her sister. I know they always enjoy hearing the gossip from the outlying farms.” He smiled briefly at the girl as he plied the bellows, stoking the fire and plunging the knife blade into its glowing heart.

*************************

Gunna:

"What say you then, my friend? But before we shake hands on the bargain, may I see the cheese first, or do you plan to drop it off later? And please do tell me what your name is. I know so few folk in this town."

Gunna smiled tentatively at the woman from the north. Her husband must be wealthy indeed, to be able to afford a second wife. Although Gunna, with Mem always available, realized how helpful it was to have a second set of hands to get through all the work there was in a day, she was more than glad that she did not have to share Dag’s affection with another woman. Watching Embla’s stiff back as she retreated, and seeing Briga visibly relaxing, Gunna sensed that perhaps this accounted for the obvious tension between the two Borrim.

“I’m Gunna, wife to Dag, a blacksmith and armorer. We live not too far off, under the eastern wall of the town. I . . . I know, perhaps some of the townspeople have not been too friendly. They . . . they are shy, or suspicious, of strangers. When we first arrived, three years ago, it was the same for us. People . . . people are . . . frightened, I believe. Frightened of what they do not know, and of what lies ahead of us, in these uncertain times.” Gunna closed her mouth abruptly, wondering if she should be talking like this, to a woman of position, and a stranger at that. “Well, yes, fresh venison sounds wonderful. I’ve heard your hunters are very skillful.” She hurried on. “I wasn’t sure if you would want the cheese, so I didn’t bring it with me. It’s quite large and I had no free hands. But I can bring it right by, if that’s acceptable.”

**************************

Mem:

Mem’s mouth hung open as Dulaan spoke. Surely the old woman was making a joke. But if so, it was a cruel one. Mem knew Dulaan well enough to know that, regardless of the old granny’s penchant for teasing, a kinder hearted soul could not be found in the Ulfing settlement. Could it be that the old woman was serious? Mem shook her head in disbelief, while her hands busied themselves with finding the pot and settling it near the edge of the cook fire. In confusion, the young woman called out to Jóra, who sat playing with the gurgling baby. “Sweetling, the tea is in that clay jar, by the basket of turnips. Can you fetch it here?”

Unconsciously, Mem fingered the bright bit of woolen cloth which Gunna had tied about her head that morning as they dressed. The hair which had grown in after her fever so many years ago, was brittle and of a strange rusty coloration. Gunna kept it clipped short – shorn like a sheep in spring, Dag would quip. What man would even think of her in terms of affection, Mem thought distractedly? Never in her wildest imaginings would she have guessed that Fàlki . . . Mem’s hands froze as the full impact of what Dulaan had said hit her. Fàlki! What did she even know about Kata’s son? Quiet? Shy? With a certainty, he was both. So much so, that even Mem, with her sharp ears, had barely heard him speak more than ten words in the two years in which he had occasionally accompanied his mother to their house. Could she even say she knew the tread of his feet, so like it was to that of his twin?

With a start, Mem realized that Jóra was speaking to her. “Mem. Mem! Here’s the tea.” The girl was setting the little clay jar gently into her hands. Taking a small palm full, she tossed the fragrant leaves into the heating water. Trying to collect her fractured thoughts, Mem turned to where she felt the old one sitting familiarly knee to knee with her. “Dulaan, I . . . I don’t know what to say. Are you in jest? Fàlki? I . . . I never even imagined . . . “She stopped, helplessly searching for the words to express her confusion, and the dim, far away hope that lay beneath.

[Dimturiel]

Despite the disappointement brought to her by her father's knife not being ready yet, Tora could not help feeling intrigued. A sword for Ulfang's son? But why? And which son was that? Of course, she did not voice her questions aloud. She knew it was not her place to know such things, and she was not sure she would get an answer, anyway.

Tora welcomed Dag's proposal of her going to his house. She did not feel up to walking all the way to her home and then returning later, yet neither did she want to remain in the forge. She somehow felt as if she would in a way be hindering the man from his work. And she had already abused enough of his kindness. Not many would put aside a task given by the chieftain's son for the mending of a plain farmer's knife. Therefore, she smiled to him and said:

"I am very grateful for your kindness, master Dag. I think I will indeed pay a visit to your wife and her sister. I had not seen them for a while, and I have been longing to talk to them."

She nodded to Dag and got out of the forge. It was not a long walk from Dag's forge to his home-not as long as the way back to Tora's farm, anyway. She soon reached the house and, after a soft knock on the door, she entered. There was a certain intimacy between most of the inhabitants of the settlement, and so no one bothered with rules of courtesy such as waiting to be invited in a house before entering.


On entering, Tora noticed that Gunna was not there, but that did not mean that her sister, Mem was alone with the baby. There was also Kata and Jora there, as well as Granny Dulaan. As far as she could see, Mem was talking to the latter with a flustered expression on her face.

"Greetings, Mem."said Tora brightly. "Hello, Kata and Jora. Good day, Dulaan. I hope you do not mind me being here, Mem. Master Dag sent me here while he finishes mending my father's knife. If it bothers you, I could go. I see that you already have your hands full."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hunta was just on the verge of slumber when a shadow at the front of his tent brought him awake. Laylah growled and raised the hackles on her back, and when Hunta saw who it was that had disturbed them he did not still her. “What do you want?” he mumbled at Hugo. “Can’t you see that I’m trying to sleep?” He had spent so much of himself on the chase this morning that all he wanted for the remains of the day was rest. It annoyed him that this creeping fellow who did little for his livelihood but fetch and carry for his master would interrupt that. Either because he was oblivious to Hunta’s annoyance, or that he was simply used to such treatment that he was able to bear it without reaction, Hugo delivered his message without sign.

“You are wanted for a feast tonight at my master’s table.” Hunta wanted to know what the occasion might be. “My master wishes to discuss the matter of these new arrivals from the west. There are tidings in the town that they are here on matters of war.”

“The Elves?” Hunta asked, his interest finally piqued. He had never seen one of the immortal beings but something about the tales he had heard of them stirred his blood and lightened his heart in a surprising way. “Tell your ‘master’ that I’ll be there.”

When Hugo was gone, Hunta left his tent with Laylah intending to walk toward the Ulfings’ great hall, hoping that there he might catch a glimpse of the Elves. But as he came through the wings of the house he found Briga in conversation with an Ulfing woman. He quickly discerned that his catch was being put to good use by the older woman….Hunta was a great fan of the Ulfings’ pungent cheese, and he savoured the opportunity of enjoying some at the feast tonight. When he heard that the woman had not brought the cheese he immediately stepped forward. “I can bring that here for you, if you would like,” he offered.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Briga again slipped forward and spoke. "What a fine idea, Hunta. I think a cheese and egg pie would do very nicely along with the venison for our dinner tonight. If you could go with Gunna to pick up the cheese and return here after that, I could get started on the cooking. Plus, you might help Gunna carry the extra meat back to her home. It would be difficult for her to manage on her own. The packets are sitting in the kitchen."

Briga glanced over at Gunna and smiled, "If you would excuse us for just a minute, I''d like to show Hunta where that meat is so he can carry it over to your house. Perhaps it might be nice if the two of you could go together now."

Beckoning to Hunta, she gestured that he should follow her down the hall and then discretely guided him off into a side room. She lowered her voice to explain, "Hunta, don't worry about the meat. I'll have the kitchen maid give it to you before you leave, hopefully with Hunta. But I need to pass this along from Khandr. As the letter says, my husband feels there is something going on behind closed doors. The Borrim have been shut out, not just on these wedding negotiations but everything else at court. Whether or not this 'something' involves the Elves who have come, Khandr has no idea. But could you speak with Gunna? We are so isolated here, so off by ourselves, that we don't even know what those outside the court are thinking or feeling. I doubt she'll know too much about those Elves but perhaps she or her family have some feelings about what has happened to Ulfang. There used to be such good relations with him. My husband is at a loss to understand what is happening. For the good of our clan and liege lord, we all need to work together to uncover whatever is behind this change in sentiment at court. I know Khandr would appreciate anything you can pick up from Gunna or her family. I must go now. I have much to do, but I leave this matter in your able hands. Please give my apologies to Gunna for leaving so abruptly." Briga turned and walked away before Hunta could even answer.

[bill_n_sam]

Mem’s distracted face lit up at the sound of Tora’s voice. “Tora! So good to have your company. You’re never a bother. Come in, come in.”

Truly happy to have the chance to talk to the young woman, with whom she shared a close friendship, Mem was doubly relieved to have a chance to turn the conversation away from the startling revelation Granny Dulaan had imparted. Taking up at wooden spoon, she stirred the tea in the heating pot, saying, “Sit, please. I’m so glad your father sent you. It’s been a while since we had the chance to talk. Do you have time to take some tea with us? Kata is waiting for Gunna to return. I don’t know what is keeping her so long. Did you see her at the forge? She was taking Dag his lunch. I know he’s been quite busy lately – he’s even been asked to make a fine sword for Ulfast. But it’s worked out well for us.” She smiled confidentially. “Gives us a chance to catch up on all the gossip.”

Mem hoped that her friend would not notice how quickly she was talking, and how she went on and on. Having heard from different sources about Tora’s own sad experience with love, Mem had no desire to mention Dulaan’s bit of news. Turning her face back to where she knew Kata stood close to the door, Mem asked politely, “So, how is your husband, Kata? What news does he bring you of the goings on of the men of the town

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

To say that Hunta was taken off guard by Briga's abrupt manner and surprising request would be an understatement. He and the lord's first wife had exchanged but a handful of words in the time they had travelled together; as a guide and tracker for these nobles he had dealt for the most part with the second wife, Embla. Much as the younger woman's bad temper and rude manner annoyed him, she was -- at least -- someone he could more easily understand and empathise with. Like her, he was something of an outsider to this group having been engaged by the lord more or less at the last moment. And like Embla, he was not of that more courtly and refined class from which the lord came -- Hunta had been raised in a little more than a mud-hut and had slept beneath the stars at least as many nights as he had beneath a roof in his life. He had never felt truly at home or at ease with the lord and Briga, and he had always sensed that perhaps Embla felt the same. But her temper!

Despite his misigivings, Briga's request could not be ignored. As he wife of the lord her authority was real, and her self-possession and almost regal bearing was something he could not pretend had no natural sway over him. So it was with some amazement, and more than a little confusion, that he found himself accompanying the woman Gunna back to her home.

As they walked they made what small-talk they could manage, but it was difficult and stilted. So much of their lives were so different, that it was hard to find common ground. As they passed a group of rough looking youths loitering against a wall, one of them called out to Hunta. "Hoy there, barrakar!" he said contemptuously. "I hear you brought home a deer this day! Was it a grand hunt? They say that you were able to smell it out, and that you chased it down yourself. What does a mighty hunter like you even need with a dog?" They youths laughed.

Hunta froze in his steps and turned toward them. Their laughter faltered somewhat but the one who had spoken pulled himself up, not wishing to appear weak or chastened before his mates. "What is it barrakar," he asked, "Is it not true that you are a great hunter? Perhaps you fancy yourself better than the Ulfings in that sport, eh?" Hunta took a step toward them. "Watch out barrakar," the youth said. "You wouldn't want to do anything rash. We are only trading jibes with you...you can't offer violence to some jokes...not if you want to stay on the good side of the law."

At Hunta's side Laylah growled deep in her throat. Now the youths were truly nervous, for they had never seen a dog of her size or power. She stared at them, and the wild idea went through their minds that she could understand their words. "Keep that mutt away barrakar!" they cried. "You should have her on a leash, dirty brute!"

It happened so fast that onlookers barely saw it. Hunta stepped close to the leader of the group and raised his hand. The boy's own hand flew to his knife and drew it forth an inch from the scabbard. Hunta froze and it became clear in an instant that he had tricked the boy into making this first threatening move. "Now who is in danger of being on the wrong side of the law...Ulfing?" Hunta said quietly. "I believe the penalty for breaking the peace within the city walls is quite severe, is it not? I might be willing to let the matter drop, though....if you apologise."

The youth's eyes narrowed into slits of impotent fury. He knew he was caught and had no choice. "I apologise for raising my hand in anger against you," he recited formally.

Hunta smiled, and it was not a friendly sight. "Not to me, you fool....to my dog."

The youth snarled but the laws of the Ulfing lord were strict, and his guards were sturdy. As his companions fought snickers of contempt the youth looked at Laylah and said, "I am sorry." Laylah sat and wagged her tail, leaning her head against her master who scratched her behind the ears.

Hunta returned to Gunna. "All right," he said without emotion, "I'm ready to go."

[piosenniel]

Now what are those two talking about?

Káta stepped out of the entryway as tea was readied. She’d peeked out the door to see if Gunna were on her way, but there was no sign of the woman. Granny looked a little smug, a considering look on her face. Hmmm.....cat got in the cream...., she thought to herself.

And Mem’s cheeks seemed a little flushed as she spoke. ‘I . . . I never even imagined . . .’ Imagined what? Did her ears hear rightly? Fálki?

Káta was about to ask how it was that her son’s name had come up in conversation when the sound of someone’s voice calling her name broke in on her thoughts. She glanced round to see a familiar face....Tora.

The conversation took another turn; Mem turning her attention toward the new guest. And soon a question was thrown Káta’s way.

‘So, how is your husband, Káta?’ Mem asked. ‘What news does he bring you of the goings on of the men of the town?’

‘Ah, my dear Grimr.....he’s fine, fine. Went hunting just today with the twins and his friend, Erling. We’ve brought a goose, in fact, they bagged,’ she added, ‘thinking your family might enjoy it.’

Káta thought for a moment about the second part of Mem’s question. She did not think Grimr would want the men’s business he was involved with talked about in a loose manner. Instead she spoke in general terms of how the men were abuzz about the Elvish visitors to Ulfang’s hall. ‘Grimr and the boys, I know, are thinking the promised battle will be coming soon now. The coming of the Elves heralds that, don’t you think? They’ve been setting their bows and spears and knives and such in order already. I’m supposing that will just pick up pace now. Why even we women,’ she said laughing as she looked toward Jóra and Granny, ‘have been drafted into fletching the new arrow shafts they’ve been making.’

She took a cup of tea offered by her daughter. ‘How about Dag, Mem? Is he busier lately.....making parts for weapons?’ Káta sat down near Jóra, smoothing her skirt beneath her on the cushion. ‘And your father, Tora? Any news come his way?’

[Mithalwen]

Tathren had not imagined that the audience would be such a tense affair - and it had barely started, the letter had not been read yet.

He was not offended that he had not been presented to Ulfang. He was Lachrandir's servant. A person of no consequence. He had been offered a seat, a courtesy extended to visitors in the customs of most cultures but that was all.

He followed his Lord's lead in matters of comportment; he sat when Lachrandir sat, rose when he rose and attempted the same composure. And if he had to speak he doubted his words would have the same condecension as Lachrandir had shown when they entrusted their horses to the servant. For his master such address was a natural mode of address. He guessed that he would have addressed an elven groom in like manner; here though the grosser disparity in status made his manner seem more patronising.

Neither would his own speech carry the same authority as Lachrandir's. It might prove too gauche or too glib for the situation and having observed the old lord's ire and rivalry between his sons he had wit enough to realise a misjudged phrase could have unfortunate consequences.

Really it was a relief not to be expected to speak. It was all Tathren could do to maintain a dignified silence. The chairs were not designed for someone even of his height - he was unable to divine from a sideways glance how Lachrandir managed to assume a easy and elegant pose despite his even greater height. Tathren felt he could not stretch out his legs as if seated by his own fireside and the chair was to low to tuck them back with comfort. He was only too aware that if he fidgeted he would disturb the bag that he had propped at the side of the chair and that if it fell it would not be the soft thud of a bundle of clothes but hard, metallic, at best a clink, at worst a humiliating clatter of coins that would incur his lord's disapproval far beyond his previous mild irritation.

He was anxious for Lachrandir to speak and defuse some of the tension - but he feared also that the envoy's words might have the reverse effect and be a flame to the fuse.

[Anguirel]

The Envoy, too, was not easy in his mind. He struggled to sum up the slew of human characters bursting upon him, rupturing against each other. Lachrandir noted the old Chieftain's reluctance to act before the arrival of his eldest, apparently more favoured son; the newcomer, Uldor, who was himself a knot of contradictions.

The Chieftain's heir was plainly flawed, and evidently could scarcely abide either of his brothers, which hardly augured well; but he did not seem to be entirely without qualities, either. There was force and decision in his tone that the rest of the brood seemed to lack, and Lachrandir was inclined to approve of his brusque manner, his irritation and desire for clarification. Plucky, one might say. This Uldor was an iron poker, heated to whiteness, with a brashness that burnt. As for his principal foe among the other two brothers, Ulfast, his respectful bearing to the Elves was good, but he was unwise to let himself be possessed so quickly by what looked distinctly like envy.

All this thought honed itself with the rapidity of impatience in the mind of Lachrandir, and his reply to Uldor was prompt, a simple "Ay." He rose from the mean wooden seat he had attempted to arrange himself upon with ill-hidden relief, broke the wax seal that bound the scroll and let it plunge floorwards. Four feet and eight inches of parchment unrolled themselves, until the missive hung composed in the hall's thick air, and Lachrandir began to proclaim it. The hall around ceased its murmur and disturbance, almost all eyes hanging upon the messenger.

The letter began simply: "To Ulfang, from Caranthir greeting. We would make known to thy hall certain tidings, desires and commands, which we trust you to fulfil."

But the missive was the work of more than one hand; Caranthir had written the parts of present import, but, as tradition dictated, they were interspersed with various ancestral litanies and chronicles detailed by the Lord's Loremasters. The gawping Easterlings were treated to a long passage of what, to them, were incomprehensible and somewhat frightening chants in some half-enchanted tongue. Lachrandir gave a gruff apology for the letter's length, before declaiming in the Quenya of a long-forgotten Court the Oath of Fëanor. The might and terror of the words penetrated the unknown language, and the spines of the Men tingled with trepidation. But at last, after a summary of other affairs in the usual Sindarin, including the loss of Thargelion at the Bragollach, Lachrandir reached the subject of his journey.

“...Forinasmuch as thou, Ulfang, called the Black, hath been accustomed to owe liege-homage, saving thy dignity amidst the tribes, to us, Caranthir, fourth son of Fëanor, rightful lord of Thargelion but for the false disseisin of the Enemy; by this and by the ties of loyalty between thy vassals and mine, thou art bidden to provide fighting men in service, to the number of seven thousand..."

A number of gasps sounded in the hall. The Elves had ordered bands of warriors to follow them north before, but a muster on such a scale was unprecedented. It meant at least a third of all the fighting men in South East Beleriand.

"...under thine own command or under such a proxy as it pleases thee to dispatch, to meet with our own powers and those of our youngest brothers, the Lords Amrod and Amras, on the twenty-seventh day of the month of May; this army being dispatched, under the lordship of our eldest brother Maedhros, Lord of Himring, to avenge upon the Enemy the grievous and perfidious hurts that he hath inflicted. For amongst these art listed the slaying traitorly of our sire and grandsire, the ruin of our realms in the north, and the unlawful withholding of the Silmarilli, greatest work upon Arda, that our father Fëanor crafted, and that we hath sworn, on pain of the Everlasting Darkness, to regain. So it is ordained on this, the eleventh day of April. And we hath sworn, once having raised up this great Union of Maedhros, never to abandon it, and charge thee to swear likewise.”

There ended the commands of Caranthir, though the letter continued a little longer with various good wishes and thanksgiving on account of loyal services rendered to Ulfang and other chieftains; as well as several hints that more lands and fiefs might be expected if the war went well. The Elvenlord ended by declaring that one Silmaril had been plucked from Morgoth's crown, and with the aid of the race of Men, he fully expected that he and his brothers would retrieve the other two.

"There ends my missive," Lachrandir finished solemnly. "Perhaps we could discuss arrangements for my Lord's muster in some more private place?"

[Dimturiel]

Tora sat pondering on Kata's question. Her father did not usually share the news that he heard with his family, save only when it concerned a dire problem, something inevitable that would affect their lives in some way. It was still too early to be certain that great events were to follow, and his father was not the one to speak until he was certain that his thoughts were worth saying. In this aspect, Tora resembled him completely.

"Well, you know how my father is." she told Kata. "He rarely tells us his thoughts. But I cannot deny that today he seemed worried. I somehow think that he does not find the coming of the elves good tidings. Yet my mother does. She says that great things are to come, and that our settlement will benifit much from them. Well, but you know quite well what my mother is like. She thinks that good will come out of many things that are actually ill."

Tora paused, shaking her head. She sometimes wondered how her mother had managed to survive all these years, being forced to endure disappointment after disappointment just because of her way of thinking. And despite of all that had happened, she still stubbornly mantained her hopeful view of the times that were to come. But what if the coming of the messengers would bring only ill, which was more likely to happen? Would she be able to survive this disappointment also, or would this be the one that would break her? Wishing to draw her attention from her troubled thoughts, Tora began speaking again:

"I for one think that something is indeed approaching." she cofessed. "But something by no means good. A battle, but the looks of it, but how will it end? And, most of all, will we live to see its outcome?"

[Folwren]

Uldor sat in mute and stunned silence. He struggled to let none of his mixed feelings to show on his face. His jaw clenched fiercely and his eyes remained narrow as the appallingly long missive was read out. As the introductions and the half intelligible words ran on, though, his attention and his tenseness slackened. His relaxed and slumped lower in his chair. Until his eyes fell on Ulwarth. The youngest son was crumpled in his chair until he looked as though he was practically dead. Uldor sat upright suddenly, his back became rigidly straight again, his eyes opened fully and he turned them once again on the envoy.

At that moment, Lachrandir looked up, he briefly met Uldor’s eyes as he made some sort of apology. Then he spoke in a louder, more commanding voice. It was a language that Uldor did not know, but it caused the blood to heat in his veins and he felt his very heart move with some emotion that was both hot and terribly cold at the same time. The silence in the hall as the elf read these words was heavy and so still that it was almost piercing.

Then, finally, he came to the point of his letter. Every eye, every individual attention was on the elven messenger. He read his lord’s bidding. Seven thousand men under the command of Ulfang himself! Uldor cast a look at his aging father. What would he think? How would he react? Surely he would not make an answer to this elf before Uldor had a chance to speak with him. Surely he would not. Uldor looked again at Lachrandir. What would Uldor advise? There was so much to be considered! Seven thousand men to be sent to fight another’s war. He commenced to listening once again to the missive.

Then another thought struck him violently. Would they be permitted to say no? Or was this a command, to be obeyed without question? Once more the muscles in his jaw tightened, his black eyes flashed as his eyelids became slits in his face.

“There ends my missive,” the elf said, looking up and beginning once more to roll the parchment. “Perhaps we could discuss arrangements of my lord’s muster in some more private place?”

For a very brief moment, silence met his question. Then Uldor seemed to bring himself out of some spell with a little difficulty. He stood up slowly, bringing himself up to his full height, meager besides that of the elves.

“We can go back into the next room. It is a private place, prepared for such purposes, with chairs enough for all of us, and a table. We can discuss whatever arrangements you think will be necessary. Am I not correct, sir?” he asked, turning towards his father.

The old man nodded his head slowly in agreement and stood. He stepped down from his chair and led the way towards the door. Uldor stood aside and motioned with his hand to the elves to follow his father. Lachrandir moved forward at once, and Tathren rose and followed close behind him. The three brothers came behind the elves.

The room they entered had no windows. Lamps lit the room in a smoky light and a fire burned in a huge fireplace at the far end. In the center stood a large, round table about which was placed several carved chairs. Ulfang walked with steady, measured steps to the chair closest to the fire and there he sat down. The others found themselves chairs and as it turned out, the two elves sat on a side of their own, with the four Ulfings facing them from the other opposite side of the table.

[bill_n_sam]

Gunna kept her eyes carefully focused on the ground at her feet as she and the Borrim hunter walked the remaining short distance to her house. She had felt the hostile stares of the loiterers boring into her, as their erstwhile leader had confronted Hunta, and been successfully put in his place by both the man and his huge dog. Gunna realized with dismay that her association with the Northerners would be fodder for the rumor mills by the time of the evening meal. Hopefully, none of it would reach her husband’s ears until she had a chance to explain herself to him. Well, there was nothing for it but to give the man the cheese she had traded and send him on his way back to his lord and lady, without further offense, if that was even possible.

With a sigh of relief, Gunna turned the last corner before reaching her little home. With a mixture of both pleasure and uneasiness, she saw Kata’s donkey cart pulled up by her door. Kata was always welcome, both for the goods she often brought to trade and for the news she seemed to so frequently be the first to know. After the altercation in the street that she had just witnessed, though, Gunna wished that Kata’s visit had come a little later. There was no telling what her friend would think of the presence of the Borrim hunter, or the fact that Gunna was trading with the Borrim in the first place.

Gunna said hesitantly, “Please, won’t you come inside? It won’t take me a moment to fetch the cheese.” Her maternally tuned in ears picked up the sound of the baby laughing in delight on the other side of the door, and she could smell the fragrance of tea wafting from the house. I’ve been much longer than I thought I would be, she thought reproachfully. I hope Mem did not worry!

[Lalaith]

Rarely had such rancour festered in cheese and venison. Embla’s mind was filled with ugly thoughts as she brooded over the slights she had suffered that day.
How hastily the hag had scuttled forth when that Ulfing woman had arrived with her offer of trade. How eager she had been to put the second wife in her place, to issue orders, to send her off. Hunta came to me with a great slab of venison, Briga had said. Ignoring the fact that it had been she, Embla, who had been given the meat by the returning hunter.

As far as she was inclined to feel friendly towards anyone of her own Borrim party, it was to the venison-bringer, Hunta. Not for himself, but for his hound, Laylah. In the happier days of her girlhood, she had been charged with the care of Dimma, her uncles’ hunting dog. Dimma had been a swift, graceful creature with a noble heart, and this Laylah had the look of her old pet. So, when Embla took the meat from Hunta, she had so far forgot herself and her current misery as to stroke the animal and smile at her, briefly. The memory of her unwonted softening rubbed like salt into her recent wounded pride, and angered her further.
The loathing she felt was so strong it gave her goose-pimples. Briga, bustling about, so full of self-importance over this forthcoming feast, so honoured and excited that she, a mere woman and wife, should be allowed to attend. Embla glowered. Among her people, the Bairka, the lady of the hall was the dignified centrepiece of any feast. She remembered her own mother, Rind the Proud, as hostess, moving imperiously among the tables - the great keys of the household hanging from her heavy belt as she passed the cup graciously to the most honoured guests.

And now Embla was clearly expected to feel gratified to attend this gathering of the dolts, summoned by the biggest dolt of all, her husband. Tonight they would cluster, frightened and flustered, around a goat’s cheese to wallow in their collective ignorance. They saw nothing, they knew nothing, and they would never ask the right questions. Look at Briga now, sending Hunta off to question that cheese girl. Time wasting nonsense. Embla did not know the name of the smith’s wife, but her sharp eyes had taken stock of her many days since. Not especially stupid, but very young and entirely absorbed by her immediate domestic sphere: husband, baby, and that strange blind girl who lived with them. Hardly a confidante of power or a rich source of gossip and intrigue.

As for her own intelligence-gathering…the arrival of the tall men, the elves, had interested Embla mildly. She had never seen the fair folk before….but always sensitive to potential snubs, she knew instinctively that these fine haughty fellows would have little to say to a downtrodden interloper like herself. There was however something, or someone, in the settlement that intrigued even her more than the Noldorin newcomers. The strange, dark-clad woman they called Jord. Her great beauty had the chieftain’s son in thrall – that was clear enough. But Embla could sense something else, something she did not quite understand. She did not think any at the feast tonight would ask her counsel, and she would certainly never offer it unsought. But she would wager her mother’s ring that this woman had a secret worth knowing.

[bill_n_sam]

The Borrim hunter merely nodded his head in acknowledgement of Gunna’s invitation. She wondered if the deep scowl on his brow was a permanent feature, or only the result of his verbal skirmishing with the Ulfings. Gunna had been alarmed at the near altercation, but more than that, she had been almost ashamed by her fellow townspeople’s rudeness. Certainly their kinsmen from the north merited more politeness, if not true friendliness, than it seemed they were receiving. With a silent sigh, she acknowledged that this was the way of things now. Dag was right – it was best to mind their own business and not worry about the doings of those around them. But how much longer would that be possible?

With a slightly forced smile, Gunna nodded in return and stepped through the door, remembering at the last moment the huge dog at her escort’s heels. She turned to ask him to make the animal wait outside and almost bumped into the man’s broad chest. “Oh! I . . . I wonder if you could have your dog . . . “

“Laylah!” The Borrim did not need to repeat the command. The dog dropped to her haunches and sat, not at ease, but in a posture of keen attentiveness to her master.

“Oh, oh . . . thank you.” Gunna said nervously, and turned once more to proceed into the house.

The light within was much dimmer than the brightness outside, coming merely from the smoke hole and the open door. Knowing her own little realm, though, as well as she knew every detail of her child’s face, Gunna stepped confidently across the threshold, impulsively giving Kata a quick hug.

“Kata! I’m so glad to see you! And who have you brought? Jóra! Granny Dulaan! And Tora too?” There was a brief moment of confused but happy greetings and explanations as to who had come for what reason. When the clacking of six female tongues had died down a bit, every eye came to focus on the stranger amongst their merry little group. An awkward silence fell and several of the pairs of eyes turned to Gunna for explanation.

“This . . . this is, um, Hunta.” Gunna gestured towards the grim looking man who stood resolutely holding the neatly wrapped venison. “He . . . he is from the household of Khandr, the, er, northerner who has come to negotiate for a bridegroom for one of his kin. You know who I mean?”

All heads nodded. Certainly they all knew of the Borrim contingent ensconced in their midst, within, yet not part of, their community. Gunna pretended to ignore the wide eyed stares of her friends, as she gave a somewhat breathless explanation of this stranger’s presence. “Belig mentioned that Khandr’s wife was eager to trade for food, they . . . their men are such skilled hunters.” She nodded in Hunta’s direction, as if to confirm such an accolade. “And, so I went to their house, the house given them by Ulfang, you know, near the chieftain’s hall? And . . . and I thought, well, we had this fine wheel of cheese, and the last piece of meat we had from Tokr had already spoiled, even though we gave his wife that fine blue thread – you remember, Kata? You had your eye on it yourself. Well . . . and so, I, I met Khandr’s wife . . . well, both his wives, I suppose, to be precise, and . . . they, she, she was quite polite, very friendly. And happy to trade fresh venison, so, she sent one of the Borrim, er, sent Hunta, here, to carry the meat for me and to bring back the cheese. You know the cheese I mean, Mem?” Gunna finished feebly, the unspoken words sounding as loudly in her head as the spoken ones. Leaving your poor blind sister AND your little babe – to go consort with those foreigners. Dawdling along in the street, passing the time of day with a strange man – a man NOT your husband! WHAT were you thinking, girl!

But if Kata, Dulaan or Tora were thinking these same thoughts, they gave no outward indication. Not in front of this Borrim, leastways. Mem, with her innate sense of how to smooth troubled waters, said pleasantly, “A guest! And one who can share some new stories with us – not those same old naughty tales you tell, Dulaan! Please, won’t you sit with us, Sir? I’ve just made tea – would you care for some?”

Mem’s gentle voice seemed to break the awkward tension, and Kata and Dulaan both pressed the newcomer to try the tea, assuring him of its fine flavor, while Gunna silently took the venison from Hunta, laying it aside, and then handed him the steaming cup which Mem had held up to her. Tora for her part sat quietly, observing the Borrim closely but saying nothing, while Jóra danced happily about with the laughing baby jigging in her arms. Although the abrupt entry of this northerner into their little gathering was startling, it was certainly a golden opportunity not to be wasted, if at all possible.

Hunta extended his hand, taking the cup Gunna offered. Gunna thought she saw the frown on his face relax somewhat, but she could not be sure in the dim light. Hunta bobbed his head, and with a brief, “My thanks, lady”, retired to a corner by the small woodpile, where he seated himself and took a sip of tea.

Once again, it was Mem who lightened the moment by saying, “Sister! You’ve missed out on a happy bit of news! Dulaan has confessed – she’s in love! Raudi he’s named, and he goes with a limp. I believe that’s how old granny caught him – he couldn’t run away fast enough!” Laughter filled the small house, as the women settled in to talk, with an occasional shy glance in the direction of the corner.

[Noinkling]

It was no shy look with which Granny appraised the man. She cocked her head a bit, her ears only half listening to the women’s conversation as she watched him amble slowly and deliberately toward the corner. ‘Amble...no, that’s not the word,’ she chuckled to herself. ‘Lumber, that’s it.’

‘Hmmm...yes...lumber, just like a bear. Big, broad-chested chunk of a man. All serious faced, like he’s on the scent of something. A bear, hunting.’ She nodded her head. ‘And just what’s he got in mind, I wonder. Who or what’s the prey, I wonder.’

Mem’s voice, the quick laughter of the other women, brought her thoughts back to the conversation. The little joke at her expense brought a flush to her old cheeks and she hmmmph’d a little as if to dismiss the very idea of it as nonsense. Then she grinned and shrugged her shoulders and laughed along with the others. Smoothing her skirt over her knees gave her a moment to collect her thoughts. She looked about at the little group of women, a merry twinkle in her eyes. ‘Well, the old gal’s not dead yet, is she!’

More tea was brought round, this time by Jóra. Dulaan nodded as the girl topped off her mug. ‘Such a sweet one you are, my little rabbit,’ she whispered. ‘Best see if the fine fellow there needs a little more,’ she directed, jutting her chin toward Hunta.

Dulaan’s eyes flicked over the now seated figure. ‘Looks much the same as any Ulfing man,’ she mused. Granny came into the town very little and Grimr had no acquaintances among the Borrim...that he’d brought home, at least. All she knew of the Borrim were the comments she’d heard of visitors to the house. And she was of an age to know that gossip did not always spring from truth. She rubbed the side of her chin with her knuckles. Gunna had indicated he was a hunter...a very good hunter. ‘Hmmm...’

‘Birna’s daughter is of an age to marry,’ she thought to herself. ‘Handsome enough lass, generous hips...be a good’un that for bringing in babies...little too strong-willed for some, though.’ She gave Hunta another quick appraisal. ‘Now I wonder...’

[Anguirel]

The chamber beyond the hall was ill-lit, but the slight, winnowing fires did not reveal bear stone; the place was generously hung, Lachrandir observed, with brownish tapestries, notched by crude, dark figures, some sitting, some drinking, some fighting, one bowing low. Such draperies must bear much of what this people knew of its history, he considered. But the future of the Ulfings, not their past, was now his concern, as it had become entwined with the future of Caranthir, and probably all the Edain and Eldar as well.

"My lord is aware that the contingent he desires is great in number," Lachrandir said, with quiet but penetrating force in his voice. No answer came from the Ulfing potentates, but he suspected their gazes were sullen enough.

"Great in number it is," he continued, "but the Lord Caranthir would have you think him lenient. In the north the Lord Maedhros, who has summoned this League, requires the Borrim to fight fifteen thousand strong. In the lands of the High King, every grown male of Hador's people is summoned, saving only the lamed and the old. Caranthir has ever allowed you certain freedoms and governance and customs of your own. Now he calls to mind the debt to be settled."

Lachrandir paused, before summing up his message in an implausible line Caranthir had personally ordered him to impart.

"Our lord would have you follow him not out of fear, but love."

Silence still, mingled with some coughing from the old Chieftain. Then Ulfast and Uldor spoke at once.

"Certainly-"

"Well-"

Another embarrassed pause, and it was the father who left the last word.

"The muster shall be gathered. But I am old, sir, unfitted for such games; so the command of it shall fall upon my son..."

The quietness was palpable and burnished. Ulfast stepped quickly to his father's side, and regarded his face sternly. Uldor stayed where he was, his chin leant into his hand, his eyes glinting. Ulwarth stood apart, and the apparently foolish youngest son's glance was both sly and bitter.

"...my son and heir, Uldor. He shall be responsible for the gathering and training of men, and shall lead my army against the Enemy. Now, my eyes grow heavy...I would have this meeting be done..."

The sons of the Chieftain left like startled crows, each going their own way; the envoys at a slower pace, after bowing to Ulfang, also retired.

[piosenniel]

Tora’s words echoed Káta’s own thoughts. ‘I for one think that something is indeed approaching. But something by no means good. A battle, but the looks of it, but how will it end? And, most of all, will we live to see its outcome?’

It was a grim question, and one which Káta had chewed over and worried at until the bone of it was nearly picked clean. Grimr had listened to her concerns and in his own way tried to be reassuring. She knew he and others of the men were deep in talk about the fermenting situation. But much of what was discussed was kept secret, even from her. ‘It is your protection that you do not know fully what is in the wind. Our protection. When the time is right I will tell you all, heart of my heart.’

Bah! She gave her shoulders a little shake as if to let go the old quandary, at least for the moment.

Káta’s attention was diverted for the moment. Gunna had come in at last.....and with some Borrim. Interesting..... She must talk to her, when the man was gone. How long had Gunna been trading with those of the Bor group, she wondered. And why would a man want to hang about a gaggle of women? Grimr would have smiled pleasantly, graciously, at the invitation and hied himself off as quickly as he could having made his excuses. She stifled a laugh thinking of her husband’s face.....his brow raised in consternation, his mouth set in a sort of rabbity grin, his eyes haring about for the quickest means of escape.

Her mind flicked back to Tora’s words again. And best you leave off that line of thought she concluded, thinking back on the observation by Tora which had preceded her woolgathering. At least until only the small group of women she counted as close friends were gathered and those less known to her, more suspect in their unfamiliarity, were well out of hearing range.

Káta motioned for Jóra as she passed by with the pot of tea. She offered up her cup, though she’d only taken a small swallow of the fragrant beverage. As her daughter bent closer to pour the tea, Káta in turn leaned nearer her, murmuring low. ‘Keep a close watch on your tongue, Jóra, when you serve that man. Be pleasant, but cautious.’ Her flicked to the man in the corner and quickly away. ‘And let me know all of what he says and what he asks.’

‘Have you heard,’ she said in a louder voice, turning to the other women as Jóra went off on her little errand, ‘about Hálma’s younger daughter? The one just turned sixteen years this last harvest? Seems she’s run off with her older sister’s promised man. Emund’s middle son. The boy’s mother, Gisla, is fit to be tied. As is Hálma and her husband. There’s the whole question of the bride-price already half paid for the other daughter.’ She turned and looked at Dulaan. ‘And some little bird told me they’d already jumped the broom and there’d be a babe most likely come this harvest.....’

[Anguirel]

When the Hall of the Ulfing was deprived of its irascible master's supervision, an atmosphere of cautious jollity set it, the nobles sensing that now was a moment to swagger and make their hay. The mead ran with more ease and the jests with more coarseness; insults long nursed were parcelled out freely, and the Chieftain's guards clustered together in knots, on the back foot as the vassals of Ulfang caroused.

Drenda sat down now, glancing rapidly down the length of tables and into the centres of discourse, his perfect almond eyes identifying and observing the figures whose personalities dominated. It was a favourite game of the ambitious youth's; investigating who, with the Lord's family removed, really held sway in the Hall.

Some men were notable for bombast, popularity, and prodigality; such a one Drenda's father, Drenduld, had once been, reckless and carefree in self-pride. For instance, there was Alangar, brazen skinned and barrel-chested whose laugh now sounded loudly, ringing off the darkened beams. He was an extremely hard drinker and it might truly be said that drink had no effect on him, for, as far as Drenda could see, he was inebriated day and night anyway. Somewhat more worthy of respect was a man like Rakthan, who spoke little and was usually listened to because, so far, he had scalped eight men in six duels.

But Drenda traced a power more silent and pervasive than that of Alangar or Rakthan originating from a smallish, unremarkable man, without particularly exalted blood or any feats to his name, which was Brodda. Most assumed that he was a mere cypher for his paymaster Uldor, but Drenda saw it differently. Brodda exercised and interpreted Uldor's wishes, and that made him in his own right, a man of influence. Besides, there was his survivability to be considered. Brodda had acted as a menial hand in countless intrigues and plots, and always found his feet; there was skill in that, a skill that could be detected in his mean little eyes.

So it was Brodda Drenda now approached, stooping so their heights were more equal, in a gesture of deference. "Afternoon, my lord Brodda. What think you of the news?"

[Folwren]

Uldor got up quickly as soon as the word of dismissal came. When Ulfang said he wanted something finished, the thing was finished. The meeting was over and there would be no reason to stay and burden himself with the company of the two elves. Besides, he suspected they would find his company burdening also. As he exited the room and crossed the court, his face twisted in a sneer.

“Follow him out of love,” he scoffed to himself. “Out of love! The sort of half-witted love a dog gives his master, I presume. I wouldn’t doubt that’s how the great Caranthir views us. His dog. He’ll find this one may bite after all, though. What do you want?” he nearly snarled as someone grasped his sleeve from behind. “Pardon me,” he said, hardly less fiercely, as his eyes lit on Ulwarth. “What is it?”

Ulwarth’s mirthless grin held even less humor than usual. “I want a word with you, that’s all. You have time for that, don’t you?”

“Hardly, brother,” Uldor said, trying to act gentle. He laid his hand on Ulwarth’s and tried to disentangle his sleeve from his grip. “I have to go out and think.”

“Think about what?” Ulwarth demanded as he tightened his grasping fingers. “Come, come, Uldor, surely you’re not uncertain of what you should do? Our father trusts your judgement! You’re mind, your wit is so quick all of the time! Surely you know how you should act?”

Uldor gripped Ulwarth’s wrist and twisted his hand away from the sleeve. He stepped out of Ulwarth’s reach. “Seven thousand lives of men is a great deal to give away lightly, Ulwarth, and without thought. Even you must understand that.”

“He didn’t say we were to give them,” Ulwarth said, lifting his eyelids a little more. Uldor caught a brief flash of intelligence in those dark eyes. “He said he would take them. You don’t have a choice, Uldor. Not unless...unless you want to fight them.”

Uldor frowned and took another step back. “We can’t refuse them. They would never accept it. We’d be crushed.” Ulwarth shrugged, and once more his eyes were veiled.

“I was suggesting nothing,” he said, turning away. “I wanted only to know what you thought. I am sorry to see you so stubbornly silent. I only try to help.”

Uldor watched him until he disappeared through one of the doors. Then he turned and went his own way, walking quickly towards the outdoors. His eyebrows drew together in thought. His mind was thick with dark and heavy thoughts. Ulwarth - the fool, the halfwit - had suggested to fight them. Ulwarth himself. So quiet, so calm, so apparently content in this house of peace where he was never questioned or threatened. Fight them? As though Ulwarth knew anything of fighting!

And yet what was that idea lurking at the back of his own mind? Uldor put one hand up to his forehead to try to clear away the cobwebs. What were those promises that he kept thinking of? Promises that he thought he had heard but could never remember where or when or why they would even be given.

His mind leaped about in a crazy fashion. Without looking up, he passed out from the city gates into the open, wind whipped plain. Even when his cloak flew up and twisted away from his body, and his hand reached out to pull it back down under control, his thoughts still strayed.

Certainly Morgoth would be a more powerful ally than even these elves, his mind told him. Morgoth, if he ever asked for men to fight for him, would not tell them that it was a payment of debt. No, he would pay them for their help. He had promised.

“What do we really owe the elves?” Uldor grumbled to himself. “What have they done for us that puts us in debt? Claimed to protect us? From what?” His feet stopped at the crest of a hill and he turned and looked back at the settlement behind him. “But we can not refuse,” he said allowed. “My father has sworn allegiance and to that allegiance, we must hold.”

[Celuien]

And so it begins, thought Ulfast. He left the meeting room slowly, wrapped deeply in the pondering of his strategy. Uldor's hasty exit and scoffing face had been well-marked. The eldest son disapproved of the Elves and their call for aid. The short-sighted fool. This was the moment to strike and supplant Morgoth. One that would repay debt with more than paltry gold. Or so Ulfast believed.

For the Elves spoke of loyalty out of love, not fear. That was unknown under the iron rule of the north. Fear brooked no equals and held on constancy other than that of cruel terror. Though a nation might grow wealthy in gold and great in sorcery under service to Morgoth, there would be no true gain in power. Ulfast knew well the uses of fear. He had used it to remind his inferiors of their proper places when they dared to slight him. But Ulfast did not seek a place as a slave to a distant master. True power was his desire, and that would never be gained from one who sought domination through fear.

From nearby, he heard the sound of voices, indistinct, but still recognizable as belonging to his brothers. Ulfast padded down the corridor, eager to listen, eager for any fragment of words that he might use against his Uldor. Morgoth was not the only master Ulfast sought to cast off.

"Seven thousand lives of men is a great deal to give away lightly, Ulwarth, and without thought."

He speaks against our father's will. Good. Ulfast slipped forward, hardly breathing in his strain to hear.

"You don’t have a choice, Uldor. Not unless...unless you want to fight them."

Ulfast nearly laughed. Perhaps the youngest was not quite as much the fool as everyone thought. Admission of a plan against the Elves from Uldor would be all Ulfast was needed to secure a position against him.

"We can’t refuse them. They would never accept it. We'd be crushed."

Uldor's reply was safe. Ulfast scowled. But one day, one day, brother, I will catch you in your plots. And then we shall see who is heir. Yes. We shall.

The conversation ended and the brothers parted. Ulfast lingered in the corridor for a moment before heading for the security of his chambers.

[CaptainofDespair]

War. Brodda, like all the others who were in the hall, had heard the Elves’ summons. After mulling it over a bit in his mind, keeping it safely locked away from the ears of his enemies and allies, the young man began what called his ‘tour’. Usually there wasn’t much to this, besides gathering information from his rivals that his master, Uldor, the eldest of Ulfang’s sons, might find useful for one plot or another.

Scheming was always best left to Uldor, though Brodda himself was quite capable in his own right. He preferred not to have the huntsman’s axe fall on his own neck if something went a foul and he was fingered as the brain behind it all. At least Uldor, as the son of the chief of chieftains, could avoid punishment by virtue of his station. Though, most of the Ulfings with power dared not to look into Uldor’s dealings to begin with. They often sensed there was one disturbing event or another behind that veil of shadows, and would prefer to be able to sleep at night…and wake in the morning.

But Brodda, as his lord’s favored servant, played at least a decent role in the plots. He was a listener, something any good opportunist must be able to do. A good number of Ulfing vassals were always present in Ulfang’s hall, and out of those several were drunkards. These men were easy pickings for the crafty Brodda, though they were not much of a challenge. Almost anyone could loosen information from the lips of their ilk.

In the midst of his wanderings, the silent Brodda was disturbed by a youth named Drenda. Only half paying attention at first, his mind zeroed in on the question. But this inquiry was more than a question. There was no idle talk, though perhaps the gravity of the day’s happenings was slightly lost in the tone of the asking. “What do I think,” he quizzed, his eyes continuing to scan the hall. “I think, Drenda, that the summons to war is a turning point for us Ulfings. The younger generation shall assume power when this is all done, as I believe this shall be Ulfang’s last campaign. The only question is who to side with…but that must wait.” Brodda knew this last comment was vague. His meaning could be one of many choices.

[Durelin]

Being cemented in her body meant that Jord had to physically follow the man she wished to talk to, and so by the time she felt it good to approach him, she was in a foul mood. She always had to be careful who saw her and Uldor together, and where anyone saw them. Her worries were not many: she knew that likely the fools thought her his mistress or something equally demeaning, but she still had them. The less she was seen at all, the better. And so it pleased her that Uldor did not notice her until she was practically breathing on the back of his neck.

“You will hold to it,” Jord whispered. The man appeared unaffected, but she sensed his surprise, and a bit of something else that she liked. “The brave and honorable Uldor keeps his promises, just like his father…” A smile formed slowly on her face as she spoke. This boy was sworn to Morgoth just as Ulfang was, and they both knew there was no turning back for him any more than there was for her. But that was the end of their similarities.

Uldor sneered at her, and Jord considered the joy of reaching out and patting his head – a reward for being smarter than he looked sometimes – once she really had him on a leash at her feet. She searched his eyes and gave him the sense she was boring into him whenever he met her gaze, giving him yet another reason to let his eyes travel elsewhere. He would learn never to meet her gaze, with naïve defiance and arrogance from fiery and uncontained youth, soon enough.

“I thank you for your flatteries, woman,” Uldor maintained an air of carelessness as he threw the comment at her. Jord internally struggled, but kept her own mask firmly wrapped around her face, and her body practically laughed. He will be thanking me for more, and begging for anything I will give him, soon… Always soon. But she had the patience of millennia.

“Always the gentleman. Even to those Elves, I imagine, and even when they announced their request? Seven thousand? It will indeed be a lot of blood on your hands.”

The man looked at her, his face finally betraying a bit of shock. She continued to smile, knowingly, and she let her eyes slowly look Uldor up and down, lingering on certain parts, whether or not she found them interesting. Obviously some found them to be quite interesting. He was fairly handsome, by human standards, though also approaching old age by them. Yet in mind and spirit he was a boy to her, fresh-faced and hotheaded.

Not allowing him time to respond, she gave him one more question to consider, “And whose blood would you rather taste?”

[Dimturiel]

The company had now become larger than Tora had expected, and she was wondering whether she should not excuse herself and go and see if Dag had not finished her father's knife. The hunter that Gunna had bought made her uneasy, although why exactly she could not explain. Perhaps it was the fact that he seemed so different from the people that Tora usually saw. Or maybe because one like her usually mistrusted those that were not part of her little community, and took time before coming to regard them, if not as friends, then at least as people from whom there was no evil to be feared.

The gloomy topics that had been discussed until Gunna and her companion came were now forgotten. Instead, the women began gossiping of small family affairs, showing their curiosity and indignation, shaking their heads, and talking as if no dark cloud would ever threaten their living. Tora was somehow pleased by this. She felt her heart lift, knowing that there were people that still talked of such insignificant matters with the same eagerness as they had before discussed the designs of the elves. She turned her attention to Kata, although the tale of the apalling deeds of Halma's younger daughter were quite known to her, as she had heard many people taking of them. To many this event held as much importance as the coming of the elves, and to some even more.

The women were shaking their heads with disbelief as Kata spoke, and Tora too, tried to show her disapproval of such behaviour, although deep inside she did not feel half as apalled as the others. And being known to speak always what was on her mind, she did not hesitate to share her oppinion with the others.

"Well, it surely was a dreadful thing, running off like that with her sister's promised man," she said, "but you should not judge her too harshly. I know the poor girl quite well, and she was always telling me how much she loved him, and she was so sad when she heard he was to be her sister's man. She really cared for him , you know. Of course, this does not excuse what she has done, no, indeed, not at all."

[Folwren]

“Taste?” Uldor said slowly, looking at the woman who had materialized beside him, like some spirit or wraith from another world. “Who’s blood would I rather taste? Foolish woman, you know nothing of war, do you?” There was a strange, dark flicker in her immeasurably deep eyes, but he didn’t care to analyze it. “Does it matter to me who I kill? One way or another, all their blood will be spilt. I do not care if it is with elven or orc blood that my blade and hands are wet with, so long as it is not in vain.

“The blood of seven thousand Ulfings will not be on my hands at all,” Uldor went on, turning away from her and walking up the gravelly path. “You speak as though I were king already and could make these decisions. Since you appear to know everything that happened today in private ears, you should know that my father did not give me the choice of whether or not we obey the elves’ summons. He gave me the job of seeing that they were fulfilled and to figure out the best way to conduct the muster.

“I would he had asked me first for a word in private,” he went on bitterly. His voice sank and he spoke more to himself than to his fair companion. “These elves are treacherous. They care nothing for us. They grasp for that gem their father made and strive ever to fulfil their wretched oath. That was the oath that I heard today.” He shuddered again with the thought of those words spoken in his hearing.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hunta thought that he would go mad with the tattling of these women. Either that or the boredom of their idleness would plunge him into a sleep from which there would be no waking. He wondered what madness had led him to accept the errand that brought him here…what was there of use that he could possibly learn amongst such people?

His boredom must have been evident for a younger woman came and offered him some more tea. He accepted it with a tilt of his head and some clumsily muttered words of gratitude, but he did not sound convincing even to himself. He was not meant for small spaces and polite conversation, his place was elsewhere, with the ground for a bed and the branches for a blanket. The sheer presence of their nattering numbers weighed on him so that he felt as though he we smothering, and overcome by the sensation he shifted in his chair uncomfortably and in the agitation of the movement knocked over a low stool that stood near him. The conversation faltered and all eyes were upon him. He glanced about, much like a buck cornered by the hounds, and his hand reached mechanically for Laylah’s ruff for reassurance, but his hand met only air. Instinctively he whistled for her and the great dog came trotting through the door to curl up at his feet. Too late he remembered the woman Gunna’s request that Laylah remain outside.

He could not have mishandled the situation more, and in a fit of desperation he tried to divert their attention from his many lapses. “This girl who’s run off,” he asked, groping blindly for something to say. “Is it, well, is it really that terrible what she’s done? So long as everything is done…properly, I suppose is the word…then what matters who she was engaged to? I don’t understand the ways of your folk in these matters….I understand precious little about these matters amongst my own folk to be sure. But if I were ever to marry…well…” he felt himself heading into uncharted and dangerous forests but pressed ahead “I wouldn’t want to marry a girl who’d been stopped from running off with someone else just because she was supposed to marry me. I would want her to, well, not run off…if you see what I mean…”

The profound weight of his own idiocy pressed upon him like a stone.

[Child of the 7th Age]

As the morning hours slipped by and gave way to afternoon, Khandr waited impatiently for some word of what was happening at court. Surely, he would be summoned to hear the news the Elves had brought and to learn the Ulfings' response to the matters being discussed. But despite his impatient pacing from one end of the house to the other, no information had been forthcoming. Just before the noonday meal, he had gone out for a ride and heard snatches of conversation between those standing guard outside the great hall. There was talk of renewed force from the north and the need to muster troops to stand against the threat, though none of the guards seemed to know what Ulfang and his sons had decided in response to the Elves' unexpected arrival.

Talk of Morgoth and his continuing menace made Khandr wish that he was closer to home. If a war was truly coming, he needed to return to King Bor and offer his services for the muster. He hated war and fighting with a passion; it was one of the reasons that he had served as an envoy for the Borrim these many years, attempting to secure what his landsmen needed by peaceful discussions. But with Morgoth there could be no negotiating, no effort to reach an accomodation. With the evil machinations of the Dark Lord, there could only be swift and certain retaliation on their part. Whatever differences existed between the Ulfings and Borrim, the two tribes of Easterlings surely must agree on that.

With these grim thoughts in mind, Khandr had resigned himself to weeding through a large stack of messages from court concerning the marriage negotiations and then sat down to try and draft a reply. The hours of the afternoon slowly ticked by and, by the time Khandr finished, it was almost time for his guests to arrive. He went down and queried Briga as to who had accepted the invitation and the state of the preparations for the feast. She had slipped out of the kitchen into the hall and pulled him into a small waiting room where they could talk privately. "It's been a hard day, my dear," his wife confided. "Embla has been nothing but trouble. She's done very little work. But the servants pulled together, and I think our preparations are almost complete. I had been hoping for a fine cheese and egg pie, but Hunta is not back yet. I'll just save the cheese to serve with desert as we've made an apple pastry that would do well with a bit of pungent cheese."


Hunta? Cheese and egg pie? Khandr stared quizzically back at his wife, wondering how the two were connected.

They had been together so many years that the woman could read her husband's unasked questions with ease and hastily replied, "Oh, yes. You'll be pleased at what I did. We bought a cheese from one of the villagers, and I had Hunta walk back with her to try and pick up any gossip or news. You never know what you'll hear if you keep your ears open on the streets. Anyways, he was supposed to gather information and drop by after picking up the cheese. Only he must have been delayed as there's been no Hunta and no cheese."

"Whose idea was this?"

"The cheese?"

"Not the cheese," he laughed. "The part about gathering information.."

"Why mine, of course. I am always trying to help. You are worried, Khandr, even beyond the little you tell me. I can read it on your face." She looked over towards her husband. He seemed to have aged ten years in the past three months. She went on in a gentler tone, "We've been locked out by the court. We know little of what is going on. I know you are going to ask the other Borrim to keep their ears open. So I thought I would help by asking Hunta to accompany the villager to her home and to speak with her kinsfolk and friends. Perhaps they've heard something."

Khandr didn't know whether to laugh or cry. What kind of a world did they live in when an envoy's wife had to ask a young retainer to spy on a passel of poor villagers? Briga had never been interested in such things. Her life centered on her children and the gossip of her friends. He looked down at his wife and smiled indulgently, "My dear, I know you meant well but let's not be hasty. Better we should wait and discuss these things tonight."

Briga bit her lower lip and stared down at the ground. "I only meant to help. It's just that I feel....oh, so useless. I know no one here except for you and Embla and our servants. And Embla makes it difficult. She is so unhappy...." and so young, Briga wistfully reflected. "I thought if we could just figure out what is going on at court , then we could all pack up and go home. That's really what I want to do. I don't like this place. I have a bad feeling." She looked over at Khandr with an imploring glance.

Khandr sighed and took Briga's hand, "I too wish we were at home. And sometimes I too feel useless." He leaned down and placed a kiss on her forehead. "Let us enjoy this evening then, even with this talk of intrigue and plans. It seems we have little time to spend with each other for I have been away in the great hall for hours every day. But for now, Briga, promise me....you'll not ask anyone else to go spying. We must be careful what we do. I want to assign each of our men, and you and Embla as well, to a particular household or courtier to get information. We need to coordinate our efforts. The information doesn't necessarily have to come through the lord, but be garnered from the servants or whoever else we can make contact with. But enough of this for now. We will discuss this more with our guests."

Giving her his arm, he smiled, "My dear, I must say you look quite ravishing. That blue dress suits you. Let's go down to the hall and wait. I believe our guests will soon be arriving." As an afterthought he added, "Ah, yes, and is Embla coming as well?"

Briga nodded.

"Good then. For I believe she may have a knack for this kind of thing. And perhaps she might even enjoy an assignment like this. I will make a point of speaking with her tonight....."

With that, the couple turned and headed for the hall where the feast was now being laid out.

[bill_n_sam]

As the conversation had shifted smoothly into the familiar paths of juicy gossip and merriment over their neighbors’ little foibles, Gunna had breathed more easily. She had never in her life expected the Northerner to actually accept her polite invitation. But the women, for the most part, seemed largely to ignore his unlooked for presence, perhaps more in the way of one who stoically ignores an itch when circumstances deem it too impractical or impolite to scratch. Old Dulaan threw the stranger several pointed looks, and little Jóra had gone to refresh his tea, but, for the moment, Gunna allowed herself to listen in amusement and feigned consternation at Kata’s tale of Halma’s daughter.

"Well, it surely was a dreadful thing, running off like that with her sister's promised man," young Tora spoke up. "But you should not judge her too harshly. I know the poor girl quite well, and she was always telling me how much she loved him, and she was so sad when she heard he was to be her sister's man. She really cared for him, you know. Of course, this does not excuse what she has done, no, indeed, not at all."

Gunna was aware of Tora’s own loss that was surely part of the conviction that lay behind her declaration. There had been no such love either expressed or felt between herself and Dag, Gunna reflected, when first his proposal of marriage had been made. In fact, the proposal had come directly from Dag’s father, and, although she knew Dag, Gunna had never once spoken with him directly before this proposal arose.

To Gunna, the prospect of marriage had loomed ahead of her as a stubborn obstacle to be fought against and overcome, if at all possible. Her decision to make herself lifetime caretaker of her blind sister was one which she would not cast aside, not for any man. And she had prepared herself to do battle with whatever skill, wit or craft she possessed to foil any attempts by her father to marry her off. Therefore, she had been totally caught off guard when her very first insistence that she could not, would not, leave Mem behind was countered with Dag’s suggestion that Mem should accompany them to the new western lands, as a welcome member of his household. In fact, the couple’s very first conversation had consisted entirely of Gunna grilling Dag as to the motivations behind his offer. Dag had listened patiently and finally, when Gunna had stopped to draw breath, replied good naturedly, but in solemn tones, “If we are to marry, you must be content. If I force you to leave Mem, you will make my life a misery. Bring her, if that is all it takes for us to have peace between us.”

In the end, there had been no forcing, no coercion. Now, Gunna couldn’t imagine happiness without her stubborn, quiet husband and their beautiful child. Like Tora, Gunna felt great sympathy in her heart for both the daughter and the already spoken for boy. Love, it would seem, dares all, endures all, survives all, even when others decree it should never come into being in the first place.

Gunna, now seated by the low burning fire next to Tora, jumped slightly at the sound of a stool knocked to the floor. Her head turned instinctively to the corner where the hunter sat, his face bearing a startled look of embarrassment. But, instead of apologizing, the man pursed his lips and whistled. With a bound, his huge, hairy dog galloped into the small house. Gunna was more startled than offended. The dog seemed quite obedient to its master’s commands. In fact, it curled itself right up at his feet and settled down at once without any upset. But still, the mother in her worried about the baby, who played happily in Mem’s lap. Before she could formulate a protest though, the man was speaking.

“This girl who’s run off,” he asked, hesitantly. “Is it, well, is it really that terrible what she’s done? So long as everything is done…properly, I suppose is the word…then what matters who she was engaged to? I don’t understand the ways of your folk in these matters….I understand precious little about these matters amongst my own folk to be sure. But if I were ever to marry…well…” He faltered a moment, but went on. “I wouldn’t want to marry a girl who’d been stopped from running off with someone else just because she was supposed to marry me. I would want her to, well, not run off…if you see what I mean…”

Gunna did see, with perfect clarity. So, despite her misgivings, this Borrim, this Hunta who had manfully put up with the unenviable task he had been assigned by his mistress, was not so unlike her own Dag. Men of action, not words. Men who cared little for conventions, and listened to their own hearts. Strong, skilled men who would not hesitate to use force to protect themselves, or those they cared for, but who realized that force brought to bear in a marriage was folly. Perhaps, then, these northern cousins were not as alien as they might seem, at least some of them.

Unknowingly, Gunna smiled at the hunter, who had stumbled to a halt and looked even more embarrassed for having spoken. “What you say makes sense, Hunta.” Gunna replied. “Although unfortunately, I’m sure many will not see it that way. Halma and the boy’s parents, certainly. In our community here, there are many traditions surrounding the betrothal of a man to a woman. Such a promised union creates ties between one family and another, ties not easily discarded. Our people are bound by many such ties, each to the other. Ties of blood, ties of marriage, ties of loyalty cemented by oath giving.” Her thoughts flew briefly to Ulfast and his sword, but she forced herself to bury that nagging fear deep in her heart. “I’m sure it is the same with the people of Bor. In one way or many, you must be bound to the others of your clan. To break those ties must be frowned upon very severely, is it not so?”

The question had been asked in all innocence, but a stillness fell on the room as each considered Gunna’s words and what the arrival of the elves would mean to the loyalties of every family, every man, woman and child, from chieftain to ambassador, from farmer to smith to hunter.

[piosenniel]

Káta’s brow furrowed at first as Gunna began to speak. The man’s word’s had not made sense. It was the family, the parents, who made the marriage. Sentiments of love, more like to be feelings of ‘need’, were transitory. It was the ties made between families; the passing of herd-wealth between them; the status, the position gained, which formed the first basis for the wedding of one family with another. Parents strove to choose well for their children as well as for the family. At least that is how her mother and father had done for her. Affection, her mother and her grandmother had told her, would come with time as the man and woman came to know each other; to fit together as husband and wife, as parents themselves.

And so it had been between her and Grimr.....and so it would be for her sons and daughter when the time came.

Káta pursed her lips and cast her eyes briefly toward Granny. Now what had that old woman been talking about to Mem? Fálki, was it? She gave Mem an appraising look. Hmmmm..... Fálki was still young; Mem even younger. And what with the move to this new land and the effort of settling the family in, she and Grimr had not yet turned their thoughts to the making of ties between their family and another family of those other Ulfings who had come west. She gave a sly little smile and nodded her head. This might prove a suitable family with which to make ties. I will speak with Grimr tonight about this, she thought to herself. And perhaps we can arrange some little get together. I have been blind to my son’s inclinations! she chided herself.

‘Jóra!’ she called out as her daughter set down the teapot near the fire and looked to be settling down to hold the baby once again. ‘Help Granny up, won’t you little bird?’ She smiled at Gunna. ‘We need to be getting back, Gunna. Grimr will worry if we are too long away. Mem, so good to see you once again. I’ve no doubt your skilful fingers will turn the wool we’ve brought into more of your fine thread.’

Granny and Jóra joined her near the doorway. ‘I hope you enjoy the goose we brought. Grimr and the twins brought it down just today.’ She made her good-byes to Tora before leaving, and nodded politely toward the Borrim man. ‘Come on, you two!’ she prompted her daughter and Granny. ‘Jóra, bring the cart near, won’t you? And, yes,’ she said grinning at the pleading face the young girl had put on. ‘You can take the reins for the trip back.’

[Rune Son of Bjarne]

Erling had shivered by the thought of elves reading his thoughts, it was a thought that did not please him one bit.

He had always felt uncomfortable about the elves for their different manners. When he had heard the first rumours and seen the first indication that they possessed magical powers, he had not really believed it, but with time as the rumours had increased and Erling him self had seen the elves; he had no choice to believe it and thus he became more suspicious of them.

That they also possessed the power to read his mind was a thought almost unbearable for Erling. Thoughts were not something to be read by every one who might wish to do so, his thoughts was his alone and he was very careful about not sharing more of them than he had to.

"read ones mind you say. . . I had no idea that they where so sinister. One cannot help but wonder how they achieved such powers, not by growing crops one suspects" Erling looked over his shoulder as if he expected the elven lords to stand lurking in a corner of the cottage."hmmm our old lord as well you say, you should be careful Grimr, I would not want to see you get involved in something you cannot control" Erling took a draught of the ale as he looked straight into the eyes of Grimr. "In fact I think I shall join you to the next meeting, I mean one needs clarity about these elves and two minds thinks better than one, Imagine what several could do" Erling said with a glimpse in his eye.

Grimr nodded in approval and no other word was uttered about the subject that day, after some lighter conversation and a considerably amount of ale Erling said his goodbyes and left for his home.

[Durelin]

“Foolish woman, you know nothing of war, do you?”

Jord could have laughed, though she would have laughed harder if she could only grab the man by the throat and dig her fingernails into his skin. She was fairly certain that, even in this simple human body, she could tear into his esophagus without too much trouble, if she found the proper tender spot. At least the human body was more resilient than it appeared. Unfortunately for them, men could live for a long time even when it seemed they should not. The spirit of mortals were too attached to their bodies, and they suffered for it. And yet all they did was harm what they so loved. They made war, and they made it a bad thing.

She had been a part of a war for millennia, the War. Over the years, thousands of lives had been simple puppets, controlled by few lives, which were in turn controlled by other forces, whether by fate or by higher powers that they could not imagine…if there was a difference. And this man was just another toy, who just happened to be allowed to play with a few dolls. As long as he was good, he got to pretend. And she would play pretend with him.

“You may not be King, but you are his mind as he grows older. You take good care of your father, Uldor,” she grinned, and did not care that her expression could only be seen as malicious, “You are a good son. And your father more than respects your opinion.”

The man gave her a level look. He made her sick. Thrown out of the kingdom for violent crimes, violence far worse than the bloodshed on the battlefield he spoke so sorrowfully of, and yet he clung to the idea that he had virtue left. That man’s essence was virtuous. That the greed, the lust, and the violent arrogance that they indulged in was just a side-effect of something gone wrong in the universe, something not under their control.

And they thought they were free.

“You believe…no, you know the Elves will not hold to their…oath,” she voiced the word with mild amusement. They, the righteous ones, were sealed to their vows, and doomed by them. “And what of yours?” She paused only a second.

“But oh! I spoke wrongly, did I not?” she said as if a sudden thought had entered her mind, tilting her head to the side and staring off without looking at anything. “It isn’t yours, is it?” she questioned, but did not allow him to respond, “You made no oath. Your father did. Your father is a wise man, who makes promises to keep them…but perhaps you are the wiser, who does not make them at all.”

[Dimturiel]

Seeing that Kata, Jora and Dulaan were about to leave, Tora thought it was high time she went too. Dag was surely to have finished the knife by this time, and anyway, she did not feel quite comfortable in having to spend so much time in the company of the Borrim hunter, although she felt slightly uneasy for leaving Gunna and Mem alone with him. Yet it was really getting late, so there was nothing she could do than announce her departure.

"Well, I think I should be going too, Gunna." she said. "Surely Master Dag must have finished my father's knife by now. He was in a hurry anyway, as he was working at something else."

Here Tora paused. She wondered whether she could ask her question or not, whether it was safe to speak about such matters in front of so many people. Yet she trusted them, and anyway such a thing could not remain secret for too long in a place as theirs.

"You know, Gunna," she began, "Master Dag was telling me that he was making a sword for Ulfang's son? What can this mean, I wonder? And which son? Has he told you any of these things? Are we...are we alowed to speak of them?"

Tora stopped, biting her lips. Now she regretted saying it. Maybe it was something beyond her understanding, a matter of much greater importance than the insignificant pieces of gossip that were usually debated among the villagers. And also, she thought of the Borrim hunter. Would he say anything of this to his people? Was the forging of a sword for one of the chieftain's sons, perhaps, something that the people of the Borrim were not intended to know?

[Nogrod]

After Fastarr had taken the horses back to Khandr’s stables he had taken a very light take-away lunch, just some carrots and bread from the street vendors on his way to his tent. There he took a short nap and then headed to the local sweatlodge carrying his best clothes with him.

The sweatlodge was indeed two tents placed on the northern end of the nearest marketsquare. The place was kept by an old lady named Svana with his adult son Willap. They were an odd pair to run a bussiness but one of those Fastarr had learned to like in a way in this village he was otherwise so uncomfortable with.

“The Horse-Man! Now what brings you here this early? Have you finally gotten a date for you my lad?” Old Svana laughed her hoarse laughter heartily as he greeted Fastarr. “Willap, get some new stones for our visitor! Hurry up now!” she called her son and turned back to Fastarr.

“Oh no, my lady”, Fastarr replied to her shaking his head and smiling back to her in a way that showed he had approved of her jesting. “But my lord is giving a feast to my kinsmen here this evening and I need to be clean and tidy to attend.” He picked a coin from his pocket and handed it to the old woman. Svana kept on looking at him when he took the coin and then said quietly, almost whispering: “So you have someone to whom your heart beats among your kin, now don’t you? Don’t try to fool an old lady... We recognise the shining in young mens eyes still, even though that flare is not meant for us any more my lad.” She winked an eye to him and then abruptly turned in her heels to call for her son. “C’mon Willap, get on with it! The Horse-Man is having a date and can’t wait for your lazy legs to get moving!” Fastarr handed her his better clothes. At first Svana only nodded but then she bursted laughing again. “Oh, you young men... you’re just such open books!” She paused for a second. “Nevermind an old lady, nevermind...” She gestured him towards the tents still trying to calm down her laughter. “That lazy-bone Willap will be ready soon. Don’t worry”, she added and then turned to examine Fastarr’s clean clothes to see what trimming there was to be done.

Fastarr undressed behind a tottering curtain that had been erected beside the entrance to the actual sweatlodge. He was arranging his dirty clothes to the bench when Willap came out from the tent cheeks glowing red. “Good day to you sir! Just a moment sir!” he said as he kneeled to lay the iron rack that was filled with faintly steaming stones to the ground with his heavy gloves and went back in. Fastarr hesitated a moment in front of the selection of herbs laid on the other side of the bench but finally decided to take a bunch of sage and a few twigs of rosemary. He felt the cold wind in his bones standing there naked and waiting for Willap to come out. The curtains opened soon enough and the figure of a man emerged from inside. He took the rack he had left outside and pulled it up. “It’s all yours sir. It should be good now”, he said and turned away.

Inside the tent it was warm and humid. The flickering light from the two lamps buried on the ground at the each side of the hot stone-rack made everything look cozy and homely to him. Fastarr ripped the herbs over the stones, took the waterbucket and sat down to a straw mat a few feet away from the stones. For a moment he just enjoyed the warmth and relative darkness. He was alone. What a bliss!, he thought to himself and closed his eyes. Slowly the scent of the herbs started to reach him and the warmth wrapped him from all around...

After a while of just enjoying the moment Fastarr took a ladleful of water and threw it over the hot stones. They made a hissing sound and he could feel the warm steam begin to surround him. The temperature was rising fast. After throwing another ladle of water he had to bend down as it was getting too hot for him to sit straight. The warmth and the scent of the herbs were everywhere around him and slowly also in him. The sweat was running in little streams from all around his body. He could taste the saltiness of it with his lips as it poured down his face.

At that moment his mind was blank. There were no worries, no problems to solve, no tasks ahead or behind; no memories, no future, but just the here and now. Fastarr threw a few rounds of water over the stonerack and just fell into the abyss of the moment.

After a while the herbs started to lose their distinct flavor and Fastarr felt himself ready. He crawled out from the tent and hurriedly slipped to the other one before the chill afternoon wind could freeze him. There the lighting was a bit brighter and there was also an open fire going on under a large tub of steaming water. He washed himself thoroughly and finally poured a vat of flowerpetal scented cold water over him. From beside the entrance he took a towel and dried himself thoroughly before stepping outside. His finer clothes were trimmed and neatly folded on the bench waiting for him.

Fastarr dressed and combed his hair. Then he adjusted the plate mirror to a right angle and started cutting his cheekbeard with the scimitar. His skin was pore and elastic and the hairs were soft after the warmth. There was no better time to shave than after a sweatlodge and he knew it well. At last he trimmed his chinbeard and tied it with the tin ribbons he had taken off before going into the sauna. It had been like a ritual and a ritual it indeed was for him here in the strange lands. A knot that tied him to his home and kin far away.

Svana looked at him quizzically as he came forwards looking clean and shaven in his best outfit. But before she had time to make any nosy remarks Fastarr thanked him heartily: “As good as always, if not even better today my dear lady!” With that he took his purse and scimitar the old lady handed to him and tied them to his belt.

Svana raised her right eyebrow in a way only she could do. “Sad our girls haven’t pinned their eyes on you already Horse-Man... or is it you who refuse to see them? But I’ll wish you all the luck tonight”, she winked her eye again and made one of her hoarse laughs after it smiling openly. “And your clothes will be ready tomorrow morning as usual”, she added nodding towards the huge cauldron under which Willap was tending a small fire. She curtsied to him as he gave him another coin and then gave another laugh.

“To tomorrow!” Fastarr said to her as he left.

[Anguirel]

Lachrandir and Tathren departed from Ulfang's private apartments behind the Hall by a side exit, so as to avoid crossing the banquet of the Easterling nobles once more. It had been patent that their presence, and the command Lachrandir brought, and most of all the obligatory Oath, had disturbed the gathering of men, and even Lachrandir at his most harsh had no wish to disconcert his hosts unnecessarily. He gave the Elfling beside him a swift clap on the shoulder as they passed through one of the main streets of the Ulfing settlement, their light tread scarcely leaving marks on the muck that festooned the cobbles.

"Not bad, my colt. Who knows, perhaps in our next audience you can address the Chieftain...I wonder if he'll notice the difference..."

Tathren stayed quiet. Lachrandir fell silent in response, feeling a little rebuked. The boy was right to reproach his frivolous speech, perhaps; everything was not straightforward, that was clear. The Chieftain was weak in mind but strong in will; a will that favoured, unto extremes, this complicated figure, this grave Atan fellow Uldor; who seemed to have the most quality and power about him of the brothers, but who also seemed, if not grudging to the Elvish envoys, then at least reticent.

"No more of our business this eve," Lachrandir said, "at least, not diectly. Courtesy demands that we go next to the house of one Khandr."

"Courtesy?" Tanreth asked, puzzled. "Should not courtesy have kept us in the Chieftain's Hall?"

"Nay, lad. This Khandr, you see, is in the service of our own Paramount Lord, one who ultimately commands our arms and loyalty still more than Caranthir - though those claims shall never, of course, conflict. Khandr is a servant of Himring, left in the south to treat with Ulfang; and it is well that the servant should know what the master intends."

"Indeed," Tathren assented. "Do you know where the house of this Khandr lies?"

"I believe it is rather in a great pavilion that he makes his dwelling, but many of the notables among these Men live similarly in tents. We shall have to ask elsewhere; yet that would, I think, be no bad thing. I have a certain desire to see how those of the Ulfings whose respect we truly need to command - fighters, rather than the loafers and parasites who slump in yonder Hall - spend their days. We shall stop and ask for news at one of these, ah, homesteads, as we make our way."

The pair of ambassadors had experienced small impediments even on their path through the crowded thoroughfare, as the inhabitants of the township generally scrambled aside out of their way. But though their journey was clear and easy, they felt the wait of scores of startled gazes, some men staring openly from the sides of the streets, women watching from higher apertures in mud or timper walls, unidentified figures in the shadow of a tent's flaps. These the Elves did their best to ignore. Soon enough they had passed through the worst of the throng, and Lachrandir pointed ahead to a sturdy looking door in a hut better appointed than many.

"Shall we enquire after Khandr there?"

"If you wish."

Lachrandir stepped forward and knocked, firmly, even ringingly, on the door of the house of Grimr.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

piosenniel's post

With Erling gone, Grimr poured himself another cup of ale and wandered about the main-room of his house. His eyes flicked over the furnishings, coming to rest on Káta’s loom. His family; his house; his very heart. A satisfied smile infused his features.

And a certain happiness stole over him.....along with a small prickle of unease. Take care, fool! he admonished himself in silence. Too much pride, too much boasting could turn good luck sour.

‘Gods keep us safe and prosperous!’ he murmured fervently. He took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly as he held up his open hand, palm outwards. A sign of warding against ill fortune.

A sudden knocking at his door startled Grimr, and he shook off the disquiet of the moment. ‘Erling! Is that you, my friend? Have you forgotten something?’

A few strides brought him to the entryway and he threw open the thick wood door, a grin on his face. His brows raised, the grin slid from his lips as he looked up at the tall man standing expectantly before him. No, not man.....Elf! Grimr schooled his face so that it bore a neutral look and asked how he might be of help.

~*~

Grimr watched as the tall fellow and his companion turned away from the door and started off in the direction of the Borrim’s house. Now imagine that, he thought to himself, they wanted directions. Lost, like ordinary folk might be. Ordinary.....hunnnnh!

‘That’s right!’ he called out as one of them turned back briefly, as if seeking confirmation of their direction. ‘Go further into town.....near the smith’s place......and towards the setting sun, then. Can’t miss it.’ He waved them off, stepping away quickly, back inside his home.

And made another sign of warding against ill luck.....

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Fordim Hedgethistle's post

Hunta was in well over his head and he knew it, and like any good hunter he knew when to give up the chase. To Gunna’s question he replied merely with a noncommittal grunt. Fortunately for him, he was spared any further embarrassment by the activity surrounding the departure of what seemed to him a herd of females. He scrambled to his feet and tried to escape in the midst of the activity, but Gunna called out to him. “Wait! You have forgotten your cheese!” So desperate was he to be apart from these women and their mind-boggling ways he almost considered pressing ahead without it…but the memory of the savoury flavours of the cheeses made by their southern cousins brought him up short.

He waited outside the door impatiently while Gunna collected it, turning over and over in his mind what in the world he was to report to the lord. That the women of this city, like women everywhere, were full of such gossip and foolishness as would drive a man mad? That all they thought of were marriages and the misbehaving of children and the petty demands of household life? There may, he supposed, be some interest in the sword that was being forged. He would not have paid any heed to that but for the woman’s consternation at having let it dribble from her mouth. Yes, at least he would have that to report to his people.

Gunna came out with a large wheel of cheese and passed it to him, saying “Thank you again, Hunta, for carrying this. And thank you for staying to have some tea.”

“Thank you for the tea,” was all he could think to say in return, then whistling for Laylah to cover this latest embarrassment, he stalked away from the house. He did his best not to hurry and thus reveal the full extent of his relief at his escape.

As he walked from the house he saw coming toward him two tall strangers. He immediately recognised them as Elves, even though he had never seen such people before. He stumbled to a halt for a moment as he regarded them. They were indeed fair folk, tall and graceful, with features that were clear and fresh but also aged and full of wisdom. One of them glanced in his direction and Hunta found himself gazing into two deep eyes that glittered like starlight. He quickly ducked his head, overcome by a queer feeling the likes of which had never yet come to his isolated and callow heart. Rather than face them directly he slunk into a side street and found a different way back to the house of the lord Khandr.

[bill_n_sam]

With some relief, Gunna had leapt up as Kata began making her good-byes and shepherding her daughter out the door to fetch the cart. The gathering had been an awkward one. Gunna knew that Kata, Dulaan, and Tora would not misrepresent anything which had transpired here, but she feared that the wagging tongues of her neighbors might make overmuch of the visit of the Borrim stranger. She saw that he, too, was more than ready to depart, with a quietly desperate scowl on his brow.

Tora had also stood, explaining that she too must leave. Gunna had just turned to speak with Kata when the young woman queried, “You know, Gunna, Master Dag was telling me that he was making a sword for Ulfang's son? What can this mean, I wonder? And which son? Has he told you any of these things? Are we...are we allowed to speak of them?”

Tora stopped suddenly and chewed nervously on her lip, as if perhaps she had said more than she had intended. Gunna glanced instinctively at the Borrim, but he was himself rising to go and, if he had heeded her words or if they meant aught to him, he gave no sign. Indeed, he was at the door in an instant, and did not pause, but passed through quickly.

Suddenly remembering the whole reason why he had accompanied her home in the first place, Gunna roused herself and called after him, “Wait! You have forgotten your cheese!” Scooping up the large, white cheese, she hurried out the door behind Kata and Dulaan, who had finished their good-byes to Mem and the baby.

“Thank you again, Hunta, for carrying this” Gunna said politely, handing him the cheese. “And thank you for staying to have some tea.”

“Thank you for the tea,” he replied gruffly, then whistled for his dog, turned on his heel and stalked off down the narrow street. Gunna smiled to herself, knowing Dag too would have been similarly embarrassed to be forced to take tea with a flock of cackling hens.

Stepping back into her little house, Gunna saw that Tora still wore a worried look on her face. Gunna smiled reassuringly and placed her hand on the girl’s shoulder, saying, “Don’t worry. You said nothing wrong. I’m sure that one has no interest in the work of a smith.” She nodded her head at the door through which Hunta had just left. “And it’s not as if the word won’t get around, if it hasn’t already. It was Ulfast who is having the sword made. You know how these chieftains love to throw their weight around – if they want something, it must be done right away. Everyone else can wait.” Gunna forced a laugh and rolled her eyes comically, although she knew none of her friends would be deceived by her assumed levity. At least, Kata and old Dulaan would know full well that even such apparently business-like arrangements often led to more formal bonds of obligation and loyalty. “But I’m sure Dag will be finished with your father’s work now. Run along, and tell him not to forget his dinner!”

Gunna turned to make her farewell to the others. She embraced old granny warmly, saying, “We don’t see you enough, Dulaan. Come keep us company anytime. You need to teach Mem more of those songs of yours.” Then, cupping Jóra’s chin in her hand and smiling, Gunna told the girl, “If you don’t stop growing so fast, your mother and father will have to find a giant for you to marry, maybe one of these elves – I hear they are as tall as a birch tree.” The little girl’s eyes widened at the improbable, but fascinating, thought.

Finally, Gunna laid her hand on Kata’s arm, turning her away from the others slightly. “I would talk to you a moment, Kata. This matter of the sword . . . “ Here, Gunna lowered her voice. “It has me worried, in spite of what I said just now. I . . . I wish sometimes that Dag did not keep so to himself. He . . . he thinks that if he stays apart, stays out of these endless squabblings between the chieftains, that he will escape being drawn into their plots and schemes. But I am worried.” Her dark eyes looked deeply into her friends’, an unspoken bond of understanding passing between them. These things, a woman knew . . . and feared. “Grimr knows so many of the folk here in the town, and in the countryside. I’m sure he must talk with the other men. If . . . if only Dag could speak with him. Perhaps Grimr could advise him.”

[piosenniel]

‘Well, now, that’s just the problem isn’t it,’ Káta said nodding her head as Gunna spoke. ‘There is no “staying apart”, is there?’

Jóra had gone off to fetch the cart and bring it round. The girl grinned at her mother and waved. Her attention was diverted back to the cart as Granny hailed her, motioning for Jóra to give her a hand up. Káta waved back, raising her brows toward Granny. ‘Put the brake on,’ she mouthed in an exaggerated way. She flicked her hand at her daughter. ‘Help her up!’

Káta turned back to Gunna, placing her hand lightly on the woman’s arm. ‘We’re already drawn in to their plots and schemes. And most men, the gods love’m, are like horses with blinders. They need a little help, a little direction, a hint here and there.’ She crossed her arms and looked thoughtfully at Gunna, measuring how much she should confide. ‘With what fate offers us, we have to choose as best we can. We need to make sure our families are seen to. A good future secured for our children.....and our grandbabies, too..... Listen - I’ll have Grimr come pay a visit to Dag. I’m sure we have something that needs seeing to by a smith. The men can have a little talk about.....things.’

The cart pulled up; the wheels scattering scattering a little dust and a few pebbles as Jóra yanked on the little handbreak. ‘Meanwhile,’ continued Káta, putting her foot on the small step-up, ‘we women will continue as we always do. Gathering, spinning, weaving.....sharing the small things that knit us together.’

‘Come on, mami!’ Jóra’s eager voice broke in on the two women’s conversation.

‘Yes, yes.....alright!’ She clambered up into the cart, settling herself on the hard wood seat. Káta waved back at Gunna as the cart started off. ‘I’ll send Grimr.....soon as I can convince him what a great idea he had about talking to Dag.....’

[Folwren]

“But oh! I spoke wrongly, did I not? You made no oath. Your father did. Your father is a wise man, who makes promises to keep them…but perhaps you are the wiser, who does not make them at all.”

Poisonous woman, Uldor thought bitterly to himself. Beastly thing. How had he ever thought that she might be of use to him? Trickster! She would lie, wouldn’t she? And twist things. Just like he. He allowed a slow smile to take hold on his features. He could match her wit. Let her twist what words and webs of lies she would, he would meet her and use it to his own good.

What did she know of his father, anyway? What did she know of what passed through that old dotard’s mind? Why did she even care? And she called Ulfang wise? Because he made promises and kept them? The smile grew until he was nearly laughing. He cast his eye on her.

“Yes, my father is a wise man,” he said, choking on the thought with laughter and contempt. “He listens to me, and I help make him all the wiser. His promises? He holds to them because that is how it should be. But I? I will make no promises until I know for certain that they will aid me in gaining my own ends. Do you understand?” The smile was gone, the expression now hard and savage. His handsome face was twisted with a flash of raging desire. He reached out and grasped her wrist, pulling her about to face him.

“Listen to me, and understand, and if you report, you can tell your masters this. I will not make an oath to anyone if I am not absolutely certain of the reward. You know what I mean. I don’t care about these elves who have come to ask our help. I don’t care if you know everything. I will use it all to my own good and I will gain what I seek.”

[Nogrod]

Back at the tent Fastarr checked his purse. Nothing had been taken. Not that he would have expected it as he had learned to trust Svana and Willap during his regular visits to the sweatlodge. But it was better to be safe than sorry. And he had also another reason to be content with the purse. He had spent a little less he had foreseen so at least at the moment there was one thing less to worry about.

After polishing the bronze-rings of his quarterstaff and checking the coated-sharpened tips of it - and making the last check in front of the mirror - he went out. The sun had fallen low enough to leave the streets in shadows although the sky was still bright with light. A slight wind was blowing in the almost vacant alleys and in the absence of the sun’s warming rays the air felt colder than it actually was. Fastarr pulled the collars of his fine dark-blue tunic up to cover his neck and started briskly to Khandr’s residence.

Now as he came to think of it, he had only used his better clothes once before during this visit to the Ulfing settlement. It had been the first day after their arrival when they had introduced themselves to the chief Ulfang and his sons. After that these finer clothes of his had just laid at the one end of his tent, folded nicely to wait for the next chance to be worn. Fastarr was no dandy, but he enjoyed dressing to the finetextured clothes that felt so much smoother against the skin and had some colour to please the eye. And being clean and tidy was clearly preferable to being dirty and sweaty in any case. He was in a good mood for a change.

And there was also a curious satisfaction that kept growing inside him as he saw the looks of the few locals around following his passage. They were used to see him as the “Horse-Man”, as they said, a servant in his rugged clothes hardly being different than they were themselves: an easy target for mockery or indifference as a stranger of their own stature. Now his retainership was clearly shown out and Fastarr felt he was giving them back every piece of grunt and joking in full as he went steadily and proudly through the streets ignoring every pair of eyes watching after him. Surely, retainers were no upper-class people, but there was a distinction between a commoner and a retainer. Fastarr enjoyed that little difference to the fullest as he walked through the streets.

There were some local ruffians having their afternoon ales in front of a tavern who tried to mock him against the general feeling of astonishment with calls like “Have you stealed your clothes, Horse-Man?” or “Looking pretty, going for a girl? But if it’s anyone I know, I’ll cut your private parts personally!” and the like. Fastarr decided to just ignore them. At least today, as he took care to notice who the men calling after him were.

Approaching Khandr’s residence he noticed Hunta carrying a huge cheese. “Changing from a hunter to a herder, now are we Hunta?”, he called him some thirty yards away as Hunta hadn’t noticed, or at least not paid attention openly to him. Fastarr flashed an amicable smile as the hunter stopped and turned to greet him with a smile too.

“I’ve had weirder tasks than this today, my friend”, Hunta answered and waited for Fastarr to catch up with him.

“Okay... Care to tell me more?” Fastarr asked as they took jointly towards the house. Hunta answered after a short pause: “Maybe... maybe..., but I think the time for these will be later”.

Fastarr opened the gate for Hunta and they passed through it in quiet, but as they were approaching the stairs the doors swung open and Hugo rushed out to meet them. “So there you are! That cheese has been waited for in the kitchen! It should end up in the table where you’re most probably going to sit in a minute – and just think of what is required for that piece of goat’s droppings to melt into the dishes being prepared!”

Both Hunta and Fastarr were totally surprised by Hugo’s sudden hassle and they both stopped just beneath the stairs. “Please, hurry now, will’ya?” Hugo called them beggingly. Hunta and Fastarr exchanged looks and had considerable task in keeping their poker and not to laugh out aloud to the fussing of the servant. Hugo frowned and ran the stairs down. “Okay, okay, I’ll take it. Master Khandr and the lady are indeed waiting for you. Please get in then”. With that he took the cheese from Hunta and ran back in.

Hunta and Fastarr climbed the stairs slowly after Hugo and entered the hall. Khandr and Briga were standing there, waiting for the guests to arrive.

“Good afternoon lord Khandr, my Lady”, Fastar said and bowed courteously.

“Good afternoon your Lordship and Lady. I hope we’re not late?”, added Hunta in his turn and bowed too.

[Dimturiel]

Tora was walking as fast as she could. She felt she had lingered overlong, especially since those at home knew that she had just went to fetch a knife from the forge, and that did not usually take so long a time. She would have to answer for her long absence when she reached home.

But that was not what was bothering Tora most. If there was to be trouble at home, she would deal with it when she got there. It had not been totally her fault, anyway. She had heard many things that made her now feel quite uneasy. It was true, she was still too young to fully understand all that she had heard, but one thing was clear even to her. Something was about to happen in their settlement. Something was not quite right.

Yet she could not quite tell from where such a notion came. Maybe she had somehow senesed some anxiety in the settlement,or felt that there was something looming ahead of them, some time of darkness and difficulties and doubt. Or maybe it was nothing after all. Maybe the happenings of that day-the coming of the elves, the forging of a sword for Ulfast- were perfectly normal events, and only her mind-already used to sorrow and darkness- made more of them than there actually was.

With such thoughts forming in her mind, Tora reached Dag's forge. He found the smith still working on the sword. When she entered, however, he raised his head and smiled to her. Tora smiled back.

"I...I came to see if the knife was ready." she said. "And I thank you very much for putting aside so great a task as the forging of a sword for the chieftain's son for the mending of a mere farmer's knife. I also bear a message from your wife. She tells you that you should not forget your dinner."

Tora paused expectantly. She wondered whether to ask Dag to tell her more of the task that he had been entrusted, but she dared not do it. Such things were not right, and anyway, Dag would surely not confide in her, young as she was. And why did she want to know so much about this? Would it make her feel better? Would it ease her troubled mind? Surely not. Chances were that the answer to her questions would only bring more fear into her heart. Yes, likely enough, she would have to pay too great a price for her inquisitiveness.

[Celuien]

By the time Ulfast reached his chambers, much of his ill humor had dissipated. In truth, the day had not been entirely unpleasant. He thought that he would have to speak with Ulwarth later. There, at least, Ulfast had a solid ally in enmity for his older brother.

It was frustrating that Uldor had not spoken against the summons. Ulfast knew that his brother would be against sending men to aid the Elves, whether or not he said it openly. Perhaps there was a way to prod him into open defiance. Little time had been spent with the Elves. More hours of forced politeness to the visitors might provoke Uldor into carelessness.

Ulfast smirked as he realized that he did not know whether a proper welcome for the envoy had been planned. The greeting they had received as yet had been small, but the arrival of an important ally after long journey deserved more attention. A grand feast would be in order. Ulfast scribbled a message inquiring about the preparations for such an event and summoned a servant to bring it to Uldor. Whether plans had already been made or not, the message would annoy Uldor. Had they already been made, Uldor would be irritated by the apparent stupidity shown by the message. If not, the reminder of the need to show courtesy to the visitors would anger him.

A grand feast would require Ulfast to appear in his finest attire. He thought of the new sword he had ordered. If the smith had been diligent, there was a chance that it would be finished in time for the festivities. He decided to check on the sword's progress. For a moment, Ulfast thought of sendng one of his men to the forge, but then thought better of it. He would go himself. The smith would understand the importance of his task if it brought a chieftain's son to his shop. And too, he could test the smith's loyalty to him.

He left the Ulfing hall and strode through the village streets, enjoying the startled, fearful glances sent his way. He came to the smith's shop and called to the craftsman.

"I am Ulfast, son of Ulfing. How goes the work on my sword?"

[Child of the 7th Age]

The master of the house hurried over to the door and extended a hand of welcome to his guests, "Fastarr, Hunta, it is good to see you both. My wife and I greet you." Knahdr turned towards Briga, indicating with a little wave of his hand that she should stand beside him. For some time, they made small talk, speaking of this and that and some of the strange customs observed by the villagers.

Then Khandr led his guests over to a small table where cups of sweet honey mead had been set out on a silver tray. He picked up one of these and handed it to Hunta, encouraging the rest to retrieve their cups and explaining, "We are still awaiting Bergr's arrival but let us have a little refreshment before we sit down at the table. Everyone lift their drink. It is right that we take a moment to remember our bonds of loyalty to our tribe and our pledge to be good retainers of lord Maedhros for that makes us kinsmen here in a strange land. A toast now for the health and good fortune of King Bor."

Khandr lifted up his glass and drank, beckoning the others to do the same. When they had all finished, he explained, "We will wait till Bergr arrives to discuss the details, but I must say this first. I have called you here for two purposes. The great hall of the Ulfang is a cold place to be. I sense little friendliness or warmth as existed in the days of old. It is a good thing to be able to sit and spend an evening with friends. But that is not the only reason we are here." Khandr sighed and shook his head, "I wish it was that easy. There are so many secrets in this settlement. And I am shut out from so much that I fear that something, perhaps something treacherous, is going on. The signs do not bode well for the fortunes of the Borrim or that of our King. We can not stay here and do nothing. We must act. What and how we act is something we must determine tonight. "

"Now we will wait for Bergr to arrive and sit down to a fine meal. Feasting first, and then planning...."

Suddenly Khandr stopped and glanced around the room, a puzzled expression reflected on his face, "But where is my second wife? Where is Embla? I do not see her." He stared over at Briga who shook her head and shrugged her shoulders as if to say that she had no idea.....

[Lalaith]

Embla stood at the back of the hall, in the shadows. Much as she had been doing for the past few hours, she was skulking and smirking. She had enjoyed watching Briga rushing busily about, and whispering anxiously with Khandr - who was all the while distractedly running his fingers through his beard. So much so, in fact that she quite forgot to adhere to her usual policy such occasions – to get in the way, pick quarrels and issue counter-orders.

She observed Hunta stumping back, discombobulated, with the cheese. Fastarr, meanwhile, had arrived looking unusually spruce – well-groomed, almost. She guessed by his flushed glow where he had been – the sweatlodge. She felt a twinge of jealousy. Embla had, in her misery, almost given up on personal adornment, but she was fastidious by nature and had been a frequent sauna guest back in the happy Bairka days. But the restrictions imposed on Borrim womenfolk meant that a visit to a public sweat-lodge was out of the question for her now.

She looked at Fastarr again, as he joined in the toast proposed by Khandr. Oh, she knew him well, by reputation at least. This was the killer of Starkadr. It had been before her mother died, when she still lived among the Bairka. She remembered the woman Aud, returning shamed to her people. Mourning her dead babes and her dead lover, grey-faced and wasted by tragedy and scandal. The child Embla – always observant - had viewed this sad figure with a mixture of pity and intrigue.

Now it was she, Embla, who was shamed at the hands of the Borrim. But hers was a dull, hopeless shame, with no memory of a child or a lover to add spice to her despondency. Abruptly she was pulled out of her brooding thoughts about the ill-fated Aud and her Borrim husband – for the latter had just stepped, inadvertently, on the hem of her long cloak, not seeing her in the darkness.

“Dolt,” she hissed. The man recoiled and stammered something in apology. She looked him up and down with all the haughtiness she could muster, taking in Fastarr’s attempts to smarten up his apparel and appearance. “Better wise language than well-combed hair,” she added. The proverb seemed to hit home and she enjoyed watching the blush spread across his wide, honest face.

[Durelin]

Did he dare touch her? Her eyes flashed with rage, but Jord did not pull away from his grip. There was nothing she could do, not until the Lord Morgoth was through with him. But the way his hand felt tight around her wrist, squeezing flesh, muscle, bone, and blood together… It…hurt. Yes, it was pain. She cursed this weak body, and would have torn it apart, relishing in the pain and knowing that it signified destruction, if it had not been a gift from her Master. A gift…and more than she deserved. But she would more than earn it once she was through with this thing before her, which dared to look her in the eyes, to face her with anger and scorn…

The present…she was locked into it, in this body. She drew herself back, and returned Uldor’s gaze without flinching.

“…if you report, you can tell your masters this…”

Oh, my master already knows…

So this was the depth of the complexity of a mortal mind? Apparently Jord would not even have to try to manipulate the man into thinking the way she wanted him to. All she needed to do was state something, and he would gobble it up. Of course he was “wiser,” he had determined. And no, no oath was necessary. Melkor did not require the honor of fealty from Uldor, as if he should expect an oath to the Highest Lord to mean he would receive as well as give. But why wait for someone to give when you had the power to take? Like a rabbit in the hunter’s snare, this man would be secured, snatched up by Morgoth’s mighty hand, and Jord had only to lead him into the trap.

Not that it would take much pulling from his strings. It seemed playing him a simple tune, as long as it was played well, would get him to dance for her well enough.

“I will use it all to my own good and I will gain what I seek.”

As if this was news to anyone? He had not done a good job hiding his ambition. Rather he had wasted it away on pathetic conquests: mostly women and wealth. Power, by the standard of Men, he already had through birth…but naturally he wanted more. More than his father’s throne, and certainly more than it was underneath another power he could not hope to stand up to – the Elves.

“And your ambition will serve you well, Prince Uldor,” she said slowly, resting her hand on his that held on to her other wrist, and allowing herself to be pulled slightly closer, “in gaining…whatever it is you want…” The truest followers of Melkor were always rewarded…as long as they remained useful, that is.

“Anything you desire,” she whispered, as her lips twisted into a smile. The words rolled off her tongue, a sickly lullaby. “Now that is how it should be, is it not, my lord?”

[Kath]

Bergr sat at the door of his hut, carefully threading a needle in the waning light. After being informed of the feast he was expected to attend he had realised that he would be required to wear something rather more formal than the hunting gear he lived in most of the time and so he had gone home and rummaged through the chest that still held mementos from the days when the small Borrim envoy had first entered the Ulfing settlement. His search had turned up some fine clothing, fit for the occasion in style but not quite ready for use as the years had left them dusty and falling apart in places.

A short journey to the stream running along the edge of the woods followed this discovery, where Bergr pulled off his boots and waded into the water to scrub the garments clean, remembering with amusement his first attempt at washing clothes. The stream that day had been flowing very fast and as he had leant back to stretch his back he had fallen, dropping the tunic he had been holding into the water as he landed in it with a splash. A few shocked seconds passed before he noticed that his clothing was now swimming downstream and would soon be out of sight. Leaping to his feet he had run dripping down the riverbank, one eye on the tunic floating along just ahead of him and the other on the unwashed clothes he had left behind. A wild grab that nearly had him tipping head first into the stream finally returned the tunic to his hand and he had trudged back home to sit by the fire and dry himself off, his wife's merry laughter ringing in his ears as he imagined what she would have thought of the situation.

This time the washing was managed without such an adventure. It was the sewing that was giving Bergr trouble, his thick fingers were meant for clutching a spear or sword not pushing a piece of thread through something so small he could barely see it. The job was made harder by the setting of the sun, and as it became darker Bergr became more anxious, knowing he was going to be late for the feast if he didn't get this sleeve done soon.

A last pull of the needle meant he was finished, and a quick wash later he was dressed and ready to go. It was truly dark now, but long years of hunting in places with little light as well as easy familiarity with the place meant he was able to rush through the streets to Khandr's house with little worry of getting lost or falling over something and making a fool of himself.

He arrived at the house a little out of breath and found himself confronted by Hugo merely seconds after knocking on the door.

"In you go." The servant said, not giving him a chance even to wish the man a good evening. "They're waiting for you."

Bergr found himself being hurried into the hall he had visited on a few occasions and saw that the others had already arrived. Khandr was also there with Briga, and he strode over to make his apologies.

"I am sorry for my lateness my Lord and Lady. It has been some time since I have attended such an occasion and it took me some time to prepare for it."

[Anguirel]

Drenda had not found himself discontented with Brodda's ambiguous reply to his own nondescript question. A connection had been established, that much was clear. He had smiled coldly and served Brodda with a cup of mead, as was customary when a lesser member of court left the company of a greater one. On their next meeting, he thought, he would talk business, and it would be more private; he knew where Brodda kept his house, not far from the eastern quarter of the settlement where Uldor stayed when he grew weary of his father's hall; the area was a focal point for all the yes-men of Brodda's sort.

He could offer Brodda quite a lot in terms of service, he supposed. He was young, but unimportant, and could hear where others tended to be more noticeable. He was useful enough if things came to quarrels; he was, at least, taller than most Ulfings, the Chieftain's sons included, and he knew himself to be an excellent hunter.. And he was the son of Drenduld, noble in blood if scant in wealth. All he asked was an opportunity and support of a certain kind.

Drenda left the hall in a hurry and proceeded to the stables, where a score of horses stood, lazy and tethered, a couple of bored grooms slipping in and out, clamping their noses pinched shut at the smell of ordure. The steeds of the ambassadors were not to be found here; they answered to no binding, and had consented only to be led aside to a paddock where they fated, of their own will, for the return of their Elven masters.

The boy selected his own bay cob, the most valuable thing he owned but a poor creature compared to most of these enormous, brash, snorting beasts. He saddled the animal and rode out, heading for his mother's house.

***

"Well? How did your little meeting go?"

Gausen never took the Chieftain's Hall seriously, scarcely recking anything of her allegiance to Ulfang as one of the tribe, and her attitude irritated her son, making him feel like a small boy chided for stealing food.

"It is as I thought, mother," Drenda replied stiffly, "but to a much greater degree. Caranthir's rider has asked for seven thousand soldiers."

Gausen whitened behind her black veil, and then threw it off, her eyes candles in inky pools of darkness.

"Seven thousand? That must be, what, a quarter of all the males in these lands...well, well. You will go, of course," she said, speaking more quietly now, "as if there had ever been any doubt about it." Her fine son's laudably high passions would never keep him from a sword for long, and this she had always known.

"Aye, mother, and not as any foot-soldier, either, but truly as my father's son, if my designs go to plan. Look, I spoke with Lord Brodda..."

"You men speak much, and very portentously too, I'm sure," Gausen interrupted, feeling her son writhe like a rattled cat, "but such concerns mean nothing to me. I'll see you settled and wealthy in my own way, before you go off and get yourself killed. If you deny me the chance to be a mother to you, dearling, then I shall ensure I am a mother to your son."

Drenda tossed his head, rather resembling a horse in his annoyance. "Mother, you know, I really have other things to think about than wives. I mean, not that I couldn't have any woman I asked for, but..."

"Don't be silly, dear, or arrogant; I know you deserve a Chieftain's daughter, but you can't afford to be too casual, starting out with so little. I have obtained the name of a certain farmer, with one daughter he wants taken off his hands. The girl's name is Tora. She won't bring you much in the way of money, but she's a firm enough thing, sober and sensible by the sound of it..."

Drenda gave a deeply exasperated snort. "Look, mother, I thought you were the one here who got ahead by touting out your body. I am Drenduld's son, and I..."

"None of that!" Gausen's teeth were bared now, in what was almost a snarl. "What time I choose to spend with the Lord Uldor is my own affair, and in any case it is purely a matter of friendship. You owe a great deal on that horse of yours."

"And?" Drenda was less certain than he sounded. His mother's ability to leap onto a new, more pressing subject often startled him.

"I have a little put aside, boy, and I will honour your accords about that horse - I know the dealer well - if you will go and speak with this girl's father. He's a simple man, and your blood should clinch the agreement."

Drenda thought about it, but not for very long. He really needed that horse if he was to keep his station at Ulfang's Hall intact, and the debt was becoming insupportable.

"Done," he said. "Now where does the old man have his house?"

[bill_n_sam]

Dag


“I am Ulfast, son of Ulfing. How goes the work on my sword?"

Dag still held the farmer’s knife in his hand. The notch that Tora’s father had managed to put in it had been a bad one, and it had required more careful attention to repair it than Dag had anticipated. He had just dipped the blade in water to cool it one last time when the girl had arrived asking after it. . Not having had a chance to reply to the girl’s shy inquiry, upon hearing Ulfast’s abrupt words, Dag looked to the entrance and regarded the chieftain’s son steadily, the wariness he felt hidden within the depths of his heart.

Dag understood perfectly well that Ulfast’s declaration as Ulfang’s son was not one of instruction – for who amongst the Ulfings did not tread more carefully when this embittered and thwarted second son stalked the streets of the settlement? Ulfast’s reputation for cunning was matched only by his tenacity in holding a grudge. Once angered, whether for real or imagined insult, his determination to exact revenge knew no bounds. It was said that neither of the two glittering daggers that hung at his belt had retained their virginal quality for long after Ulfast had commissioned their crafting. That had been back in the years of his brother’s exile, when such exquisite weapons were an outward symbol of the power he wielded, with his father’s blessings. Dag wondered how long the yet unfinished sword which this lordling now demanded would have to wait to be baptized with the rush of blood from yet another of Ulfast’s enemies.

As always, Dag weighed his words carefully before he spoke. “The work progresses, my lord.” He inclined his head but kept his gaze upon Ulfast, neither impolite nor obsequious. “There yet remains a good two days to see its completion.” He offered no further information or explanation, not wishing to volunteer more than was required.

His gaze flickered briefly to the girl standing just inside the doorway, willing her to remain silent, to avoid bringing the attention of the chief’s son upon herself, and thence, her family. Deliberately taking a step back, without turning his back to Ulfast, which would have been a grave and unforgivable breach of etiquette, Dag casually placed the knife aside on the edge of the forge and extended his hand in the direction of the sword where it lay on a side table. The metal was a deep, thunderhead grey, and any fool would know it had not felt the kiss of the flame for quite some while. Dag’s mind worked quickly, hoping to fashion a reasonable explanation should the chieftain’s son question that fact, some answer which would satisfy, and divert attention away from the presence of the girl, or the significance of the knife.

[bill_n_sam]

Gunna & Mem


Gunna chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip as she reentered her small home. It was an unconscious habit she had, a sure sign of inner turmoil. When Dag caught her at it, he would tease her gently, offering to do the gnawing for her, which invariably garnered him a smile and a kiss. But today, she continued her worrying unmolested, her thoughts chasing each other like mice in a cage, trying to fathom the undercurrents which were sweeping through the town, hard on the heels of the elves.

Sitting next to her sister, drawing the baby into her lap and positioning her to nurse, Gunna said, “I’m sorry I was gone so long. I should not have ventured to the Borrim’s house. Were you worried?”

Mem placed her hand on the child’s head, gently stroking her fine, dark curls. “No. We were fine. You know I’m able to take care of things here – I’ll bet I know every square inch of this house as you can not.” She leaned her thin shoulder against her older sister’s arm. “Don’t fret.” She said softly. “Kata and old Dulaan, they understand. They won’t censure you.”

Gunna wondered once more at her sister’s intuitive ability to always ferret out what was troubling her. It was almost as if Mem could read her mind. No doubt it was the many hours they spent together, day in and day out, which made it so. Yet, Gunna herself was often at a loss to know what her little sister was thinking. She sometimes came out with the most startling proclamations, or questions.

“I have an admirer, it would seem.”

It took a moment for Mem’s words to register. Gunna turned towards her sister, unsure of what she had just heard. Mem had the same placid look on her face with which she usually faced the world, and Gunna was sure she had misheard her.

“What did you say?” Gunna asked doubtfully.

“An admirer. Old Granny told me.” This time, a small, shy smile played about the girl’s lips and her sister knew that she had in fact heard correctly.

“Dulaan? Dulaan told you that you had an admirer?” Gunna sounded so dumbfounded
that Mem smiled openly that such an outrageous thing should come to pass. “Who is it? How does Dulaan know of this? Did she give you an actual name?” Gunna knew as well as anyone in the town of old Granny’s fondness for joking. Perhaps she had merely been jesting with the girl. But, no! That would be too cruel indeed. Dulaan was very fond of Mem. She would never play such a prank on her.

“Yes, she did, in fact. Falki.” Mem spoke in her same, quiet voice but Gunna felt the girl’s arm tremble against her own.

“Falki? Kata’s Falki?” Gunna shook her head in disbelief. How could this be? How could it come to pass that this boy, this youngster who had been in and out of her house time out of mind in the past four years, could have developed any feelings for her sister, right under her very nose, without her knowing of it? How old was this stripling anyway? With a start, Gunna realized that he was 19 – almost a man grown now! How they change so quickly, from that awkwardness of a youth to the poise and confidence of a man. Still!

Gunna snorted in derision. “And how does old Granny know this? A little bird told her, I suppose?” Gunna used the old woman’s favorite way of expressing any rumor which she had heard being blown on the wind.

“I suppose you could call him that.” Mem replied with a smirk. “But he seems more a young man than little bird to me.”

“You mean to say Falki himself has told this to Dulaan?” Gunna was almost speechless. Almost. “Why, that boy never says more than two words together at a time! Why should he be so talkative about this?” Gunna’s eyes narrowed. “And his mother? Did Kata speak of this to you?” If so, she had committed a serious breach of etiquette, talking to a young woman before approaching her family first. By rights it was Dag who should first be hearing of this. Gunna resolved to add this to his list of items to talk over with Grimr, if he had the chance.

Again, as if she read her sister’s mind, Mem placed a gentle hand on Gunna’s, saying, “No, I don’t believe Kata knows anything of it. Or, if she does, she didn’t say anything to me.” Mem hesitated, and when she spoke again the pleading in her voice was clear. “Gunna, please, say nothing of this to Dag. He has so much on his mind as it is. I don’t want to trouble him further, or . . . cause any trouble between the two of you.”

Gunna regarded her little sister. Not so little as she once was, Gunna thought ruefully. Could it be? Could the prospect of marriage seriously be entertained? The idea had never even crossed her mind, and for that, she chided herself now. Of course, Mem was blind and that had always seemed sufficient reason to hold her close, protect her, shield her from prying eyes and laughing, pointing fools. Gunna had never considered the possibility that perhaps Mem would want more for herself, that the girl would secretly dream of her own home, her own child to cradle and love, her own husband to hold her close in the cold nights, to cherish and take care of, as he would cherish and take care of her. And that such a man now loomed on the horizon, possibly, and might want to take Mem for his own, that was something Gunna had never in her wildest imaginations foreseen. And what Dag would make of it all, heavens only knew! He too had grown quite protective of his “little sister”.

Gunna looked more closely at Mem, seeing her with new eyes. Thin, frail, smaller than most, still, Mem was developing a womanly curve to her body, her face was longer, thinner, less child-like, Gunna herself had been two years younger than Mem was now when she was betrothed to Dag, and Dag had been younger than Falki was now. Yes, time had moved on, and Mem right along with it.

Sighing, Gunna placed her hand to Mem’s cheek. “Yes. Now is not the time for such talk. All the men’s mind will be full of the coming of the elves. They will have much to think on, and talk of, amongst themselves. There will be time enough later, for talk of . . . of, a marriage?” Gunna smiled in spite of her misgivings to see Mem’s face light up at such a prospect. Wrapping her arm about Mem’s thin shoulders, she whispered in her ear conspiratorially, “We’ll keep it a secret for now, just between you and me. But I think I’d like to have a talk with old Granny, soon. Very soon.”

Mem hugged her sister back, holding her tightly. “Yes, please do! Find out what you can, and if . . . if . . . you speak with him, tell him . . . tell him, I’m waiting, right here.”

[Folwren]

“And your ambition will serve you well, Prince Uldor, in gaining…whatever it is you want…” Her voice was a smooth as honey, as quiet as a sweet bird, as beautiful as a summer day. She touched his hand gently. He drew it back, but didn’t let go. She stepped closer. “Anything you desire,” she said, her voice sinking as she finished. She smiled slowly, sweetly, almost lovingly; Uldor stared with astonishment at her perfectly beautiful face. “Now that is how it should be, is it not, my lord?”

His heart lifted and fell with an odd flutter. For half a moment, he bent closer and his lips parted just a little. His grip on her wrist had become gentler, but he hadn’t yet let go entirely. She looked up at him, her eyes like dark, deep pools, tried to draw him in closer and closer until he drowned within their depths. He let go of her and laid his hand gently on her waist. A slight shudder passed through her at his touch.

A sharp thought rebuked him in an instant. He leaped backwards, away from her, a look of fire flashing into his eyes and face. He had threatened her - his hand had hurt her small, white wrist, he was sure - but she returned it as a compliment and offered more of herself to him.

“What do you want with me?” he snarled. “I didn’t ask to be won over. I’ve got my own plans to fulfill and they don’t include you. Shut up,” he snapped, as she prepared to laugh and respond. “I don’t want to hear any more of your sickeningly sweet promises. With your lips you would kiss me and promise me wealth and power, and with your left hand you would trust a dagger into my heart and give my blood to Morgoth. You would rather see me crawl at your feet than be an honorable man. I will stand on my own - without your help.”

He turned about sharply, ending the conversation entirely, and stormed back over the hill and down towards the city. His blood pumped with fury and not a little confusion. His eyes blazed with hatred towards all, hatred bordering on murder. The guards at the gate cowered away from him, but he ignored them entirely as he strode through.

He went directly to the Ulfing hall, entered by the wide, front doors, and went through the corridors and up a flight of stairs to his room. He slammed his door behind him and threw off his cloak impatiently, tossing it into the bed. His feet slowed to a stop in the center of the floor. For a moment he stood, his hands curling and uncurling by his side. Then, slowly, he looked up and walked to the window.

The heavy, wood shutters were open and the breeze and sunlight flowed in together. While there, looking out, his temper cooled by degrees. His heart ceased to beat so furiously and his mind cleared of the anger and confusion. All that was left was the picture of that face – strange and foreign in it’s beauty. So dark but so utterly fair, the skin so perfectly white without a single blemish. Her hair was black as ebony, and her lips, he recalled…her lips red as blood.

A knock at the door broke into his thoughts just there. He shuddered slightly and then his head jerked sharply about on its neck and he looked towards the door.

“What is it?” he called.

“I bring a message from your brother, lord Ulfast.”

“A message?” Uldor grumbled to himself. “What message would that scoundrel want to send me. He never writes.” He opened the door with sharp abruptness. The unfortunate messenger stepped back at the sight his latently ferocious face. “Where is it? What does he want?” The young man held out the folded pieces of paper. Uldor took it impatiently from his hands and shut the door sharply in his face. He turned towards the window again as he unfolded the letter.

His eyes scanned the short letter swiftly. As soon as he had finished, he crumpled it with annoyance and tossed it into the corner of his room.

“Blasted elves, anyway,” he muttered. “But I guess it is necessary. Confound Ulfast and his nasty ideas of courtesy. Why didn’t I think of it?” he added at once. “It’s not his concern!”

Still grumbling to himself and thinking dark thoughts, he left his chambers and set to work preparing a fitting banquet for a proper receival of their guests.

[piosenniel]

Jóra flicked the reins against the pony’s back and crooned a few words of encouragement. She was enjoying this opportunity to try her hand at driving, and the fact that her mother sat silent in the back of the cart did not intrude on her pleasure. Granny sat next to Jóra, responding with the appropriate “Mmmhmmm!” and “Isn’t that just so” to the girl’s excited chattering.

With home finally reached, Jóra hoppend down from the cart and ran round to help Granny down. She hurried off then to take the pony to the barn.

Káta had gotten herself out of the cart and stood waiting a short ways away from the house for Dulaan to draw nearer. She hooked her arm through the older woman’s and gave her a cat-like smile as she turned them both away from the door and began walking toward the bench by the big oak.

‘Come, sit down, Dulaan,’ she said, patting the wooden seat as she took a seat herself. A brief moment of silence passed as both women looked about at the familiar scene. ‘Now, tell me,’ Káta continued, turning slightly on the smooth seat to look at Granny. ‘Just what exactly did I think I overheard when you and Mem were by the fire?’

[Child of the 7th Age]

Khandr tossed his second wife a distracted glance and nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders, refusing to rise to the bait and be pulled into Embla’s discontent when more pressing matters remained. Yet her attitude was unsettling. Could the woman be trusted to do the task he had chosen for her? Khandr wished he had sought out Embla earlier in the day and privately spoken with her about the assignment. It was an important task and one that needed doing if they had any hope of penetrating the veil of secrecy that hung over the doings of Ulfang and his sons. As much as he loved and esteemed Briga, Khandr was certain that his first wife and long time companion lacked the natural duplicity and instinct for intrigue that would be necessary for this particular job. And perhaps for once, Embla would realize he was paying her a compliment by suggesting she take on one of the most enigmatic figures at court.

A heavy grey fog, sickly sweet and cold, swelled up and pressed against Khandr’s senses. He fought to push back his unsettled feelings, determined to go forward despite the obstacles. If he could not gain accurate information by open and honest means, then he must acquire it in other ways. All his instincts screamed out that some plot was being hatched, which could be detrimental to the interests of the Borrim and the king to whom he pledged loyalty. Khandr only hoped that the price for this information would not run too high.

Pushing back his gloom for the sake of his guests, Khandr gestured that Bergr should join them and directed the others to gather around the table. The dishes were quickly brought out and set before them. The women had prepared an elaborate feast. For the next hour, the Borrim focused their attention on the meal, sampling an array of soups, meats, breads, root vegetables, and heady cheeses provided by their host. When everyone had finished the first two courses, the house servants cleared away the dishes and brought out a custard tart seasoned with saffron and cloves. Instead of the usual ale, Khandr had managed to obtain a flask of fine red wine that had been brought up from the south; he had Briga approach each guest and offer them a cup.

As the meal came to an end and the guests settled back comfortably in their chairs, Khandr could no longer delay the inevitable. It was time to address the real reason he had asked the Borrim to come to his house this evening. He began by describing how difficult it was to get information from court. The old and easy friendship between the different branches of the Easterlings had completely vanished. “Everything has changed,” he lamented. “Ulfang and his sons have no interest in our marriage proposal. And I can get nothing out of them. I have no sense of what is going on. But my instincts tell me that great changes will soon take place. I fear these will not be good for us or for our king. We can not just pack our bags and go home, as much as I would like to do that. We have a duty to stay here and try to untangle this puzzle. And that is why I have asked you to come here tonight.”

“You are my eyes and ears,” he explained. “I can not be everywhere at once. And there are times when being an official envoy places me at a disadvantage. Many prefer to confide in someone who bears no official title. That is why I need your help. I will be asking each of you to secure information about a particular individual whose name I will give you. Go to that person, speak with them or their servants to try and find out what is really going on. Speak little, and saw nothing as to why you were sent. Once you have learned whatever you can, come back and share the information with me. This is the only way we will get anywhere. It is a pity that one Easterling has to spy on another, but in these hard days I see no other way to come by the truth.”

“As to your assignments…. Khandr glanced down at his list and read off the paired names in a cold, crisp voice: “Fastarr, Ulwarth; Bergr, Ulfast; Hunta, Uldor; Embla, the lady Jord; and Briga, Lord Ulfast’s wife. I myself will pay a personal visit to Ulfang. Is that alright then? Any questions or concerns?” His eyes swept nervously around the circle.

[Celuien]

Ulfast's calculating stare followed the smith as he moved behind the forge. A cold grin played at the corners of his mouth. Fortunately for Dag, it was not the mask Ulfast wore to hide his fury, the sly cover of pretended friendship that came just his wrath reached out with a deadly grasp. The man was bold. The rude trifle of a knife that had just been placed aside had no doubt been the task most recently in Dag's hand while the sword he now hefted had most likely lain neglected.

Ulfast thought he could sense fear coming from the craftsman, yet he had spoken calmly and deliberately, saying no more or less than needed. Such a man would be of good use if he could be reminded of his place in service to the son of Ulfang.

"Two days, you say? I had hoped it would be sooner. Tonight we hold a feast in honor of our allies of the Elven kingdom. Surely you have heard? Where better to display the work of a fine craftsman?" His voice rang with cool authority.

Ulfast's eyes drifted again to the knife, and for the briefest of moments, to the girl in the doorway.

"Or perhaps you have been attending to other tasks?"

[Noinkling]

Cornered! Like an old mousekin by the barn cat...

Káta had shooed off Jóra and now the two women stood under the slender ash tree that grew in the side yard. Granny opened her mouth to speak, thinking to dissemble as she could concerning her little exchange with Mem. But one quick look at Káta’s narrowed eyes and she knew she’d be caught out if even one falsehood passed her lips.

Dulaan sighed, her eyes flicking to the entry way to the little barn. One of the older boys stood there, half hidden in the shadows. Her head turned back to her questioner and one wrinkled hand reached out to touch Káta lightly on the arm.

‘Now, dear,’ she began, her eyes softening as she remembered the young eager girl Káta had once been. ‘You remember, don’t you, how when you were a young one and just in the first flush of love, or at least interest, how you wanted to know if that object of your affections thinks the same? Well, that’s how it is for our Fálki, our shy-boots Fálki.....’

She went on to explain the red-faced talks the young man had had with her and the request he’d made for her to talk to Mem if it were possible. ‘And once his ducks were all in a row, and he knew with some surety his feelings might be returned - why then he was going to speak with his father and you about approaching Mem’s family.’

Granny could just see the thoughts fluttering behind Káta’s gaze when Grímr’s loud voice rang out.....

[Durelin]

It did not take much to bring the anger out in this man, to get him to show his true colours. He had met her eyes as she drew close to him and she saw the desires in them, his skin had squirmed underneath her touch, and she felt she could see his mouth growing moister though his teeth were clenched. Jord held all of his attention for one moment, and it was just another victory. Between their carnal needs and desires, mortals would do anything, and their weak, impressionable minds could be molded to turn that anything, and eventually everything they did into what she wanted. What Morgoth wanted. What Morgoth commanded.

Uldor’s words were filled with emotion that was wasted on Jord’s ears. She was deaf to almost everything he said now, out of choice. His words did not matter, and they certainly bored her when he started repeating himself. His attention, his mind was secured: that was all that mattered.

“With your lips you would kiss me and promise me wealth and power, and with your left hand you would trust a dagger into my heart and give my blood to Morgoth. You would rather see me crawl at your feet than be an honorable man…”

He may have been delusional, but he was quite right about her. The man knew it, and yet he could not resist her or her promises. The more often she put the plate in front of him, the more tempting it would be for him to gobble it up. And nearly every last Ulfing knew how bad Prince Uldor was at resisting temptation, when he even bothered to try. Perhaps he had a few more wits about him now that he knew that his father could only do so much, particularly in the state the old man was in. An honorable man, though, Uldor son of Ulfang had never been and never would be. Honor required sacrifice, and this boy was all about himself.

“I will stand on my own - without your help.”

It was just another thing he had never grown out of.

Jord watched Uldor storm off with something close to glee, though it soon passed. As he made his way back into the city she examined her wrist and the light red mark he had left around it. It would stand out from the rest of her skin for a little while yet. Was she to think herself lucky to have a body with such smooth, milky skin that the hand of a lecherous dog would leave a mark on her? These women were weaker even than that man, all of them, in body and spirit.

She had learned in her stay that not only did they allow themselves to become “wives” and serve fools they called “husbands” as if there were loyalty involved, but were to desire this. Apparently, they even believed they required…protection. Apparently, in the little world of mortals, regardless of how many toys they were given or found to play with, from swords to fire to thrones and shiny objects, they would always fight amongst themselves, to the point that man and woman became different, when all would be but corpses in a blink of an immortal’s eye.

Apparently, women were the weaker sex in this world of mortals. But in the body of one, she would be responsible for the destruction of so many beings, mortal and immortal, that the carrion birds would block out the sun for days.

Smiling, Jord returned to her chambers, her amusement only encouraged by the way everyone she passed by in the dusty roads turned to look at her. They muttered to each other biting rumours, a common side effect of the human disease, which could only help her cause. Most had seen her, and seen her with Uldor. They knew what sort of man he was, and so it was commonly assumed that her position was a mistress likely of uncivilized origins. Perhaps if enough simple minds around him believed it, the little prince would be convinced of it himself.

“Ah, my dear Brodda,” she said, the words rolling off her tongue with smooth delight as she closed the door to her bedchamber behind her. The rough looking man lounged on her couch, and though she spoke to him, she did not spare him a glance. She did not like acknowledging his presence more than she had to. He was useful, but was only decent to look at even by the standards of his people. And she did not like the thought of any mortal pig making himself comfortable in her bedroom.

“Did you enjoy the company of Elves in the court this morning?”

[Dimturiel]

Tora had felt her blood become cold in her veins when she saw Ulfast entering Dag's forge. Not only that the man was feared in the settlement, but there was also the fact that he-the chieftain's son-had caught Dag disobeying his orders. And all of this, reflected Tora, all of this was her fault. If Dag was to get in trouble-and that was more than likely to happen, by the look of things,-it would be only because of her. If something was to happen to Dag, Tora would never be able to forget that it had been her father's knife that had brought this situation upon him.

Yet could she stay and watch without interfering? Should she not try and do something? Indeed she felt that her obligation was to say something, anything that would help Dag. So, mustering her courage and rejecting the thought of getting away from there while she was still unobserved, she started speaking:

"My lord," she began, trying to keep her voice steady and confident, "I...I should tell you that it is all my fault. It was I who came here and...and distracted Master Dag with my foolish talking. I know I should not have, and, indeed, I would not have done it had I known that I was hindering him from such a grand task. My lord, once more I assure you, the blame is entirely mine."

She stopped, unable to go any further. She could feel the tension in the room growing stronger, and she wondered uneasily whether she had not made matters worse with her foolish meddling.

[Nogrod]

Fastarr was filling his pipe after a most gratifying dinner of which all the guests had been openly thankful to their lord and his ladies. He hadn't eaten this well and in this good company in ages, at least that was how he felt. This staying at the Ulfing settlement had been such a depressing experience. And how he had hoped that Khandr would have thrown this party to announce their quick return home... But those seemed like vain dreams now. And he thought he understood what his lord thought and what might be at stake. He had felt uneasy towards this whole town all the time but now as Khandr had spoken he was getting convinced about being right with it.

After Khandr had given his list of duties to everyone Fastarr lit his pipe and puffed it concentratedly to make it alight well enough. Then he took a long puff and leaned backwards in his chair closing his eyes, thinking all that his lord had said. The smoke poured slowly from his nostrils.

"Lord Khandr, with your permission...", he suddenly addresed Khandr and pulled the pipe from his lips blowing the rest of the smoke towards the roof.

"I do have a slight concern. If we all suddenly approach these brothers tomorrow or the next day while we have had little or no contact with them during our whole stay here, then even how discreet or careful we are they will probably be able to deduce the obvious. I mean one of them just needs to notify another in a side note that one of the Borrim came to him today and the other one will go, "oh I was addressed by one too", and there it is. Maybe one of us should contact one of them personally, but the other two should concentrate on their servants?"

Fastarr took a couple of puffs from his pipe and eyed the others while he leaned forwards.

"I'm not sure how we should share this. As your retainer I might be given an errand by you my lord and I could contact Ulwarth with it? Or maybe we could come up with something for Hunta to query from Uldor concerning the hunting grounds? Or Bergr, do you have any ideas?"

He pulled back again and puffed his pipe yet a few more times. But abruptly he leaned back forwards as he had remembered something.

"Wait a minute. I know one we should go for. There is an Uldor's servant called Crogulf who's something of a drunkard. He sits quite regularly at the Dragontail Inn as long as I know. At least he has been there most of the times I have visited that shadowy place. One of us should have a pint or two with him... I can do it as I know him from his looks but it's also easy to tell you his characteristics, he's one you can't miss after a short description of his nose." With that Fastarr smiled and draw back again.

"If there would be any way we could have a word with those elves... what a pity there probably isn't without consulting the Ulfings first..." He inhaled the smoke with great pleasure and closed his eyes just to feel the substance spreading through his body.

[bill_n_sam]

A crease of irritation flashed across Dag’s brow at Tora’s words, but he quickly regained an expression of calm detachment. Curse the girl for trying to deflect Ulfast’s ire onto herself. If the young chieftain’s wrath was roused over this, Dag’s part would not be overlooked merely upon the mewling of a farmer’s daughter. If Ulfast chose, he would have both their heads, and no-one to stay his hand. Her explanations would not be enough to save either of them.

Dag looked directly at Ulfast and saw the glint of a grim sort of amusement in the man’s eyes. The lordling was baiting him, waiting to hear what words would come tumbling out of his mouth. The truth would be frowned upon; a lie, if discovered, unforgivable. Dag chose his words with great care.

“It’s as the girl says, my lord. She has indeed filled the air with the useless prattle of women, while I repaired her father’s knife.” Dag gestured at the cold blade. “As you well know, the metal must rest between firings, to temper the blade and make it strong. I thought ‘twas better to put such time to good use, rather than stand idle.” Something of a mongrel mixture of the truth, but no outright lie that could be brought back to him. Dag gambled on his experience with those who looked upon him as a subordinate, calculating that Ulfast would not be willing to risk seeming ignorant of the armorer’s craft in order to challenge the smith's explanation.

The corner of Ulfast’s mouth twitched slightly, and, without looking at her, Dag could tell that Tora was holding her breath in fear of what their chieftain might say. A long moment of silence stretched out between the three, Dag sensing that Ulfast was making some calculations of his own. Hoping to tip the balance in his own favor, and that of the girl, Dag offered into the silence, “I can not complete the sword by tonight, my lord. But I can bring it to the point where it bears the appearance of a fully crafted weapon. You may carry it and no-one would know that the blade has not been fully worked. What need would there be at such a celebration for more?”

[Kath]

'Ulfast! How could one even think they could get close to such a man? And who would want to?'

Bergr's first thoughts upon hearing of his assignment were hardly positive. Ulfast's reputation far preceded him, and though Bergr knew there were times that the lordling walked alone and without guard, he also knew of his derision toward the Borrim. No, speaking with Ulfast himself was certainly out of the question, another option would have to be found.

Fastarr's words of concern echoed his own thoughts, and the suggestion that a servant should be spoken to rather than the lords themselves seemed good to him. Yet he knew that servants who would speak against their masters to those that asked were few and far between. But perhaps, yes, perhaps his help toward the women of the village might allow him to find another way to get information. He knew that one of those he delivered meat to was a friend of the wife of Gora, Ulfast's manservant. He also knew that this wife bore little love for her husband, and so it was possible that she would speak to him. He shook his head slightly in amusement, well aware that he was thinking like a gossiping woman, but if it helped them find out what was going on then so be it.

Sitting up in his chair Bergr offered his explanation.

"My lord, if I may ... I believe I may be able to gain knowledge of what is going on around Ulfast from the wife of his manservant. The words of a woman in such matters are often overlooked as idle talk, yet I think she will provide information of use. Also, she may know about more than just Ulfast if she talks with the wives of the servants of the other brothers. I will attempt to arrange a meet with her tomorrow and if nothing comes of it then I will find another way."

Lifting his mug to his lips once more he mused over the possibilities, and found himself hoping that Gora would be able to provide something of use, as the prospect of getting close to Ulfast was not one he relished.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Khandr listened carefully to what Bergr and Fastarr had proposed, nodding his head in agreement, "Fine ideas, both of you. Yes....servants and their wives are often excellent sources of information. There's been a time or two when negotiations have bogged down for a treaty and I managed to get a key piece of the puzzle from sources just like these. Definitely go ahead and do these things. Still, I wonder, if we might try another approach at the same time, perhaps a wider one that snares in more than a few victims at once."

Khandr glanced over at Fastarr and fixed his eyes on him, "It was what you said that made me think of it. You spoke of 'the hunting grounds'. A man feels most comfortable dealing with what he knows rather than sitting inside with the women folk. You three have skills in hunting that wholly eclipse my own and, if I am not mistaken, Embla also has had experience with such things. . Even the Ulfangs would have to admit privately that the Borrim's ability to ferret out and track down game far exceeds their own. Perhaps we have been remiss in our duties to our hosts. We need to pay them back for their generosity by offering to use our skills to lead them out on a day of hunting in the deep woods to track down a great boar or bear. We will promise them a hunt the likes of which they have never seen! Confidences are often exchanged deep in the forest that would never be shared inside a great hall. And as to the Elves," Khandr's voice trailed off. "I have heard that, even with all their book learning and strange tastes, they still relish the chase after a mighty buck. So perhaps, just perhaps, we will snare both the men and the Elves in the same net."

"I can see it now," Khandr mused. "All the common folk will be gathered on the green at dawn, preparing a fine breakfast for those lords and their vassals about to depart into the woods. And of course I will gladly supply all the victuals. Perhaps even the women will ride off to hunt rabbits and other small game, and exchange confidences along the path. If we keep our eyes and ears open, we may hear much, both from the great lords and their humbler retainers. And, of course, each of you will be appointed as a guide for the particular lord whose name you hold."

"But would the Ulfangs accept such an offer? Wouldn't they see through what we are doing?" A small voice piped up from the edge of the table.

"I do not know. I have not brooched this topic with any of the Ulfang lords. But we will never know till we try. What say you? Do you think this is an idea worth pursuing?"

[Celuien]

In spite of himself, Ulfast was amused by the scene playing around him. The girl's frightened, nervous loyalty and the smith's clear irritation at her interference intrigued Ulfast. There was, perhaps, more between them than the matter of the knife. Whether or not it was true, that was a tale Ulfast could use if needed to keep the smith under his control.

"Blame, girl? I am certain there is none. Master Dag is a man wise in his craft, and I think that he would do nothing foolish, even at the behest of so charming a maid." A smile danced faintly on Ulfast's face as he spoke, eyes darting from the girl to Dag in search of any hint of embarrassment from either.

"As to the sword, you speak truly. I should have no need of your blade in battle tonight. Come then, as you say, and present it in ceremony this evening, to be taken back to the forge when the feast has ended."

The smith's forehead seemed to lose a few of its creases. "Yes, my lord," he answered.

From inside, Ulfast heard the faint tones of a melody. The voice was low, but clear and sweet. "Who sings within?" he asked.

A frown passed quickly over Dag's brow. "It is my wife's sister, my lord."

"A fine voice."

Dag remained silent.

"Ah! How foolish of me. Of course. It is said that a truly fair-voiced maid, both in song and in story, lives within the village. I had forgotten that she was kin to you. Her name is Mem, is it not?"

"Yes. Mem is my wife's sister."

Ulfast grinned. "Then, my good man, will you not bring her with you when you present the sword tonight? Her voice would grace our halls well." Dropping his voice as if in confidence, Ulfast added, "I say this not in command, but ask it rather in friendship. What say you?"

The smile remained on Ulfast's lips. Here was a chance for a test of the smith's loyalties.

[Nogrod]

"I do not know. I have not brooched this topic with any of the Ulfang lords. But we will never know till we try. What say you? Do you think this is an idea worth pursuing?" Khandr ended and looked at the party questioningly.

Well, there's the difference between a lord and a retainer... One thinks big and the other one doesn't. One thinks of Great Hunting parties involving everyone around while the other thinks of some petty servants drunken in some shadowy Inn as he doesn't wish to see anyone of rank face to face... Fastarr shook his head and smiled openly to his own thoughts. Soon he noticed his lord's gaze on him and was embarrassed as he clearly understood how Khandr might have interpreted his expressions. Khandr needed not to stage the question.

"Oh, Khandr, I do hope you excuse me my lord. I was just laughing to the narrow-mindedness of my own thought... That was an excellent idea and you'll have my backing for it. But when would that take place?" Fastarr tried to evade any overall attention to himself as he was not used to it and felt it a bit awkward in general, not to say when he had been caught behaving in a way inappropriate to his stature among the kinsmen.

"The day after tomorrow the earliest. We couldn't possibly make the arrangements for tomorrow and if these Ulfings have any decency they'll throw a party in honour of the Elven embassadors tomorrow anyway", Khandr replied and looked at Fastarr quizzically.

"So this pathetic village is getting into a festive season, then?" It was Hugo who had come to clear the table from the dishes of the last courses, bustling about the visitors.

"Some hot honeyed-wine perhaps? And some cookies too?" Fastarr asked Hugo as he was collecting the last plates from beside his shoulder. Khandr nodded and Hugo went his way to fulfill the request.

There was a moment of silence around the table as everyone seemed to be chewing the things that had been said. Fastarr felt again that he was not able to hold his tongue. Have I drank too much or have the others had too little? Just too many things going around in my head...So he opened his mouth again.

"If we wish to have all the options open here, would there then be any believable cause for which you could send me as your caretaker to meet one of the brothers, my lord? I'm ready to do it if you wish and if I have the cover of an official mission by you." Fastarr glanced around and continued.

"I understand it's your duty to inform Ulfang himself of your intentions regarding the staging of the Great Hunt, but maybe I should be sent by you to approach one of the brothers with some details concerning the arrangements afterwards? I could then at least try to sneak out something as we could easily speak of the ambassadors and all that has followed then while dealing with the bussiness."

Fastarr looked at Khandr and emptied his goblet.

[Lalaith]

The feast had, on many levels, worked out better for Embla than she could ever have expected. For one thing, she had the petty pleasure of her tetchy exchange with Fastarr, an encounter where she felt she had the advantage. And now, she had been given a task by her anxious husband – to shadow the strange female, Jord.

Embla paid little attention to the intense and anxious conversations which followed Khandr’s spying plan. Instead, she mulled over her own assignment – an assignment which pleased her greatly. Firstly, this Jord was the person in the settlement who interested her the most. Obsessed with her own situation, thinking herself little more than Khandr’s chattel, Embla assumed that Jord’s s relation to the Lord Uldor was something similar. But yet the woman Jord carried herself with an air of pride and independence. This in itself excited Embla’s interest, even envy. Naturally inclined to subterfuge, she relished the prospect of stalking of this dark, strange woman. Whether she would then share any of her insights or observations with her much-resented lord was of course another matter.

But there was another, more healthy side to Embla’s pleasure in her task. This suggestion of her husband gave her an unprecedented licence to roam, a personal liberty she had long yearned for. One of Embla’s chief grievances about her life as a Borrim wife was the restrictions placed on her movements and interests. Women like Briga, Borrim born and bred, happily accepted their restricted sphere. But it was not what she, Embla, had been accustomed to, and the confinement chafed her to distraction. Now, Khandr had as good as told his second wife she could wander as her fancy took her – with his blessing. Embla smiled to herself in anticipation – and for once it really was a smile, not a smirk.

[Child of the 7th Age]

"My friend," Khandr smiled broadly and thumped his retainer on the back. "An excellent idea. Excellent indeed! To go and speak with Ulfang's sons on a matter pertaining to the hunt would work well, both in terms of getting information and setting matters on a sound, practical basis. Fastarr, Bergr, and Hunta--perhaps each of you should pay a visit to the lord whose name you have been assigned and ask his preference as to the particular game he would prefer to hunt. That way, we could arrange for two or even three smaller contingents to set out after different prey."

Khandr stood up and walked over to the window staring out at the street. He rubbed his hands together and shook his head slowly, "Yes, I think that would work well: to split up the party so that the three sons would not always be side-by-side. Perhaps they would open up a bit more. "

"And my dear wives," Khandr looked around to where Briga and Embla were seated. "Neither of you have said anything, at the table but then you are less accustomed to speaking in company such as this. I hope our plans meet with your approval. Perhaps you can find some reason to approach the ladies assigned to you in the next few days, either to hear their preferences in the matter of game or, more likely, invite them to a breakfast on the green the morning of the hunt, should they prefer more sedentary occupations."

It was Briga who spoke up first. "My lord, I have no complaints about the instructions you have given us. Though I would rather be home near our children, I know these things must be done. I only ask one simple thing. We must have at least two days to prepare for the food and other practical arrangements."

"Two days? Then two days you shall have.... I can not go see Ulfang at least until tomorrow. Indeed I will be lucky to get in to see him even then. And the hunt can not take place until at least the day after that. So you and Embla will have your two days to get ready and pay a visit to the ladies."

"What bothers me more are those Elves. I have not even been called to the hall or officially told of these messengers' arrival. So how can I boldly introduce myself and invite these visitors to a festive event? Perhaps I will have to let Ulfang know I have heard of their arrival and ask him to approach them for me. A ticklish situation. Very ticklish indeed!"

[Anguirel]

Even as Khandr was wondering how to make contact with the Elven ambassadors, the same Elves were attempting to find the Borrim diplomat's tent.

Lachrandir had ridden in pursuit of boars in the marshes and copses of Thargelion. He had pursued and slain fell creatures on the outskirts of Neldoreth. He had scoured plains for Orc fugitives after the Dagor Aglareb. He had seen fortifications rise from empty vales, and helped Caranthir to plan the severe sword-strokes of Noldorin roads.

But searching for Khandr was proving a greater challenge than any of this. The cobbles had long since given way on the paths to mud; the dwellings and the air grew more unlovely; the streets harder to define; even the widest tents and most tall-gabled houses were difficult to distinguish from each other.

"Stange, the beauty of this eve's sky," he muttered to Tathren, "and then these mud-spattered homes beneath it, animals and beasts, leather hide and mud brinks, all illluminated by Arien's bronze rays..."

Tathren looked slightly surprised, but did not comment. Clearly he had never seen his adopted uncle in such a poetical mood before. Lachrandir had apparently also been alarmed at his own words; he shook his head, as if to clear thoughts that disturbed him.

"We have long past the smithy the Ulfing back yonder told us of," he concluded. "One of those two larger homesteads must be the...house...of Khandr. "

"Perhaps both," Tathren suggested.

"That's a sharp thought, boy. These men are not as we are, nor do they observe the customs of the Edain in the north; I have heard of some with more than one household, to keep up more than one wife, though it is a thing I understand little of."

An agreement silently passed between them, and they walked quickly up to the opening which served as the threshold of the left-hand building. No attendant seemed posted at it, but voices could be heard, and a dim firelight glimpsed within.

"Am I now at the House of Khandr?" Lachrandir called in the Ulfing dialect, which he spoke with facility if little formal mastery of intonation...

[Child of the 7th Age]

As the messenger's words carried through the corridor to the room where the Borrim were seated, Khandr pushed back his chair and stood up abruptly. The approaching footsteps were barely audible. If it had not been for the initial spoken words, he would not have been aware of his visitors' presence, whoever that visitor might be. Khandr was not expecting other guests tonight. Indeed, in the long months they had been in the village, their Ulfang neighbors had shown absolutely no interest in paying social calls after dark. Briga glanced at her husband and queried nervously, "Who is there?"

"I do not know. But I can not think of worse timing." Khandr shook his head. He faced the others and explained, "I asked the servants to leave, once dinner was served, so there would be no one in the house to overhear the conversation."

A voice near the end of the table whispered. "But how long were they there? Did they hear us before?"

Not waiting to reply, Khandr pulled out a small dagger from his belt and gestured that Fastarr and Hunta should retrieve their weapons and accompany him. The three walked out of the room together and proceeded slowly down the dark hallway until they stood beside a pair of impossibly tall strangers, barely visible under the gutted light of the wall torch.

The guest repeated his earlier question, "Am I now in the House of Khandr?"

Khandr had heard that type of accent before but it seemed so out of place in this mundane village that he failed to appreciate it for what it was. He replied in a cold, stern tone that conveyed a meaning far different than his surface words. "Yes, this is the House of Khandr, and how may I help you?"

[CaptainofDespair]

Brodda had spent much of his time in his lord’s hall since the Elves had made their proclamation. He had watched Ulfang’s vassals, listening to their conversations and their scheming. That had not been so much of a bother, as it was his usual task. But, he had not gathered much information at all. Mostly, the Ulfings were wasting their time with discussions of the Elves, something Brodda could care less for.

So, with nothing much to do Uldor’s right hand went in search of his master. Certainly not in the mood to check everywhere Ulfang’s eldest could be, he went to the most likely spot. He checked Uldor’s bedchamber, but there was no sign of him there. It didn’t even look as if he had even gone back to his room since the events in the hall. Thinking perhaps his master might be waiting for him, Brodda searched his own abode. And yet again, there was no sign of Uldor. “Hmm…Where else could he be,” the Ulfing wondered. Then, he remembered one other place. Jord, the strange female, had Uldor’s ear and he often visited her ‘home’. Exiting his dwelling, Brodda set off towards Jord’s residence. Along the way, a few Ulfings tried to stop and chat with him, but he blew them off. He had important business to take care of and had no time for the peons he felt they were.

Brodda himself had never been in Jord’s chambers. The few times he accompanied Uldor, he had remained outside. But he knew enough of what had gone on within, and to a degree he himself had become involved with the mysterious woman after approaching her at other times. But those all occurred with his boss around. He pressed his ear to the entryway, and hearing no one inside, thought to withdraw and wait for Uldor to find him. But a bit of curiosity overwhelmed Brodda, and he pushed his way in, hoping to go unseen.

Jord’s hovel was not as impressive as he had hoped. Shrugging off his misconceptions, he plopped himself down on a couch to wait for the missing occupant. Now was as good a time as any to get more involved, and perhaps it could undermine Uldor’s quest for power and at the same time increase his own chances for more of it.

When Jord finally arrived, she did not bother to look at him, asking her question with what seemed to be a hint of sarcasm. “The Elves are not what I would call ‘enjoyable’ company. Now you, Jord, are much more like what I might call enjoyable company,” Brodda replied with a laugh. “But, to business. I don’t want Uldor finding out about this little meeting of ours. So, are you interested in a proposition I have, dear Jord?”

[Mithalwen]

For Tathren the day had become less enjoyable as it had passed . The exhiliration of riding fast and far and the novelty of the ulfings settlement had been succeeded by an unprecedented need for self control. Never in his short life (by the measure of his kind) had he been required to remain as still or as silent for so long, witness to meetings at which he had little part to play. Long-limbed and spirited as the colt that had bore him here, he was just as apt as the beast to become restive when constrained.

Even had he been bound to his lord by ties of duty only, their reception might have been provocation enough for Tathren to show the latent fire in his nature but the day's progress had brought also a greater attachment to his master. This was due to the glimpses Lachrandir had allowed behind the chilly hauteur that was the usual demeanour of the comparions of Caranthir, rather than simply their isolation among strangers. Tathren could not imagine his true uncle waxing lyrical about a sunset even momentarily - nor would he have praised his nephew so generously.

Cold speech was one thing drawn blades another and Tathren unsheathed his his own. The blade crafted by his father and born in battle by his uncle would be keener that anything these stunted creatures might have: the resemblance to dwarves he deemed would not extend so far as weaponnsmithing. He had a working knowledge of the mortals language and though he thought it as crude as its speakers his passion gave him a certain eloquence:

"You can help by addressing, my lord Lachrandir, emissary of Caranthir Feanorion with the courtesy that is his due". Tathren had not raised his knife but his height meant that its tip was close to the speaker's heart.

[bill_n_sam]

Dag regarded the chieftain’s son, knowing that Ulfast knew he could not refuse the politely framed “request”, despite the man’s unctuous words of friendship. Well, he could in fact refuse, but he did not relish the thought of having to look over his shoulder the rest of his days, however long those might be. The smith realized he was being let off the hook for the sword, with Ulfast apparently choosing not to go down the road that would have revealed the full truth of Dag’s foolish choice. Inwardly, Dag cursed himself for an idiot for letting his feelings overtake his reason. But if the lordling was willing to let it go, Dag was certainly not going to step wrong now and show disrespect by turning down what was clearly a great honor which the chieftain was willing to bestow on his sister-in-law.

Dag bowed his stiff neck accordingly, although he did not lower his eyes, as he replied, “My lord, you honor my family by such an invitation. I will bring my sister by marriage when I bring your sword and she will sing for you, at your pleasure.” Dag could hear Gunna’s voice even as he spoke, ringing in his head, her words of protest and fear echoes of his own misgivings which he carefully kept hidden. He had himself never been present at a great feast the type of which Ulfast and his father and brothers must be contemplating for the honoring of such important emissaries. But he had attended a smattering of the chieftains’ nights of uproarious carousing in the great hall and knew they could get quite wild, with drink and boasting and jests turning to fights in the blink of an eye. He could only hope this feast would be conducted with more decorum, as perhaps Ulfang would strive to impress the elves. Dag could only plan to stay close to Mem and hustle her away just as soon as she was no longer required. He dreaded having to go back to his house and break the news to his wife. Mem herself, so gentle and so unworldlywise in many ways, would probably take it as nothing more than a great lark, to have the chance to attend such a gathering and to sing for such exalted guests. But Gunna . . .

Knowing that he still had several hours of work to do yet on the sword, Dag told himself he was not choosing the coward’s path by picking up the farmer’s knife and handing it to Tora, saying, “Here, girl. You’d best be on your way home. Run along to my house on the way and let the women know of the great honor our lord does us, and that I will be by at sunset to escort my sister to the great hall.”

[Anguirel]

If truth be told, Lachrandir had been on the point of reacting to the surly reception of the Easterlings in rather the same manner that his page had just done. His hand had travelled quickly to the dirk at his side, meant for just such emergencies. But seeing Tathren respond to aggression with aggression made the elder Elf realise the policy's dangers.

"Steady, boy," he said in Quenya, laying his left hand on his companion's shoulder. His cold gaze did not deviate from the men in front of him, and he addressed them now, to make matters quite clear, in Sindarin, not their own language. The grey-elven tongue was understood by most of the Atani, though Easterlings especially often stumbled when speaking in it. But these Men were supposed to be Borrim, from the north, and to them it should be familiar enough.

"If you want a brawl, my page Tathren has shown you he is quite willing to bestow one upon you! For myself, I had rather not. We have come in all honesty and courtesy to talk to this Khandr, your master, the envoy from Himring. Much has transpired at the Hall that it is needful for him to know."

[Dimturiel]

Tora was glad that the incident with the chieftain's son had come to nothing worse, although she knew how close they had both o been to greater trouble. And as for Ulfast's request, it seemed a really starnge one to make. True, Mem was well-known for her fair voice, but that was not a reason for the chieftain's son to appear so suddenly intrested in her. If he really was intrested, that is, and there was not something hidden in his intention to see her. Something in the man's eyes and in the tone of his voice made Tora thing that was more than likely.

As Dag handed her the knife, Tora was abruptly brought back from her musings. Suddenly, with a pang of concern, she remembered that her father had sent her only to fetch his knife and then come back as quickly as possible, and that she should have been home hours ago to help her mother with dinner. She would be in deep trouble now, and she knew it. She always was when she came home late. Therefore, she took her father's knife and, after a few hurried words of gratitude to Dag, she ran out of the forge.

Yet anxious as she was to reach home as soon as possible and mend her situation as best she could, Tora resolved to take Dag's message to his wife and her sister. But she could not help wondering whether she was right in doing so. Who knew what Ulfast wanted? Tora and Mem were best friends, and Tora did not want to lead the girl to any harm. Yet there was nothing for it, and Mem would find out anyway, as Dag was bound to tell her. Therefore, she hurried towards Dag's house. She did not enter it however, but shouted from the door:

"Gunna, Mem, it's me, Tora. Dag told me to say...he told me to announce you that the Lord Ulfast, our chieftain's son wishes... that he wants Mem to come to the feast he is giving tonight and to sing for him."

Tora spoke hurriedly, stumbling with the words, wanting to end her errand as a messenger as soon as possible. After she had finished, she left without waiting for the two women's reply, wihtout even making sure that they had heard her.

Now she was on her way home. The day had been eventful, she thought, and she knew from experience that such days were bound to end in an even more eventful manner. Why, even the day when...But no, she had promised herself she would never think of that again, that she would try to forget it. The rest of the village had long forgotten, why couldn't she?

With these troubled thoughts, Tora reached her house. She entered it quickly, thinking that she might as well explain everything to her parents and get this over with so she could be allowed some peace afterwards. She began speaking, as if she was repeating a well-rehearsed speech:

"I..I know I should have been here long ago and I am sorry that I was unable to come sooner. Yet master Dag had other things on his hands, errands more pressing than the mending of a mere farmer's knife. So I had to wait."

She said nothing of her meeting with Ulfast at the forge. She knew she would have to speak of it if her father confronted her to tell her more of her reasons for returning so late, but she still felt she had better avoid this subject as much as she could. She did not want her father to know that she had risked the wrath of the chieftain's son to fall upon her and, most likely, upon her entire family also, for the sake of Dag and his own safety.

[Durelin]

Jord whirled around to finally face the man lounging on her couch, her skirts swishing softly. She did not bother to wipe the smirk off of her face that had formed when Brodda spoke. Scanning his body with her eyes, she calculated his strength, and how pleasant his appearance might be to mortals. Comparing him to Uldor, she thought it likely that Brodda was not considered as attractive, if at all: his structure was completely different. Perhaps a pleasing appearance could be helpful, but what Jord observed from the man’s behavior was even more so: an extreme opportunist nature. There was no loyalty between Brodda and his master, only various desires and business exchanges. She would not need to do much prying to loosen the two, and play them against each other.

“A proposition, my dear? I’m dying to hear.” Jord had to try to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. She did want to hear what the man had to say: another glimpse into his head, and another connection through whatever this proposition entailed could only help her tighten her hold on him. “Dying” was impossible, though. Impossible. She was Thuringwethil, favored servant of Sauron and thus nearly as favored to Morgoth himself. All sick smiles were wiped from her face as she thought of the Lord Sauron. Oh how she missed her Master, and the pleasures he could give her. She was growing hungrier by the day for as rich of blood as she had bathed in under his service. But she knew the Great Lord Melkor would reward her greatly for her service. And even if he did not…she was bound, and she would serve. Jord would do anything for the favor of Morgoth. It was what her Sauron would want.

“Though I hope you have some information for me, as well, like you promised,” she added, a small, knowing smile once again adorning her full lips. Jord purposefully left her statement open, to see whether the man fulfilled her request for information first or only after he voiced this “proposition” of his. She did not care what he decided, but she was a little interested in seeing what he did do. Sometimes it was just fun to play with these animals, and it was surprising what you could learn about how their little brains worked if you let them try and make a decision for themselves. At least in a controlled environment – otherwise it was very likely a setup for disaster.

Jord glided over to a heavy, high-backed wooden chair made of austere dark wood and carved with stern straight lines. She sat down gracefully, arranged her skirts, and rested her soft arms on the hardwood ones of the chair. Brodda’s close connection to Uldor meant that she had seem and spoken with him a number of times, and she had quickly earned a fraction of his allegiance. She put some interesting opportunities on his plate, including simple things like money, and the shadow of power. To hungry eyes, shadows became real, as they came to life at night to a weak and frightened heart.

The last time they had spoken Jord had asked him to observe the fairly newly arrived Borrims. They were secondary to the other, more recent Elven visitors, but they were still pieces of interest. Unlike the Ulfings, they had been seduced by the Elvish tongue, the hot air that was their pride. And because of that, they would fall to their brother-tribe. But all in due time. For now, they would be staying in the city in peace, and soft ears could very well be tempted by what they had to say. Anyone who could not be placed on the track Jord laid out was a possible danger. The Borrim were a tiny scratch in the body of the plan, and though they had no power, if ignored infection could set in. And the minds of Men were breeding grounds for such disease.

[bill_n_sam]

Gunna and Mem turned their heads towards the door at the sound of Tora’s voice. Thinking the girl had forgotten to pass along some bit of gossip to Mem, Gunna barely heeded Tora’s words as she shifted the now sleeping child to a more comfortable position in her lap. Mem, however, gave a sharp intake of breath, causing Gunna’s mind to focus on the fact that Tora had not bothered to step inside, and the girl’s words finally registered.

“Gunna, Mem, it's me, Tora. Dag told me to say...he told me to announce to you that the Lord Ulfast, our chieftain's son wishes... that he wants Mem to come to the feast he is giving tonight and to sing for him.“

The sisters exchanged startled and unbelieving looks. Hurriedly, Gunna placed her daughter in Mem’s arms and leapt to her feet, moving quickly to the door and poking her head out. The narrow street was crowded with townspeople hurrying about their business, anxious to get home to afternoon tasks and preparations for the evening meal. Gunna could just make out the back of Tora’s head as the girl walked swiftly in the direction of the east gate. “Tora! Tora – wait! What did you say?” Gunna’s cries went unheeded as the girl slipped out of sight, not having heard her friend’s calls.

Or perhaps Tora did not wish to have to repeat herself, Gunna thought grimly, realizing that she had undoubtedly heard aright – her husband had somehow obligated Mem to entertain Ulfast and his cronies . . . ? At a feast?

Shaking her head in confusion, Gunna drew back inside the growing dimness of her little house, saying “Stir the embers, Mem, and lay some wood on the fire. Fetch the roasting spit and I’ll start on this venison.”

Mem did as instructed, but her sister knew the young girl was bursting with unvoiced questions. It was not until the meat had been well rubbed with salt and sage and hung dripping over the flames, and Gunna had thrust a bowl of parsnips into Mem’s hands for peeling that the girl ventured to speak.

“What do you make of Tora’s words, sister?” Mem asked, trying to keep her tone casual, but failing utterly.

Gunna shook her head once more, truly having no answer. “I can’t fathom it, Mem. How is it that Ulfast, son of our highest chieftain, bids you sing at his feast? And what feast is this Tora spoke of? I know the Borrim were feasting this night, but I’ve heard nothing of Ulfast, or his father or brothers for that matter. I can only think it must have to do with the elves.” Again, Gunna felt a now familiar tightening of her stomach muscles as the thought of the emissaries and their message filled her heart with foreboding. She looked at her sister, a frown of uncertainty on her face. “Did Kata or the others speak of it before I arrived home?”

Mem shook her head in the negative. “No. They said no word of it, as I’m sure they would have if they had known something of it. Do . . . do you think then, that . . . “ The girl’s voice trailed off, not wanting to sound too eager for Tora’s words to be true, but hoping with all her heart they were so. She knew her sister well enough to realize that Gunna would be dead set against her going to such a gathering. Yet still, her own heart knew no heaviness, but beat brightly and joyously at the prospect of attending, and actually singing, at a chieftain’s fete. Even now, her mind was racing with thoughts of which songs might best please such a man as Ulfast, and the other lords and chiefs.

“I don’t know what to think.” Gunna replied, somewhat sharply. “All I know is that my husband sends word of such a happening through another, and that itself does not bode well – for any of us.”

Mem took the reprimand quietly and kept about her peeling, knowing in the end it would be Dag who decided whether she went or stayed, not Gunna. Much as she loved her sister, the girl knew in a matter such as this, with a chieftain beckoning, a wife could not well refuse to obey her husband, just as he could not refuse his lord.

Gunna’s lips were set in a tight line. She needed desperately to speak with Dag, to find out what had transpired, how this had all come about. But she had already absented herself from the home once today, with a mixed result. She did not feel comfortable leaving once again, leaving her sister and child alone, unguarded, now that she knew that somehow Mem had come to the attention of one of Ulfang’s son. It was no secret that Mem had a beautiful voice and knew many songs. Most of the women around had visited with them a time or two, to trade for yarn and thread, and gossip. Mem was popular with their neighbors, not only for her good humor and gentle ways, but her wit and ability to make even the sourest matrons laugh. But for word of her abilities to have reached as far as the ears of one such as Ulfast, no, Gunna would never have expected that. It was with a growing suspicion, and fear, that Gunna wondered if this was yet another ploy on the part of the chieftain’s son to draw Dag into his clutches and bind her husband to him. On the eve of the arrival of these messengers from the north, perhaps Ulfast saw a need for a skilled smith, and armorer in his camp.

Wiping blood from her hands, Gunna lifted Mem’s hand to turn the spit, taking the bowl of parsnips from her. In resignation, she said heavily, “We will wait, for Dag. He will tell us what we must do.”

[Mithalwen]

Feeling the pressure of his master's words and hand, Tathren lowered his blade but did not replace it in its scabbard. He would wait for the men to sheathe their own weapons first. He tapped the blade's tip gently against his boot as an outlet for his irritation. In the torchlight his pale face was no longer fierce, merely a little sulky.

His action had been impetuous but it had been fueled by a noble instinct, or so he preferred to think. Yet Lachrandir seemed to think he had been merely spoiling for a fight, like an argumentative drunkard in an alehouse. Tathren considered if this was the case. Losing his temper and pulling a knife had hardly been the most dignified course of action but should he have done nothing when his Lord had received a show of steel in response to his simple enquiry? On such thoughts was his mind engaged as he waited for the Borrim's response.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Khandr's body stiffened as he wrenched his hand away from the hilt of his dagger. As the torchlight glimmered down on the two tall figures standing in the corrdidor, it was all too evident, even to the Borrim, that their visitors were none other than the Elvish envoys, who had recently arrived in the village.

"My pardon, good friends! A hundred pardons. Had I known you were coming, I would have arranged for a welcome far different than the one I have given you tonight." Khandr looked nervously from one face to the other, and then stammered on. "Though these lands lie to the south, we have found it cold in these parts, far colder than it was even a few years before. Little warmth has come to us from our hosts or neighbors, and we are simply not used to receiving visitors in the evening. Indeed, once the sun sinks under the plain, we find ourselves barricaded in our homes, afraid to venture too far outside. Things have changed, and it is not for the better. "

"But let me make it up to you for our rude behavior. Surely you will join us around the table for a round of drinks and a plateful of the finest local cheese along with conversation. I would welcome any news from the north...to know how the fight against Morgoth goes in these troubled times. Or perhaps you have even seen my lord King Bor in recent weeks. For in the past day, I have heard rumors a plenty and would welcome your news and expert advice. Our people remain commited to the alliance and will do whatever must be to drive the vermin back into their holes."

He turned to the two of them and gestured that they were welcome to follow him down the corridor and into the great hall where refreshments would be provided.

[Anguirel]

Lachrandir was mollified to a certain degree by the contrite attitude that had come upon the Borrim, though he was surprised to find that Khandr, the man he had come to see, should have been so rash as to lead such an uncouth welcome in person. The Borrim envoy's cryptic words seemed to warn of severe dissension being fomented between these tribes of Men. Not remembering that his own Elven kind were divided far more profoundly, Lachrandir mused on the lack of discipline among these mortals. His words were now polite, though he kept to Sindarin.

"I am afraid I can bring little news of your own people, Master Khandr; for I have not seen the fortress of Himring since the Dagor Bragollach. Your own tidings will be more up to date than mine. I have long dwelt in the south; the ruin of Thargelion and the settling of Caranthir's people with the folk of Amrod and Amras has proved absorbing work. I do, though, carry, indirectly, a certain message from Lord Maedhros. We shall speak on this subject later this eve. In the meantime," and his gaze swept across to include all the sheepish-looking Borrim, "I would be pleased to accept your kind offer to join your table."

Lachrandir smiled, in a fairly genuine fashion, leaving the coldness of his look behind, and turned to his page. "I think, friends, that this companion of mine will not assume such a terrible visage once he has been plied with some of your, ah, cheese and viands..."

[CaptainofDespair]

Brodda thought for a moment, as he listened to Jord speak. So, she at least wanted to listen to his idea, even if it was a superficial interest. They were both opportunists, he surmised, and so surface benefits were usually all that mattered. But before he went into his proposition he thought it would be best to, hopefully, whet her appetite with a little information on the Borrim.

“My dear Jord,” he began, “the Borrim you wished for me to spy on are hiding very little. But what they are hiding may very well be important. And I do not trust their arrival. It is too near to that of the Elves, who I do not trust, and I fear the two may be cohorts. Though, it may be an unwitting or unknown alliance.” Brodda continued to lounge through it all, unperturbed by the thoughts of the Elves and Borrim. But he began to fidget somewhat as he tried to transition into his own proposition. He was finding his position precarious, at best. He had given Jord the information she had wanted, but he had few bargaining chips himself for the upcoming discussion now. Uldor was perhaps his only card to play, and Brodda began to think he should not have come to visit Jord. She probably did not think much of Uldor, if Jord were the opportunist she seemed.

But Brodda quickly composed himself, and decided to go through with it. He may not have much on his side, but if he could present himself well enough that might be all he’d need. “Now Jord, I think it is time we discuss my proposition.” Perhaps he said it too forcefully, he wondered. Brodda felt tormented, that every move he could possibly make could turn against him if Jord took it the wrong way. “I know of your dealings with Uldor,” he continued, “and where he hopes they will lead. But he too must go to war with his father when their army is marched to the aid of the Elves. And the battlefield is a dangerous place, where unforeseen things happen.” He glanced into Jord’s eyes as he spoke, hoping to catch a hint at how she was feeling so far. But he could find nothing. “I, however, will not be going on this campaign if I can help it. And Uldor will certainly need me here to keep his plans from unraveling. Whether battle takes him or not, I could care less. So would it not be better to have someone to clean up the mess this business with the Elves may cause? I can certainly do so…” Sinking deeper into the couch, Brodda felt satisfied with his performance, at least to the degree he felt he had Jord's attention.

[Anguirel]

"I..I know I should have been here long ago and I am sorry that I was unable to come sooner. Yet master Dag had other things on his hands, errands more pressing than the mending of a mere farmer's knife. So I had to wait."

So ran the words of Tora, the only daughter, and decidedly the least favourite child, of Torguar Torgaltling. The father frowned in response, holding his peace for a while, but evidently not exactly mollified. His wife was quieter still, scarcely seeming to breath; she hung about only until Torguar dismissed her back into the homestead's inner room with a baleful look. Then the farmer took the newly-repaired knife from his daughter, and began to reply in a surly voice.

"'Mere farmer', thou say'st, girl? I am your father and I do not like the sound of that word, that mere. What mighty errand did that no-good smith go running after, then? Dropped in on by an elvenking, was he?" Torguar chuckled, his mood a little mellowed by the excellence of his little joke.

"Well, next time I'll send one of the lads. By my father's beard, a man can't trust a girl to look after his knife, can't he, isn't that right, wife? Confound it, where's she got to now?" he barked, forgetting that it was he who had sent her off moments before. Sure enough, the woman came scuttling back, her head bowed.

"Well, now you're here, wife, can't think why, actually, we might as well come down to it. You, Tora, undutiful daughter though you might be," he said in a kinder tone, "I think I've made a good settlement for you, girl. Now, what do you say to the idea of getting married?"

[Dimturiel]

Tora waited patiently for her father to finish his scolding. She was much too used with his way of treating her to be affected. She had become to take it for granted. Actually, she would have thought something was wrong if her father would not present her with his usual view of what an "undutiful daughter" she was. Maybe she really was, she could not tell. Yet she was sure that the lads would not have brought her father's knife quicker than her. Why, they were sure to have met some playmates and return only after nightfall, probably with the knife lost to boot.

Yet all her indignation at his favouring her brothers was forgotten when the idea of getting married was suggested. Tora felt flustered. She knew that she had no other choice, knew she could be hardly expected to spend the rest of her days pining for one that was lost. Yet why not? What harm could she do with that? Yet no, her father could not keep her for eternity, and he had already shown signs of wanting to get rid of her as soon as possible.

This thought hardened her. Her father had placed the question expecting her to be grateful for his proposal. Well, she was not and she was going to show him that.

"I guess it matters little, my father, whether I would like this or not." she told him. "As a matter of fact, I would not like it, not with someone I have never spoken to before, someone I cannot trust. Yet the look on your face tells me that you care not for my oppinion in this matter. Then, if the thing is already decided, why ask me? One thing, though, father, if such a question is not an unsuitable one to ask. But what is his name? Have I not the right to know at least this?

[Anguirel]

Torguar was not perturbed by his daughter’s sullen tone; she was offering no essential rebellion, which relieved him. Though full of bluster, especially when addressing his wife and daughter, he did not relish real quarrels that went beyond what he regarded as good-natured yelling.

“Don’t you worry your head about it, my girl, your father’s not cruel and he’s not an idiot either, eh, isn’t that right, wife? Of course you’ll get a chance to meet the lad. Soon enough, in fact, so brighten up. I have spoken to his mother, and the young man is to visit us tomorrow.”

He knew of the unfortunate death that had struck at his daughter’s hopes and heart, but he imagined that the slain suitor could easily be replaced in Tora’s affections. Women were like that, after all. Give them a home and a man, any man, and they clung to him. And by the sound of it, this Drenda was not just anyone – he was a noble youth with considerable prospects.

“Of course, Tora my girl, I would not pledge you to someone I hadn’t given a proper examining. Who knows? Their side of the bargain may not hold; the mother may have talked up her pup; it wouldn’t surprise me. But the word is he’s a good man, well, a boy really, younger than you are, I think; not much money, but a strong arm, an excellent hunter, and plenty of courage. Noble blood, you know. A fine catch for the family. His name is Drenda, son of Drenduld; the mother is called Gausen. The boy lives at the Hall; if you marry him, you’ll be presented to the Chieftain himself, I should expect!”

Torguar smiled widely and gave his daughter a quick clench, conveying a throwaway, momentary sense of love. Then he let her go, and started to walk out, giving her a wink as he left:

“And he’s tall and good looking. What more could a girl like you ask, eh?”

[Child of the 7th Age]

Khandr quickly led the Elves back down the corridor and into the large room where the rest of the party was waiting. The rest of his companions followed close behind. For the next half hour, there was little conversation. Khandr did what he could to cover his earlier blunder and to encourage his guests to linger at the table. Dishes loaded with cheese and pastries were passed among the guests. Briga hurried from one diner to the next, carrying a large flask of sweet red wine, being careful to refill the cups as soon as they were emptied. At Khandr's bidding, she was especially attentive to the envoys.

Only after many cups had been emptied, with the flame of the torches burning low, did the guests forcus their thoughts on other things. It was Khandr who gave the first signal, turning towards the Elves to speak. When he did so, he spoke with an openness and frankness that surprised many at the table. "My friends, I apologize again for my error. Never would I greet a friend in such a manner. For that is how I see us: Elves and Men bound in friendship, bound by oath, who must stand together against the long cold hand that reaches down from the far north. I have only one excuse for my behavior. These long months in this village have dimmed my judgment. They have made me less than I was. I feel compelled to speak frankly. Perhaps I am unwise to do this. Yet someone must know and hear what I am about to say. Someone I trust...and I do trust the honor and integrity of the Elves."

Khandr looked down and sighed before he went on, "It is not easy here. No...it is not easy. I came as an envoy of King Bor and expected to be met as a kinsman. For, as you know, our two peoples are related. That did not happen. Where once there was friendship and alliance, only suspicion lurks. Where once a strong ruler stood over a proud people, now..... " Khandr's voice broke off, and he spoke in a brusque, uneven tone. "Now, I do not know. I came to negotiate a treaty of marriage between our two tribes. For often, in the past, it has been the custom for our people to enter into such pacts. The marriage negotiations have gone nowhere. A pity perhaps. Yet,.....it is more than that. Much, much more. A curtain has gone down. A curtain of secrecy at court. I know not what is behind it. I only know I am afraid. Afraid and tired. Perhaps I am wrong. I hope that is so. But I have long sensed that there is something going on, perhaps something that will touch upon the fortunes of the Elves as well as the Borrim. Perhaps you already know and understand these things far better than I, for you are Elves while I am only a man. I only ask that you remember my humble words when you deal with the court. And, before the night is over, I ask you to tell us what is going on. For our hosts have not shared any of the news with us. We hear only rumors and speculation and fear and do not know what has happened in the North. My men too.....I would ask them to speak up. They remain silent out of respect for you and your people. Yet I am sure some of them have questions and, like myself, are concerned. If so, I would humbly ask that they be allowed to speak."

Khandr glanced over at Lachrander and the younger Elf. The latter looked to be barely more than a boy. Perhaps he had not been wise to speak so openly. It was not like him. Usually, he was so even tempered and circumspect. He pushed back this thought. Easy or not, these words must be said, and this might be the only chance he had to address the Elves without the men of court breathing down his back.

[Durelin]

Though she had not expected much from this man, Jord was still invariably disappointed. The only information he had about the Borrim could have been observed in five minutes from a hundred yards away. But who was the real fool: pathetic Brodda, or herself for expecting anything of worth out of him? It was an incredibly slow and painful process realizing that these beings were even more useless than orcs because they typically were softer. She did not remember ever having to belittle herself to this level. Living among them! Living as one!

Her body reacted to her spirit’s rage more intensely than she meant it to. The teeth clenched, the hands gripped the arms of the chair till their knuckles turned ghostly white. But Jord knew she could not kill this man, or any of them. Not yet, not unless it was absolutely necessary. She almost hoped it would be, soon…but she could not really wish for anything that might jeopardize her success, and more importantly her Master’s success. She wiped her body of any expression of emotion, cutting herself off from it as much as she could without forfeiting control of its muscles.

After all, there was one great benefit to being surrounding by such small-brained animals: they made excellent puppets. And to think for this one she did not even have to set a trap! He had taken the bait had been laid out for another, but he had fallen for it, as well. Jord’s only regret about that was the lack of sport. It seemed Uldor would have to suffice for such enjoyment…how sad. Though, she had not yet really gotten a look at those Borrim. Still… Anger boiled beneath a frosty surface for a moment until she forced the cold deeper.

“You are the most…beloved servant of your master, most trusted. Why should you not be considered second to what he might, regrettably, lose for himself?”

Brodda smiled, but before he could make any sort of answer he thought to be subtle or humourous or even mildly intelligent, Jord continued, “In the mean time, all you must do is continue to serve your noble master well. And I advise you go to him now.”

Using the word ‘advise’ kept it from being a direct order, and so the man complied promptly with her suggestion. He knew it would be difficult to explain to his master where he had been if he were gone too long, and it would have ruined a great deal for him if Uldor discovered he was even speaking to Jord. She knew that suspicion ran deep in men like Uldor, and with good reason.

When Brodda left her, it did not take long for restlessness to set in. She had no need to rest her body – the body; it was not hers – and her spirit had been restless since it had lost its previous body, the beautiful, powerful form she had crafted for herself, and which she could control fully, which she could leave and alter and recreate whenever she pleased. This mission would not only seize such a victory for her master, but also gain back her full strength and dignity. There would be no pause until it was complete. Jord left her chambers to try her next contact, and see if there was any reason for her to ever again have men-servants in addition to Morgoth’s slightly more convenient creations.

[Folwren]

The afternoon fled from beneath Uldor’s feet and hands. He worked to prepare a proper banquet for the elves. It was not a job he enjoyed, but he believed in doing anything that he had to do well. Why make a shoddy job of it?

Servants were sent out every five minutes to run to the market and fetch something that Uldor had forgotten to tell the previous servant to get. He meant well, but he was no a housewife, and a list of what he needed never entered his mind.

He left strict orders with the cooks to make the best of their dishes and do their work as well as they possibly could. The great hall in which meals were taken was prepared, hung with greenery, great strips of bright colored cloth, and with many lights and lamps put up on the walls and ceiling and tables.

People to invite...He frowned at the thought as he himself hurried through a hall on his way to make sure that all went well in the kitchens. The nobles and lords that hung around the place all day, he guessed. Had better give them proper invitations. Not written.

He came out from the hot kitchen five minutes later, satisfied that the supper was well underway and would be as excellent as the men there knew how to prepare. It would not be long now. Two hours would be ample time, he thought.

Where were the elves? He had not seen them since he had left the room of meeting. He stopped a passing servant.

“Have you seen the elven ambassadors?”

“No, sir,” the man replied. “Not since they left the hall some while ago.”

Uldor nodded and passed on. He would need to have someone find them and bring them back. They could be anywhere! He scowled and mentally cursed his bad luck of having to prepare anything for such unwelcome guests. Guests that slipped away without notice.

Passing another servant, he stopped him as well. “Find Broda, and tell him that I want him. I will be in my private chambers.” He went there immediately and shutting the door behind him, went once more to the window.

The sun was sinking, sending a red light out over the Ulfing city. Uldor could nearly feel the darkness that would follow quickly upon the red light’s footsteps. The early evening of a young spring would quickly descend.

But for now, he could enjoy the light that mixed itself with the golden air. The beautiful effect of the sunset brought again to his mind the beautiful face of Jord. He had forgotten her in the business of the afternoon. He shouldn’t have forgotten. He would not let her know that he forgot. When Broda arrived, he decided, he would not only have him go find the elves, but he would also send him to ask Jord if she would come to the banquet.

Uldor turned away from the window and went to a table against the wall. He pulled forth paper and an inkwell with a quill pen and a blotting page. He needed to write a proper invitation to the elves.

For some reason, he truly wished she would come.

[CaptainofDespair]

Only a few minutes had passed since Brodda left the confines of Jord’s rather plain abode when he was accosted by a servant dispatched by Uldor. It had not allowed him much time to dwell on those few moments he had spent with that most mysterious woman.

“Lord Uldor demands your presence immediately, sir.”

Nodding to the lowly servant, he handed the man a few coins that were jingling loosely in one of his pockets. It was not that Brodda cared much for anyone else; rather it was just good policy to keep his master’s other servants from trying to knock him from the next-lowest step on the ladder. That sort of monetary exchange had become second nature for Uldor’s chief servant, and thoughts of what he was actually doing rarely crossed his mind.

This time was no exception, and he hurried off without a second thought to receive Uldor’s message. This, much like his use of coin, was not something new to him. His master usually demanded his presence for some reason or another, but it was always to handle the more delicate situations.

~*~

Arriving at the door of Uldor’s personal quarters, he knocked lightly and pushed his way in without waiting for a response. Brodda was not keen on announcing his presence when in the company of more “noble” men. Upon entering, Brodda found a visibly rattled Uldor waiting for him.

“You’re late,” his master spat. “I have important business to take care of, and you have been out of reach.”

Brodda bowed his head somewhat, acknowledging his failure in duty to Uldor. “I was gathering valuable informa…”

“I do not care what your reasoning is,” Uldor interjected angrily. “I have a task for you, and you will do it.” Brodda nodded in acceptance. “I want you to find the Elven envoy, quickly, and deliver this invitation to the feast I am hosting.” Uldor slipped the letter to the envoy to his servant.

Brodda turned on his heel, and made his way to the door. As he pushed open the door, Uldor interrupted the quick exit. “Oh, and I want you to personally invite the Lady Jord to the banquet. Make sure she comes.” His servant made no sound, and quietly slipped out into the Ulfing town.

[Anguirel]

Lachrandir had been finding the meal among the Borrim a surprisingly convivial affair after the initial frostiness of the tribesmen's welcome. Used to revelling in a hard and ascetic existence, where the saddle was more familiar to him than the pillow, he ate and drank the Atani fare with a certain enjoyment that seemed almost unElven, lightly discussing the excellence of the cheese with his host sitting opposite.

When Khandr turned to the worries of local politics, then, Lachrandir applied himself with a little regret and impatience visible in his face. He did not answer himself, letting the Man's speech run on, taking in the sense accurately, but not all of the particulars. When it seemed that words were expected of him, he acted instead, with a pronounced shrug more vocal than many speeches.

"You must understand, Khandr my dear fellow, that any friction between your clans is not our concern, nor can it be by right. You have been granted lands by Maedhros, the Ulfings by Caranthir, and something more than lands too - the power and the duty to observe your own customs and sort out your own problems. We will not and cannot interfere unless - Illuvatar forbid it! - you actually come to blows. But you ask for news, for yourself and your followers. That, friend, I can provide..."

Lachrandir paused, looking thoughful, and took a slug of the Borrim mead. There was little of the famous Elven elegance about his movements, but a wealth of barely-suppressed strength. Only his beardlessness and his unfathomable gaze separated him from a burly, brusque and intractable Man.

"I said before I would talk to you alone, Khandr, and many of your people are now looking on. But they will hear the news soon enough anyway. It is not surprising for any who have had ears to listen. Maedhros has decided to fight Morgoth, and he is forming the greatest league of Elves and Men known. I have come to summon the Ulfing levies. As for you..."

Lachrandir looked hard at Khandr with pity, mixed with the patronage and pride the Elf found himself unable to drop among Men.

"Forget about arranging marriages, my friend. You should all be girding on your weapons; your families in the North will already be called out, I expect. It is hardly worth rushing ahead to join them, for the time is short; you can leave this settlement with the Ulfing detachment."

In the midst of his words, the Elf caught the anxious eyes of Briga, moving about refilling jugs behind her husband.

"Hard news, lady, I am afraid. I assure you that the women of our folk, those many who are not fighting themselves, share your grief."

[Child of the 7th Age]

Until this point, Briga had paid little attention to the conversation at the table but had dutifully carried the flask of mead from one guest to the next. Now, upon hearing the ominous words of the elven messenger, she set down the pitcher and summoned her courage to speak, "It is as we feared then. We are to be caught in the dreadful throes of war." She glanced over at her husband and sighed, shaking her head in regret. "Is there no choice in this thing? None at all?"

Her wistful words were directed not at Lachrandir but towards her beloved spouse. Khandr stood up and walked over to his wife, lacing his fingers tightly about hers and gently lifting them up. He bent over slightly and placed the slighest hint of a kiss upon her cheek, while ruefuly shaking his own head. "No, my beloved. We knew it would come to this one day. We have no choice. Not that I would want one. It is our duty to serve. Maedhros is wise and must feel it is the time to strike. Perhaps this will be the day when we finally overcome Morgoth and his servants and free these lands of their terrible blight."

Once more, Khandr turned about to face the Elf, "Tell those who sent you that this party of Borrim will remain faithful to their oath. We will gladly set aside small rivalries or any other thing that gets in the way. Still, part of me fears that these tensions at court are more than simple bickering between blood brothers. We shall continue to be alert and, should we see or hear anything that causes us concern, will try to get news back to you or your kin."

"There is one other matter. I had thought to sponsor a great hunt to celebrate our friendship in honor of both your own people and our hosts in this village. Now, with this battle soon to be upon us, I do not know. But still I am thinking a day given to the hunt would not go amiss. We must have friendship and trust between our peoples to fight together in the field, to say nothing of the practical need to stock up on supplies for the women and children we leave behind. Perhaps a day spent in such a pursuit would push aside our differences and help us understand each other. And if, by chance, we should hear any rumors or half whispered tales that strike fear in the heart, we will pass along such news and let those who stand over us judge their merit and worth." Khandr nodded in the direction of the Elves.

"But now, before we part, I would ask my men once again: do any of you have questions for the Elves or perhaps wish to share with them any news you have picked up in the village. For sometime the chance word or sight can have great importance." Khandr glanced about the table to see who intended to speak.

[Nogrod]

A war it is then… the war it will be. The words of the elf were echoing in Fastarr’s mind and taking ever new forms as they strayed around in his consciousness. Soon he got somewhat derailed from the initial thought. And we will be riding to it with these Ulfings... but what if we cancel the hunting? Could we reach our kinsmen in time then? Unfortunately the way Khandr had put his words sounded like he was still determined to go on with it. Fastarr glanced quickly at Hunta and Bergr. From their stern faces Fastarr thought he could read the very same questions going through their minds as well.

Suddenly Khandr addressed the three asking whether they had any information to share with the elven ambassadours or questions to ask from them. There surely were questions in Fastarr’s troubled mind at the moment but he was a bit unsure which of them he could actually have courage to ask or which of them would be wise to ask in the first place.

Gathering his spirits Fastarr straightened his back and nodded shortly to Khandr before he turned slightly in his chair to face the older elf. “My name is Fastarr, son of Fernlann. I am the good lord Khandr’s retainer like my uncle Balff was for his father. And I do have a question to you most venerable ambassadors of the good prince.” Fastarr had never been good at speaking formally and was uncomfortably aware of it as he looked at the two elves who were now concentrating their attention to him.

“If a war it is to be, to the war the Borrim will go. You say that the time is short for us to join our kinsmen but is there any possibility for it? It’s not only that we would wish to fight with our kinsmen but it’s also that...” Fastarr was thinking nervously how to formulate the thing he was trying to say. “... that, I don’t think we can fight alongside these Ulfings.” he blurted out in the end.

Fastarr was embarrassed as he realised what he had said. He also realised that he had to explain himself somehow but at the same time he was afraid that he might manage to speak himself even deeper into trouble. Nervously he glanced at Khandr who looked at him questioningly and not too approvingly. He bit his lip and continued.

“A smile without malice, a warm welcome or appreciation of a fellow man are rare treats in this town... Like an evening at the inn without a fight or two.” Fastarr was about to continue making more examples but luckily thought the better of it. “What I mean is, like my uncle Balff told me when I was a young boy, that the minds of the lords are mirrored in the actions of their subjects. I never quite understood what he meant by it but now I think I can see it. These people take sides, they argue continuously, they cheat, they stab each other in the back... It’s like a spell or poison that has spread all over the town. I’ve never seen anything like this. It feels like this whole town is a drawn string of a bow that can’t be held drawn for a long time anymore. There is something wrong with this place.” Fastarr was even more nervous than before and had to take a sip of the mead to bring back his courage.

“Every reasonable man is afraid when he goes to war. But going to war with these people... I don’t know which I would fear more, the enemy or these people around me.” With that he took a firm hold of the cup in front of him and drank a good draught from it. He didn’t dare to look at anyone around him so he just stared at the way the candlelight danced on the rim of the cup when he turned it around and around between his fingers.

[Lalaith]

As Fastarr talked, Embla slipped away, unnoticed. The arrival of the elves had intrigued her. She had seen so little of these great tall folk in her life, and never at such close quarters. She had not been in the least surprised that haughty words were uttered to match the proud, fair faces.

Then came the anxious talk and portentous looks that passed between the men as they spoke of war. She cared little if the Borrim left to fight, and even less who they marched alongside. She would be glad to see them gone. Then she would show the hag who could be mistress of the hearth. And if the men were to die in battle, why, she would be a widow, perhaps she could leave this misbegotten tribe for good, and return to her own people.

This idea had not previously occurred to Embla. Did she wish her husband dead? No – she reflected – on balance she did not. But she wished for escape, that much she knew. Never so strongly as now, as she watched as the elven lord addressed her hated rival in courteous, kindly tones, and her husband acknowledge his love for the first wife both in word and in deed.

She could not escape for good – yet – but she could escape for now. Out into the air, away from the strong smells and heavy air of Khandr’s hall. She would seek out this woman Jord – a perfect excuse. The obedient wife, following her husband’s will.

Embla knew where the lady Jord dwelt, for she had often watched her, wondering who she was and what her role could be. She made her way past the Ulfling dwellings, but before she had reached her destination, she found what she was looking for. A dark figure, clutching a gauzy shawl about her, the lady stood alone, seemingly deep in thought. Now she was so close, Embla realised she had not thought how or if she would get into conversation with this beautiful creature. She stopped, trying to hide herself from the other woman’s view, but she suspected it was too late.

[Anguirel]

“Every reasonable man is afraid when he goes to war. But going to war with these people... I don’t know which I would fear more, the enemy or these people around me,” Fastarr had concluded decisively.

Lachrandir allowed the words to hang in the air forsome moments, but it was quite obvious that he intended to reply to them. His brows had creased and his eyes were filled with a deep fire; the very stamp of disapproval lay on his face.

"Master Fastarr," he said at last, "there are some Elves at the court from which I come who would take your words as proof of all the weakness of Men; that we should never have accepted your tribes into our lands; that you are a feckless race given to squabbling amongst yourselves.

"I do not myself believe such ill of your kind," Lachrandir continued with a wry smile, "and I remember that the Elves, too, have had their bitter feuds and divisions. But such arguments are still the material Morgoth's agents love to use."

The Elven envoy looked Fastarr squarely and determinedly in the eye. "Your peoples must unite, whatever misgivings, or else become vassals of Orcs. These are difficult times, and no one can be allowed the luxury of infighting. As I speak older and worse quarrels than yours with the Ulfings are being dealt with; the Sons of Feanor have even sent a messenger to Doriath. Men must likewise muster and fight together."

The Elf shrugged. "If you would still rather hurry North, I am sure it can be arranged. But truth be told, I think you Borrim would be of great help here. I have seen the rifts between the sons of Ulfang, and the muster may be slow work; I would be gratified, as would my lord, if you stayed to help arrange it."

[Durelin]

Retreating from the walls of her thankfully temporary chambers, Jord walked quickly without seeming as if she were hurrying, the slight train her midnight blue dress following her steps, and she held her head high without looking at anyone she passed. And no one dared look at her. Even the people in the streets knew she was their better, though they did not know how far beyond their imagination her powers extended. So utterly clueless.

Not one of them realized how useless their deeds were, and few of them how useless their very existence was. Those that forfeited their lives for some ideal or ruler did not count among the observant, though Jord had to admit they were welcome losses. She enjoyed the little wars the creatures, especially the mortal ones, put on, but too often they got in the way of her plans and, more importantly, her Master's plans.

Currently, though, mortals and immortals alike were playing into her hand quite well. Hopefully the swarthy little man she had given more coins to than likely he had ever had at one time in his life would come through with something. If he did he would prove more useful than that dolt servant of Uldor’s. Well, she could not expect the thing that served such a small mind to have much to him at all.

Jord had to keep him close, though – almost as close as Uldor. And as long as she held on to him, he would prove a useful tool for disposing of the Ulfings once her Master was through with them. The starkly dressed woman heard the crunching of footsteps on the dry dirt road too near her for comfort. Her skin tingled slightly with disgust and annoyance. Stopping suddenly and turning in one graceful movement, Jord’s eyes fell on a woman whose appearance was slightly out of place, almost in the same way as Jord’s body was, with her pale skin.

The young woman was dressed almost as crudely as any of the Ulfings in the pathetic excuse for a city, but she wore a number of jewelry items, and so it was clear she was not actually a native. The only significant visitors other than the Elves were Borrim, and Jord doubted any insignificant ones would be able to walk around with even extremely simple jewelry, much less risk it. But then, the young woman did not look like the Borrim, either.

Transforming her piercing glare to a soft smile, Jord eyed the girl. Yes, she had seen her before…several times. Was she often there on purpose?

“Are you looking for something, my dear…and I could perhaps help you?” There was no reason for Jord to scare this little thing off yet. Besides, she always had better luck with the females having useful minds.

[Mithalwen]

Tathren's humour had been improved by having been fed - while the fare might have been a little rustic by the standards of an elven lord, the bread and cheese were wholesome and unexpectedly very palatable. To a boy with the perpetual hunger of younglings of all races, it was as welcome as any ornate feast and perhaps more so, for after a long journey or a wearisome day there is no desire to savour intricate dainties and simple food offers the greater comfort.

The rich red wine was potent enough to relax his body if not his tongue and each sip eased the tension of his hours still and silent attendance on his lord in the Ulfing Hall. He spoke little other than to accept food and acknowledge those who filled his cup, partly from awkwardness at his previous outburst but mainly because Lachrandir and Khandr spoke of high matters about which he had no further insight to offer, other than perhaps to observe that his master who had been so lordly in the Ulfing hall now was almost genial amoung the Borrim.

The suggested hunt caught his imagination and he longed to ask more about what was proposed. He knew little of the ways of men and wondered in what manner they hunted - on foot or on horseback, with hawk or hound. The latter was most likely if they hoped to fill the larders of their folk and gazehound likelier still. However he felt his curiosity was frivolous in the light of the more serious matters and without an easy cue he did not trust his limited skill in the mannish tongue to reopen the subject without seeming too crass. He would wait and maybe when they eventually took their leave of their hosts, a polite enquiry might heal any bad feeling Khandr might bear him from his close encounter with the boy's knife.

[CaptainofDespair]

Brodda had, after some searching, found the Borrim hovel where the Elves were spending their time. Although he was eager to get the ordeal over, as he discovered rather recently within himself an increasingly spiteful view of the Ulfing overlords, he was also quite hesitant. If he fouled up the invitation, the Elves might reject the feast. Or at the very least the Elves would not be the gracious guests they were busy trying to project. Either way, that would bring Uldor’s wrath down on his head.

He continued to pace outside frantically. The sort of emotions that were welling up within him were not exactly ones he was accustomed to. And anyone who might have seen him might have assumed he was stricken by the thoughts of a lover and was desperately awaiting her. That assumption might not have been far from what poor Brodda was feeling. His impatience was at least partly tied to a longing to see Jord again. He wasn’t sure why he desired that, though.

At last the Ulfing man made up his mind about what to do. Since he would be entering a Borrim abode he could simply hand off the message to one of them, and as the hosts they would relay it to the Elven party. And, Brodda thought, he would be able to project his hateful position towards those hosts without repercussions from Uldor. “Yes,” he hissed under his breath, as he knocked on the door.

When the door opened a crack after a moment or two of silence, Brodda could see a Borrim man standing in the sliver of light that escape the house. “Yes? Who is there,” was the questioning response to his knocking. “Brodda. I’ve come from Lord Uldor with a message for your guests.” The Ulfing let his distaste for the Borrim slip out subtly. Handing over the invitation letter, he added, “Be sure to take it to them quickly. If I find out that you have delayed at all in doing so, I will be sure to inform my master that it was you uncultured Borrim that caused it.” Turning on his heel, without waiting for a reply, he left the threshold of the home to venture off to find Jord, who he was sure was more important to Uldor and himself than the Elves.

[Anguirel]

"Another banquet?" Lachrandir asked dryly as he perused the note Khandr's doorkeeper had passed on to him.

"We are evidently in demand, Tathren. Uldor has summoned us to attend his table. A strange phrase, that; a little premature. Still, we had better be off."

Lachrandir rose from his seat with remarkable lightness, and inclined his head slightly towards Khandr. "We shall see you at this hunt, then, no doubt, especially as the boy seems so eager..." His jocular reference to Tathren was evidently a sign of some softening towards his host.

His impression of the Borrim bore some resemblance to a lump of honeycomb with a fly stuck in it, he meditated. Much of what he approved of in Men could be found in them; but on the other hand, this constant bickering about tribal affairs...

And for that matter, he continued to be stymied by the idea that a man as apparently genial and proper as Khandr could...love? or just lie with?...two women at once. Lachrandir realised he had heard nothing from the quiet, junior wife all evening. Where was she now; attending to some task? He was irritated by her absence, for he would have liked to balance his earlier courtesy to the first wife by bidding her some kind of farewell. No matter.

While he had been lost in his reflections Tathren had been bandying a few words about the expected hunt. He smiled; the lad now seemed content and in fine fettle, probably due to the food inside him.

"Come, Tathren," he said, mirth at the sides of his mouth, feeling as if he was hailing a hound. "And good-bye, Khandr, good-bye to all this household. We will return soon enough..."

All but yanking Tathren by the arm, Lachrandir took his leave by the darkened entrance that had caused so much trouble, and recalled the Ulfing's earlier directions, which, reversed, should lead them back to the Hall.

[Lalaith]

“Are you looking for something, my dear…and I could perhaps help you?”
Embla was startled that this exquisite creature had addressed her so courteously. It was, she realised, a very long time since anyone had spoken to her in such a way. “I do not know,” she stammered. “I am Embla, of the Bairka....of the Borrim, I should say. Wife of the lord Khandr.” She wished to make a good impression on the mysterious woman before her. She was painfully aware that her own shabby apparel and appearance cut a sorry figure, next to the elegant poise of the other woman, enveloped in delicate gauze.

Embla had been staring at the ground, but now she looked up, and found the dark woman held her glance. Somehow, she felt compelled to stop the dissemblance. “Second wife,” she said. “It is not honourable. Not among my people. Nor among the tall people, the elf-folk, neither. Their lord would not speak to me, he does not find the marriage ways of the Borrim to his liking. No more do I. I am shamed. So shamed that I want to remain in shadow. I find it hard to walk under the sun.”

Embla, so accustomed to keeping her own counsel, did not understand why she was suddenly blurting out the dark things in her heart. Perhaps she hoped this woman would be a sympathetic ear, someone whose situation was akin to her own.

[Mithalwen]

The invitation to "another banquet" dismayed Tathren, for his hunger had been not so great as he had imagined. This realisation arrived with the missive, when he already eaten more than his need and drunk to often from a cup that never seemed less full. He was aware that he rose to his feet less gracefully than his lord and this was not entirely due to the need to raise the heavy, and nearly forgotten bag of treasure to his shoulder.

Lachrandir's tug on his arm was as sobering as the cool breath of the evening air. Tathren struggled a little to match his master's longer stride and watched his face for signs that his conduct had fallen below that required of a page. He detected only a trace of amusement and no ire on Lachrandir's face and deemed that nothing he had done, or said in the unfamiliar tongue had been beyond the pale. That knowledge eased his heart but each step carried him nearer to another feast and did nothing to ease the sensation within as too much cheese mingled uneasily with too much rich wine. He wondered how little he could consume of the Ulfing's vittles without giving grave offence and disliked the conclusion he inevitably reached. His only hope, and it was slight, was that Ulfing custom might regard him as a servant, required only to attend his master not to eat at the same table.

He stifled a sigh and resigned to an uncofortable fate, voiced a line of thought that had just occured to him:

"Uncle, is it not strange that the Borrim Lord has not been invited also to the Ulfing's table. For is he not an emissary of his people as we... I mean you are? Surely the office demands the courtesy even if he be representative of a lesser kindred? Of course the Borrim kept their gathering private... perhaps thus is the way of mortals" he mused.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Khandr bid his two guests goodbye and watched as they strode up the corridor, pushed opened the door, and disappeared into the night. Turning back to the Borrim, he first addressed Fastarr in a kindly but serious tone, "In truth, my good friend, I am not sure you should have been that blunt. But you have put into words what all of us were privately thinking. Perhaps it is better to let the elves know our suspicions. We cannot trust these Ulfang lords. Sadly, these elves do not see or understand that. They put our suspicions down to tribal bickering. But what I have seen at court hints at something far darker and more foreboding. I am determined to find out what that is. Perhaps someday these elves will look back on this night and wish they had paid more attention to our warning. Until we can present them with more information, more proof of what is actually going on, they will not listen to us."

Khandr surveyed his guests still sitting at the table, announcing in a decisive voice, "Go, then! Return to your dwellings and think on what has been said. Make plans to gather the information I have requested. Indeed, each of you should go see the person whose name you have been given, either before the hunt or during it or both if you can. Report back to me anything you hear or see that is even slightly out of the ordinary. If we can assemble the pieces, we may be able to solve this riddle."

Then Khandr bade goodbye to his friends and retainers and saw them to the door. As he was coming back in, his first wife came over to speak, "You were hurt, were you not? Affronted not to receive an invitation to such a feast?"

"Aye, what lord has an ambassador in court and sends him not one word of greeting? This is beyond decency. I am surprised that the elves did not pick up on that. If an envoy came to King Bor, he would not leave them sitting alone while others feast and exchange news. When I first came here, I only thought that our brothers had soured on the marriage and wished to be released from their promises. But now I see that there is much more. The old king no longer rules here. There are others in control, and I can only presume that these men are afraid we will find out something that they are desperately trying to hide."

"Since all the others will be involved with this feast, it will do me no good to go to court and try and find an audience. I will draft a letter tonight and send over a messenger to hand it to those who are assembled at this feast concerning our proposal for a hunt. I will request....nay, I will demand....an immediate answer. If that answer is no, then we will pack up tomorrow morning and head back to our home. I care not what these elves say or think, for I will not fight beside those I cannot trust. If they have enough decency to reply and accept, then we will stay on and take our chances, though I fear that is not the wisest course. For I have seen how they act at court. Something is very wrong."

Briga looked up concerned at her husband, "Your words leave a cold chill in my heart. What is it you fear? There is something you are not telling me...."

"Aye, my love, and until I can be sure, I will not share this thing even with you."

"You should tell me," she pressed. "For sometimes in the past, I have been able to help you in ways that only a woman can."

"No. Not this time. I pray that I am wrong. But I will not share my thoughts with you. For, if I have guessed right, then I am holding dangerous news, and I would not willingly put you in any danger." He leaned down, kissed Briga gently on the head, and whispered to her, "If something should ever happen to me, you must gather the other Borrim and leave immediately for home. No matter what or when that is. Someday you may yet rejoice that you have only daughters to love and no sons."

She glanced up at him, the alarm clearly evident on her face, "Why do you say this? We will do as we have always done. We will be together and come safely home to tend our fields and wait for both grand-daughters and grand-sons."

Khandr grimly replied, "I too wish for this." Then he stalked out of the room to retrieve his pen, sitting down to write.

[Anguirel]

Meanwhile, back at the Hall of the Ulfing...

Drenda was an early arrival at the banquet for the envoys, and felt the usual awkwardness accompanying this situation. He had misplayed his hand, revealed his keenness to attend this feast, shown himself up as a trumped up youth, a bumpkin. And there were precious few men who would be interesting, or useful, to talk to about him.

Still, he felt the comforting pressure of his paternal circlet on his brow, and put his social unease from his mind. What was wrong with a little embarrassment if it furthered the sacred cause of vengeance after all?

There was a clash by the door as a new guest arrived to join the dozen or so prematurely gathered. But no newcomer entered the Hall. Instead voices clashed in apparent anger. Was some drunkard perhaps being turned from the threshold? Drenda rose from his mightily uncomfortable bench and dashed over to see what was going on.

At the same moment a guard he knew vaguely, a certain Anydor, came into the Hall, looking, as usual, surly and rather bored.

"Some farmer outside, Master Drenda, demanding he come in, says he knows you."

"A farmer? I don't know any farmers," Drenda answered crossly, but to his horror a bow-legged, ruddy figure lurched through the doors in Anydor's wake.

"Oi," he started with a drinker's confidence. "Would you be the lad who wants to bed my girl, little Tora? I'm Torguar, boy; vouch for me for this feast..."

Drenda blushed as scarlet as the intoxicated farmer. He had wanted to handle delicate affairs this evening; the constant presence of some country dullard could only be a bore and a hindrance. But if he denied knowledge of Torguar, he would lose any chance of winning the girl and her small, but stable dowry. His mother would be furious. And he simply could not, at this stage, afford a break with his mother.

"Er...er...of course, of course, what, er, luck to meet you here, my friend," the boy stammered out. "Anydor, I know him. He's safe for the feast."

The door-guard still looked sceptical, but more clamour at the Hall's gates called him away once again. Drenda motioned Torguar to a place by his side, inwardly despairing...

[Folwren]

As soon as Brodda left him, Uldor set about preparing himself for the feast. He washed his face and his hands and then changed from his dark clothes into another outfit of lighter material with brighter colors. The contrast of the light blue and white cloth against his dark skin was handsome, but almost harsh.

He finished dressing and went once more to the window. The sun had disappeared behind the hills and darkness was falling with swift shadows over the earth. Torches were lit down in the courtyard, and before the door, a great square of light fell out on the ground. Some people were already arriving.

Uldor set his back against the corner made by the wide window sill. He lifted one foot and placed it on the sill, folding his arms over his chest and looking out. From where he half sat, he could view quite easily all the comings and goings of the courtyard and who entered the door. Behind him, the room was unlit, and he stood unobserved in the window.

When he decided that enough people had come, he left the window sill and went into the darkness of his room. He picked up a belt with a jeweled dagger hung on it and strapped it around his waist. Then he went out, composing his face to meet the unpleasant business of the evening - he hated acting the host and having to be polite.

For all his dislike of it, Uldor did an excellent job acting the part. He was actually smiling as he entered the hall and glanced around to see what guests had arrived. He continued to smile even when his glance told him that Jord had not arrived. The elves had not come yet, either, which was almost a blessing in itself.

Uldor heaved a small, unnoticeable sigh, hiding it well behind his smile. He looked at the lords of the hall, talking together as though no troubles existed. He looked over them once more, and his eyes settled on the young stripling Drenda, seated on one of the benches lined against the wall. Beside him, sat another, heavier, duller looking fellow, and a bit of actual amusement came into Uldor’s smile.

He approached Drenda slowly. “Good evening, lad,” he said. “How does your mother fair of late? I have not seen or spoken to her of late.”

[Durelin]

They said eyes served as windows to the soul, and Jord knew it was true. There were ways to penetrate a person even with mortal eyes – as long as the mind behind them was potent enough. A simple gaze into this woman was enough to draw from her what already wanted to burst forth. Jord smiled in a rather patronizingly kind way, as if she were thinking of Embla as a “poor dear.”

It was a poor thing indeed that these mortals so often made servants and slaves of each other, but it was sadder still that they all thought they should be free.

But, it was this sort Jord would find most useful. The despondent slaves subjugated to what they were opposed in a culture there were a stranger to; displaced and disenfranchised: the embodiment of desperation. Still alive with a mind and body at their disposal, but they though they had nothing left to lose… All that was necessary was that Jord became their wise master and gentle overseer, and they were all hers.

“Ah, Embla,” the darkly clad woman began, sounding almost apologetic. But when she really began to speak, her voice became more conversational, though there was a sincerity to it and her demeanor.

“There is no reason for you to hang your head for the shamefulness of others. You are not the one willingly participating in a…” Jord paused for a very brief moment, calculating her words, “…primitive culture. You do what you must, I am sure, and by neither succumbing to nor accepting their ugly mores you show them that you still live by your own ways. Because of that you should hold your head up, I should think.”

As long as she avoided sounding like she was telling Embla what was what, Jord’s ideas would easily slip into the woman’s head. Sometimes the communication of earth-beings was amusing in its own way. The simple phrases “I am sure” and “I should think” were ample enough expressions of self-doubt for her to not sound as a ruler giving orders to a subject that were far from cleverly disguised as ‘advice.’ The expressions of mortals were especially primitive, but they had their quirks.

Primitive…she had been describing the Borrim as such quite a bit lately. It was an excellent tact to use against them, pitting their culture against that of the Ulfings. Regardless of how many origins and customs the two peoples shared, there was more than enough there for her to work with. They were lowly and primitive, crawling on their hands and knees to kiss the feet of the Elves because they lacked enough backbone to stay up.

Better to kiss the feet of Morgoth than those of the Children who walked the earth.

It was a lucky meeting, to find the perfect leverage within the troublesome Borrim party – a person who thought similarly to the Ulfings about the ‘foreigners.’ And she was located so conveniently behind that leader, Khandr. Anger and despair could easily be nurtured into violence, and decapitating the Borrim body was a possibility she had so far only dreamed about.

“Already I respect you, Embla,” Jord added with a smile that was truly out of amusement rather than kindness. “I would help you, if I could, but…I suppose there is nothing that can be done, is there?” There was an edge to her final question. Regardless of whether or not the woman attempted to answer it, Jord was sure it would remain on her mind.

[bill_n_sam]

The sun was already behind the western hills as Dag made his way home. The sword he carried weighed heavily in his hand, due more to its association to the political machinations and in-fighting between Ulfang’s sons than to its true heft. His heart did not feel the satisfaction which usually came from using his skill to fashion such a weapon. And his spirit rebelled against the implacable force of Ulfast’s will which was drawing him into this game where few could be called winners. Even Mem, and thus Gunna, would now be players, pawns over which the chieftain would have a power Dag would be hard put to countermand. Well, he thought grimly to himself, should it come down to it . . . if his family’s safety was put at risk . . .

He hardly dared to finish that thought even in the secret recesses of his own mind. But he knew what he would do, if the time came.

With no joy in his soul, he pushed open the door to the little house, seeing the two women look up at his entrance. Gunna’s features were set in an expression of angry resolution; Mem’s bespoke the same calm with which she always faced life. Dag did not give Gunna the opportunity to get one word out, raising his hand in a gesture of silence. He shot her a look which she had never seen on his face before, and setting the sword aside, Dag sat down beside the fire, lifting the baby from Mem’s lap. The child cooed and laughed, reaching up to grab a fistful of his hair. Gunna turned away and reached for a wooden bowl. Slowly, she began filling it with her husband’s supper, not wishing to look at him again, not wanting to see that look again.

As she knelt and held the full bowl out to him, her face still turned aside, she felt his hand encircle hers. Tears filled her eyes as he pulled her close, her face resting against his shoulder. As the baby wiggled in his arms in protest, Gunna listened to the steady beat of his heart but for once, the sound did nothing to reassure her. As strong as he was, her husband was only one man. One against how many? How many lackeys did Ulfast own? How many men had he bought with promises of wealth, or power? And how many more had fallen under his sway because they, like Dag, dared not refuse him? Dag had something Ulfast wanted. His skill as an armorer would be of great use, should weapons be needed. And what was the use of weapons, if not for the vanquishing of other men?

Unable to keep silent, Gunna whispered into his neck, “Don’t take her, my husband. Don’t take her to that place. You can not know . . . You won’t be able to stop . . . “

“Quiet, woman!” Dag growled, but his arm still pressed her tightly to his chest. “There’s no way around it. You know that, as well as I do.”

Gunna pulled away from him, leaning back to look him in the face. The expression of a few moments ago was gone, but in its place was one equally as untractable. Still, she had to try. “Dag, listen. Tell them Mem is sick. Tell them she’s too weak to be out. They’ll never know. Ulfast . . . “

“Ulfast has spies all over the settlement! She goes – and I’ll see that she comes to no harm.” Dag’s voice was low and rough, but he stared into Gunna’s dark eyes, willing her to believe, to trust. Gunna wished nothing more than to do so, to believe that her husband would take care of it all, that he would watch over her sister, and watch out for himself, and that they would both return safe and he would laugh at her fears later that night as they lay together.

And she saw that Dag wanted, no, needed the same. He needed that belief from her. A belief in his ability to protect them from harm. Neither one could allow that shield to slip for an instant, for once doubt set in, their fear would be their undoing. When playing the game with one such as Ulfast, or his father, or brothers, the belief a man had in himself might be all that stood between survival and annihilation.

Sinking back onto her heels, Gunna swept the baby from her husband’s arms and pushed the bowl of food into his hands. “Eat!, she commanded, with a forced smile. “I’m sure there’ll be no food for the likes of you at such a grand affair!” Taking Mem by the hand, she pulled the girl to her feet. “Come, we’ll make you presentable, as my husband wishes. Such an honor – to be called to perform for the chieftains. Your blue dress, that’s your nicest one. And the striped scarf . . . “

Dag swallowed his dinner down as Gunna made a show of fussing over her sister. The food had no taste though, and sat like a hard lump in his stomach. Finally, his wife was satisfied with her ministrations and presented his sister-in-law to him for inspection. With barely a glance at the girl, Dag stood, taking the sword in one hand and Mem’s hand in the other. He kissed his wife lightly on the cheek, and with a gruff, “Hurry! It won’t do to keep them waiting.” he led the girl out into the evening darkness.

[Anguirel]

Drenda jerked to his feet rapidly on being addressed, motioning to Torguar to follow his lead.
.
"Good eve, aye, Lord Uldor," he stammered. "My mother is quite well, I think." A little irritation could not help entering his voice as he thought of her. It was she who had caused this absurd situation; here he was, caught between the Chieftain's son, the cynosure of all his ambitions, all his prospects; and on his other side, that stupid lunk of a farmer. Both, naturally, were friends of his mother. His mother. How long would she continue to pluck at the strings of his existence?

"This is Torguar Torgatling, your Lordship's loyal subject," he muttered, gesturing to the man beside him, his voice fading away. He felt lowered by the very introduction, as if some quirk of chance had forced him to hurl a lump of mud at Lord Uldor's passing chariot.

But Uldor was apparently no longer listening. A slight, veiled figure, who had passed through the front doors without question, so proud and chilly was her air, now approached the Lord's left side.

"I heard you asking after me," she said calmly. "That was courteous." She made a slight, deferential movement, which cast her black veil from her face.

Though she was nearing forty years of age now, Gausen's presence in the hall was impressive still; the precise, sharp regality of her features, the plain but striking adornments of silver in her black hair, and the fact that no other woman had as yet joined the throng, and certainly not an unaccompanied one. She did not smile at the Ulfing prince, but directed an intense glance at him, as if inviting him to speak to her, and to her only.

[piosenniel]

A conversation overheard.....

‘Here! Spread this out in the back of the wagon, Valr.’ Káta handed up one of her large wool blankets, looking on critically as the boy flipped it open and let it settle of itself to the wooden floor. For his part, Valr sneaked a peek at his mother’s face, noting her brow wrinkling as the blanket fell in a rather rumpled manner.

‘I know, I know,’ he said, pushing the wrinkles out with his feet. ‘Just hang on a bit and I’ll have it all straightened away.’ He smoothed out the humps and bumps and pushed the padded stool up against the backrest of the front seat where his father and mother would sit. Granny Dulaan would sit there, another small quilt at hand to cover her if she needed. Jóra would most likely sit on the blanket next to Granny’s stool. She would have an endless supply of questions to ask her mother and Granny. It was not often, after all, that the family would go to the great hall. Never really, save maybe for father. Valr looked over to where Fálki and Falarr stood. He and his brothers would sit at the back of the wagon, their legs dangling over the end of the platform. Talking men talk.

At least that was what he hoped. He’d overheard the last of a hushed conversation his mother had had with his father while the family made their preparations to go. And he wanted to know the details. The words hadn’t been clear. But he’d noted his mother’s tone of voice – serious, the sort of voice she made points with; the sort of points she expected her audience to agree with. He’d expected a rumbling sort of reply from his father, as was his usual approach. But instead there had been a booming laughter, quickly hushed. And a puzzling, though satisfied seeming, ‘By my father’s blade, the boy has guts doesn’t he? To stack the odds in his favor before coming to us.’ Grímr had fallen quiet for a moment causing Valr to strain his ears mightily for any further pronouncements. When it came, though, the words rang quite clearly and with a certain tinge of pride behind them. ‘And good for him, the young fox.....though truth be told I always thought it would be Falarr who would come to us first.’

‘Well, he hasn’t come to us at all yet, now, has he?’ his mother had said in an irritated way. ‘Best you call him in. Before we go. If Dag is there, and Mem has said anything, I don’t want to be accused of overstepping my bounds. It’s you after all who should broach the subject with him.’

Valr stepped away quickly from the woolen curtain that partitioned his parents’ area from the rest of the household. Crunched back into a small sliver of shadow, he watched as his father stepped out and looked quickly about the bustling interior of their home.

‘Fálki! Son! Come and attend me for a moment.’ He paused, nodding back to where Káta stood. ‘Just some last minute things to go over.’

Valr was able to hear no more of the conversation; his brother had spied him as he neared the curtain. And giving him a rather meaningful look, Fálki had sent him scurrying away with a shake of his head.

~*~

Arrival at the Hall

‘So, here we are!’ Grímr pulled the wagon up near the Great Hall, turning off to the left onto a large, cleared area where the wagon and horses could wait. ‘Boys! Help Granny down. Jóra, you fetch her pillow along. Valr! Come round with some of the hay and put it down for the horses to munch on.’

He walked round to where Káta sat, waiting for him. ‘M’Lady,’ he said grinning up at her, as she stood and took his hand to steady herself as she stepped down. When all had gotten off the wagon and skirts had been smoothed and tunics straightened, Grímr offered his arm to his wife and set off toward the entry way to the Hall.

‘Remember,’ he murmured, smiling and nodding to those he knew as they drew near the door. ‘Fálki and Falarr, you stay with us this evening. Jóra and Valr you attend on Granny, please. See that she’s comfortable and has something to eat and drink.’ He winked quickly at Dulaan, knowing she would understand he was entrusting them to her care.

‘Oh, look,’ he said as they entered into the Hall. ‘There’s Erling! I didn’t know if he would come or not. And who’s that with him? Waving to us?’

Káta smiled toward the two her husband had pointed out. ‘Just a hello, then,’ she said speaking low to Grímr, ‘We should seek out the Lord and his sons and give them our greetings first.’

~*~

As her parents and two older brothers made their way toward Erling, Jóra took Granny’s arm, and standing tippy-toed looked about the room. ‘Where shall we settle in, Granny,’ she asked, her mouth drawn up in a disappointed way. She motioned for Granny to bend down a little so she could whisper in her ear. ‘Do you think, just maybe, we could walk around just a little?’ she said in a wishful voice. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen Elves. Not up close at least. Have you?’

[Folwren]

Uldor had practically made the inquiry out of politeness alone. What else was he supposed to say to the young man? He cared not an inch for the man who sat beside the boy, though the situation was slightly humorous. Drenda was so serious, and so wanted to make a good impression. Let him try, and let him be rewarded.

So Uldor turned with false politeness to the farmer as Drenda introduced him, but as his eyes passed from the handsome young man’s face towards the brutish, heavy face of the farmer, he caught sight of another, much more pleasurable figure, drawing carefully and gracefully near. He didn’t catch the name that Drenda said, and he didn’t care.

“I heard you asking after me,” said the veiled woman. “That was courteous.” The sheer, black cloth was swept back with a deft movement of elegance. Uldor met her piercing, dark eyes even, and he returned the serious look with an equally calm and straight face. For a moment, they merely looked at each other, and if anyone had been observing them, they may have thought words passed with their eyes alone.

Finally, Uldor broke the gaze and gave a slight tilt of his head, a gesture of even more courtesy, for it was the beginning (or the remnant) of a bow, which is meant for honor.

“I did ask after you,” he said. “And I am delighted to see that you have come to be able to tell me yourself how you do.” Yet defiant of his words, he did not look pleased. Even the fake smile that he had worn upon entering the hall was gone. Not a glimmer of amusement or pleasantness remained in his face. He merely looked at her, grave and quiet. To a hopeful woman, perhaps serious but with love behind the dark eyes.

[Dimturiel]

Tora was hurrying through the streets of the settlement. It was late and she had still so many things to do before she could finally be allowed to rest. For one thing, she had to find her father from wherever he was. It was usually her youngest brother who did that, but now he had fallen ill and Tora had to go. It was nothing serious-not yet, at least-but her mother thought it best for him to spend some days in the house. If she could keep him there, that is, thought Tora grimly.

On her way she had made a few inquiries about her father. One man reported to her that he had seen him heading towards the chieftain’s hall. Tora felt baffled. What could he be doing there? It was true that a feast was to be held there in honor of the elven guests-or so rumor had it- but a mere farmer would certainly not be invited to such an event. Then why had he gone there? Had he no sense at all? Had he, perhaps, drunk so much that he no longer thought of the consequences of his actions both regarding him, as well as his family?

Tora quickened her pace. Things did not look good. She only hoped that the chieftain’s would be in a good enough mood not to punish a drunken farmer too heavily. Perhaps they would have enough drink in themselves at the time to make them more indulgent. But maybe he was not even in the hall. Perhaps he had not been allowed in.

On reaching the hall, Tora saw a young guard sitting in front of it, with a look of boredom on his face. Plucking her courage, the girl approached him.

“I…I am sorry to bother you, but could you help me?” she began hesitantly. “I…well, I have been told that my father had headed for the feast and I was wondering…”

Tora paused, biting her lips, desiring nothing but to be away from that uncomfortable situation. How could he explain to the guard that he was looking for a drunk farmer in the chieftain’s hall? And what if she was wrong? What if her father was not even there? The guard, however, nodded curtly at her words.

“Your father would be that drunk rascal shouting to be admitted to the feast, no?” he asked. “It seems he was safe to go there.”

Tora’s eyes widened. He was in the hall? But how…? Yet that was not the time for questions. She had to fetch her father out of there before the situation got even worse than it already was. Taking a deep breath she told the guard in a tone as calm and as natural as she could make it:

“Well, of course he was thought safe to enter. How could he not be when they have invited him. Now, I should have been with him, but I had some work at home said I would come later. So would you please let me enter?”

That was exactly what the guard did not want to do, but the girl had spoken in so natural an air that she could not have been lying. Not in so unconcerned a tone with little signs of fear or worry on her face. Therefore, he stood aside, letting her enter.

Tora thanked her fortune for having taken her so far. She was now inside, and able to look for what she had come to find. Yet she could not help wondering how the evening would end. The talk with the guard had left her with her heart beating fit to burst and her knees shaking. But nothing could have prepared her for what she was to see in the hall. There was her father, sitting beside a young man whom she had never seen before. Yet that was not the cause of Tora’s fears. For she could very well see that Uldor was close by. How come he had not already thrown her father out, she could not tell. Now was the time to act, she thought. Now before it was too late.

With resolute steps, he headed towards her father and tapped him on the shoulder. She could see surprise and annoyance on his face, but she told herself not to be put off by that.

“What are you doing here, father?” she asked, not letting him speak. “I have been sent to look for you, and I must bring you home. Come with me.”

She could see anger growing on Torguar’s face. It was clear his daughter’s words did not please him. He opened his mouth to reply, but Tora cut him short.

“Come.” she repeated putting a hand on her father’s shoulder, and then adding in a quiet whisper. “This is no place for the likes of us.”

[Celuien]

There was an uncommonly cheerful aspect to Ulfast's visage after his interview with the smith. It seemed that a different man returned to the hall than the dourly sardonic one who had left. This Ulfast smiled and seemed to mean it rather than to wear it to cover malice. Nearing the gates of the hall, he had even tossed a handful of copper to astonished townspeople, who then scattered after the unexpected largesse in a way that Ulfast thought similar to chickens after grain. He beamed at his own generosity and crossed into the chieftain's grounds.

The smith would appear with the sword and his sister-in-law. After such an appearance, as Ulfasts's guests, the support of Dag's family for Ulfast - genuine or not - would seem certain. True, they were only common working folk. But Dag was a craftsman who could well-arm many men for battle, and one who seemed to have some prominence among the people of the town. If Ulfast's quarrel with his brother ever came to open fight, it would be the blood of those people that decided the outcome. Better to have as many on his side beforehand as he could muster.

Preparations for the banquet were surely well underway. Ulfast laughed aloud. Mem's addition to the evening's entertainment would not have been known to Uldor. Ulfast hoped his reaction to the unexpected arrival would be amusing.

[bill_n_sam]

Arriving at the great hall, Mem clutching his hand tightly not from fear but from a need to keep up with his brisk pace, Dag led his good-sister to the smaller entrance to the far west side, which gave way first to a cramped storage space of sorts. Here, whatever provender might be needed within could be deposited until called for, and servants could stand guard over their master’s belongings unless they too were called for. Tonight, with every Ulfing of any note whatsoever, and many lesser vassals, assembling to honor the elven envoy, the anteroom was tightly packed and already quite warm with the heat rising from many bodies.

Pushing his way inside, Dag kept Mem close, pulling her arm through his. Ulfast had left no instructions about where and when to deliver the sword, so Dag continued elbowing men aside until he reached the opening into the main hall. There he paused and scanned the smoky room, trying to catch a glimpse of the young chieftain.

As expected, the room was already crowded with men and women from many of the powerful families and clans of the settlement, and beyond. Most of the faces were familiar to him, at least known by reputation, if not personally. In the course of his survey, he nodded briefly once or twice to men who he actually would call friend, and they nodded back. But of Ulfast he saw nothing. Dag was on the brink of turning back into the cramped entry to ask if anyone had seen Ulfang’s second son, when he caught sight of Grimr and Kata. His wife’s good friend stood with her husband talking to a well dressed man Dag did not recognize. Beside the couple waited the sons who were so similar in appearance that Dag could never keep them straight. Dag knew the family only slightly, the friendship being more between the women; but he knew that Grimr was a well respected resident of the settlement and that Gunna had of late encouraged him to make the man’s acquaintance. She hoped that such an acquaintance could help her husband understand better the undercurrents of this place, understand better and negotiate better. Perhaps tonight would present him with such an opportunity, Dag thought.

As if some silent signal of his thoughts had raced across the room, one of Grimr’s sons raised his eyes to meet Dag’s. The boy’s gaze slipped quickly, however, slightly to the right. It took Dag a second or two to realize what the youth was staring at, or more precisely, who. And when he did, Dag stiffened. He glared back at the boy, wishing now he could more readily know which twin it was who so boldly ran his eyes over the girl standing quietly at Dag’s side. The boy’s eyes flickered momentarily back to Dag and seeing the anger on the smith’s face, he quickly turned his gaze elsewhere.

Mem, feeling the bulging muscles of her good-brother’s bicep tightening, asked quietly, “Do you see him? Ulfast?”

“No. I don’t think he’s here yet.”

The curtness of Dag’s reply did not surprise or bother Mem. She was well used to his shortness, and tonight’s circumstances were backing him into corners he had no wish to be in, she knew. To divert him, as well as to satisfy her own curiosity, she asked, “Do you see any of our neighbors? Or have only the important families been invited?”

The tension of the evening was having its effects on the smith. His wariness was climbing to a level of paranoia totally outside the realm of his prior experience. With a jolt of suspicion, Dag wondered if there was more to that lingering look of that young buck than he had first thought. Surely, Gunna would have told him if she had heard anything, seen anything. It was ridiculous, Dag told himself. The girl was never alone, was never left unsupervised . . . but, no. That wasn’t quite the truth of it. Gunna did sometimes leave Mem for a few minutes here and there. Just today, he knew, Gunna had been gone, what? Twenty minutes? A half hour? Would it be possible . . . But Mem was so innocent. She knew nothing of men, except what she heard from the other women. Her songs, though, he realized suddenly, belied a total lack of knowledge of such matters.

With such thoughts chasing themselves in his head, Dag succumbed to the temptation to say, as casually as possible, “I see someone across the way that I believe you know, sister. Falki is it, or Falarr? I can never tell one from the other. Grimr’s sons?”

It was his turn to feel his sister-in-law’s hand tremble slightly on his arm, although she remained silent. Dag quickly continued, “Whichever one it is, he seemed most interested in us, or you actually, Mem. Do you know the fellow?”

Mem struggled inwardly. She knew Gunna’s words had been wise ones – let Grimr approach Dag about any proposed match, that was the proper way. But if Dag already had a suspicion . . . After Dulaan’s whispered words this afternoon, to know the boy was here, tonight, in the same room, caused Mem’s breath to catch in her throat. And he had been looking her way! And she did know Falki. Of course, Dag would know that already. She could not very well deny it. The sensation of butterflies batting around inside her stomach made it difficult for Mem to speak. But she finally managed to say, “Yes, I know Grimr’s sons. He has three altogether. And Falki, well . . . Falki, yes, I, I believe he is . . . interested in me.”

Dag looked at his sister-in-law dumbfounded, then turned his head to glare once more at the boy who had unknowingly added yet one more upset to his already upsetting evening.

[piosenniel]

‘Look, you stay here with Granny. I’ll go fetch some drink and food.’ Valr looked over to the table they’d found on one of the raised areas along the wall. It was near enough the fire that the older woman would stay warm, and just high enough that if Jóra stood up, she could look over most of the hall and watch for the Elves. Granny seemed to have found some acquaintance already. The two were already head to head and must have seen someone about whom they were sharing the latest gossip. Their sharp birds’ eyes darted here and there; the occasional finger wagging as if to emphasize some point.

‘But I want to come with you!’ Jóra’s pleading voice cut through her brother’s instruction to go sit by Granny. ‘I want to see some of the ladies close up.’ She gave her brother her sweet-face look and put on a promising smile.

Valr was not fooled. ‘Don’t give me that face,’ he hissed at her. ‘Go ask Granny if it’s alright if you come.’ He put his hand on her arm, restraining her before she ran off. ‘And you have to absolutely promise you’ll stay right by me. I don’t have time to babysit you!’

As she turned away, Jóra crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. Not so her brother could see her, but just as a silent comment on his high-handed comment. She ran up to where Granny sat and spoke quickly to the older woman. No need for Valr to know that her question had been, ‘Granny, are you comfortable?’ She looked innocently down at her brother as Granny nodded her head in the affirmative. No need to bother Granny, who seemed happy talking with her friend, with any further information, Jóra thought to herself.

A round of whispered negotiations passed between the two. Jóra promised to stay close to her brother, and he agreed to take a somewhat circuitous route to the tables laden with food and drink. ‘Here! Hold onto me,’ he said, stepping out into the milling crowd. She grasped the offered hand, the cloaks of men, the dresses of their ladies already pushing in against her. Despite the hurried pace, she glanced upward as often as she could, hoping to see an Elven face. Though what exactly that might look like, she wasn’t sure.

~*~

They had just come to the far west side of the building, near one of the doorways into the main hall when Jóra tugged urgently on her brother’s hand. ‘Hold up a minute, my shoe’s come untied. I’m tripping over it.’ The two jostled past a couple of servers and made their way to the wall. A number of small crates were stacked along it, affording the two a place to rest for a moment. ‘Here let me fix it for you,’ Valr said patting the edge of one of wooden crates. He’d noted the tie had broken off and thought it would be quicker for him to do it than for her to fiddle with it. ‘Just put your foot here,’ he went on, offering his knee as a platform.

As he began to even out the offending piece of leather thong, he caught the sound of a familiar voice. No, two familiar voices. ‘Mem,’ Jóra whispered. ‘And Dag, too.’ A look of anticipation crossed her face. ‘Ooh, I wonder if Gunna’s brought the baby!’

‘Quiet!’ Valr hissed back. ‘They’re talking about the twins.’

Jóra, too, turned her head slightly to hear the conversation. Her eyes widened at what she heard, her mouth dropping open in a surprised ‘O’. Valr’s mouth had drawn up in a knowing little smirk. ‘So that’s it!’

‘That’s what?’ Jóra asked, her voice rising above a whisper.

Valr tugged her up from the crate and pulled her quickly back into the crowd. ‘Come on! Let’s go talk to Fálki.’ He grinned at his sister. ‘I want to see him squirm!’

‘But what about Granny.....’ Jóra’s question trailed off as her brother pulled her along at a rapid pace.

[Anguirel]

Drenda suppressed an anguished gasp of frustration as he saw the Chieftain's son practically ripped out of their conversation...by none other than his mother. As usual. A part of Drenda acknowledged that his mother existed to further his success, but it was often suppressed by the way he resented her harsh charm in moments like these; he was conscious he was arresting to look at himself, but that was scarcely any advantage at all for a real man. With a kind of aching annoyance, he turned back to Torguar...

A short, compact, even dumpy figure had rapidly joined them. At first Drenda, seeing another woman, felt like swearing out loud his hatred of all female kind in perpetuity, and their meddling meanderings. But then the girl, much to his surprise, gripped Torguar by the shoulder and began whispering urgently, evidently wanting the older man to go with her. Of course, Drenda realised! This was the daughter!

He almost laughed, and with some real happiness too, as the pair of them began to move off from the bench, Torguar apparently having supped too well to offer any effectual resistance. And besides, the girl was evidently a tough little creature. He smiled without effort at the departing couple, uncertain if either had seen him, though the maid - Tora, that was her name - did throw a glance back. His smile grew wider. She was thoroughly disappointing to look at, of course, but he hadn't expected much, and he found her ready handling of her tiresome old boor of a sire really quite funny.

With a birdlike movement of his head, the youth scanned the Hall for Uldor and his mother, but could not track them...and at that moment there was another commotion at the door. Some of Uldor's household, henchmen of the yes-man Brodda, had come in, and word rapidly circulated that the Elvish envoys were on their way...

***

"I weary you, my lord, I fear," Gausen said, at the other side of the hall with Uldor, behind a convenient screen of sycophants talking and bragging with noisy meaningless.

"I would never wish to weary you. Yet if you ever feel fatigued by the weight of your affairs...remember that I know a little of the world's hardships, that we are of an age, and of a mind, that I have fondness for you, my lord..."

The widow still avoided mirth, curling her large lips inward, as if assuming a look of extreme piety, as she murmured in the heir's alert ear...

"...fondness equal to that I hold for my child. You are more steadfast than a brother, too, Lord; kinder than a husband. Yet there are some who would look with unfriendly eyes on our friendship, even as they do on your glory..."

Gausen dropped her voice ever lower, and crept ever closer. "Amid your pleasures and your might, lord, be mindful of your brother Ulfast. He knows how to fight. He killed my lord long ago, and he could kill again..."

She steered her reluctant companion to a gap in the press, guiding his haughty glance towards where Drenda stood, staring idly about.

"A good lad, my lord. Tall and strong. Tell me, Lord Uldor, would it not suit you in your heart of hearts to have one brother instead of two...?"

[Celuien]

As the guests began to assemble in the hall, the quiet corridors of the chieftain's abode grew loud with merriment. The sound passed to Ulfast's chambers, and he made ready to join the festivities.

The halls were filled with servants hurrying to the main hall with food and drink. Others bore trays of trinkets to be gifted to the guests. Ulfast walked among them, planning to enter the hall unseen so that he could watch the guests - and his brother - before they knew of his presence.

He slipped quietly to a corner of the room and looked over the crowd. It seemed as if the entire settlement had gathered in the hall. Even so, he was surprised to see a man whom he knew to be a bitter enemy of Uldor's. Ulfast had forgotten the man's name, but knew that he had narrowly escaped death at his brother's hands once before. Ulfast made a note to speak with him later; perhaps he could learn something of value.

He looked next for Uldor, but did not see him in the crowd. Ulwarth, too, was not to be found. It mattered not - Ulfast could speak to his younger brother later.

Then Ulfast spotted Dag standing across the room with the singing girl. The smith looked none too pleased, and Ulfast grinned, amused by the apparent irritation on Dag's face, and moved towards the smith.

"I welcome you, Dag, and you, Mem." Ulfast smiled at the girl. "If your song is half as fair as your face, your fame is well-earned.

Do you have the sword?"

[Folwren]

Uldor looked at the woman carefully. His mouth remained tight shut as she whispered on and on. She thought she was cunning enough to catch his imagination - to trap his innermost mind with her woven words. He felt disgusted that he had ever associated himself with her. Compared to Jord. . .He must not compare any woman he ever knew to Jord, though. This woman would help him yet, in his schemes.

“Amid your pleasures and your might, lord, be mindful of your brother Ulfast. He knows how fight. He killed my lord long ago, and he could kill again.”

A smile twitched about Uldor’s mouth. Mirthless, almost evil. He turned his head in the direction she indicated. Drenda was over there. Uldor couldn’t deny, he was a fine boy. He had much to learn, but if he could learn it - if he would learn it. . .

“A good lad, my lord. Tall and strong. Tell me, Lord Uldor, would it not suit you in your heart of hearts to have one brother instead of two?”

A chuckle rolled out of him. A small, almost unnoticeable laugh. “Nay, fair Gausen,” he said. He looked at her. She was indeed fair, for her kind. “I have hopes yet for poor, wronged Ulfast. I can not expect you to understand, but Ulfast has cause to be jealous and angry with me, but thus far, there has been no reason to be rid of him.

“Hush, don’t say anything,” he said, his voice sinking to a soft, reassuring murmur. “I understand your hate for my brother. I do not blame you. But it’s not time for him to be dealt with. There will be judgement in the end, I promise you. Then all our wrongs will be avenged.

“For now, I bid you wait. The time is not ripe. There is much yet to be done. Wait, Gausen, wait.” And he bent forward to press his lips against her cold brow.

I shall give her hope. She’ll wait for me, but I can not leave her starved for my attention. He drew back with those thoughts and looked at her again, giving her a chance to have a final word before he turned to greet more guests.

[Anguirel]

"Oh, I am used to waiting," Gausen whispered, something that might have been a smile in happier days crossing the proud curvature of her mouth. "An expert, you might say, my lord. But bother with me no longer...it seems the most important guests are at your gates..."

***

She was not wrong. All around the area of the Hall's front entrance, the petty nobles seemed frozen in motion, making tentative movements forward and back, as if unsure whether to approach in fascination or recoil in fear. A loud, haughty voice sounded all about in the newly crystallised-silence, as Lachrandir curtly thanked the guards who stood aside for him and his squire.

The dust of the township's streets had adhered to the Elves' finely woven cloaks, but this baptismal brownness, which almost absorbed them into the rugged surrounding hall of Men, was banished when the leading envoy swept back his cloak to make clear that omnipresent, gleaming star of Fëanor at his tunic, its brightness like an ever-vigilant eye.

An awkwardness descended, as if the envoy was uncertain who, among the crowding huscarls and nobility, he ought to address first. There was a hint of desperation in his large, shining eyes as he cast his glance around for some means of polite social contact with the Ulfings. None of the sons of Ulfang were close enough; his Elven vision located Uldor in speech with one of the few women; Ulfast with another (evidently in promiscuity as in all else, the sons of Ulfangs led by example), and what looked to be her father or brother; Ulwarth nowhere he could glimpse, and certainly not the senile old Chieftain himself.

Then, by some stroke of chance, Lachrandir spotted the man he had earlier asked for directions, in company with his wife, quite nearby. "Good sir! I thank you for the service you rendered us earlier this eve," he ventured...

[Noinkling]

‘Yes, I’m feeling a little parched my self.’ Dulaan’s stomach rumbled as she shifted on her cushion. ‘And hungry, too,’ she said, grinning a little at her old friend. She stood up from her seat and planted her hands on the smooth, pine table top. ‘Let me just have a look about. My little helpers should be making their way back with drink and food.’

Granny’s eyes scanned the room. She wiped at. her eyes, trying to clear them of the smoke from the lamps and torches. ‘Don’t see ‘em yet, ‘ she hmmph’d to her friend. Her eyes darted toward the banquet table and traced the most direct route back to her table. ‘Don’t see the rascals,’ she went on. ‘But then I don’t suppose they would take the easiest room to and from.’ She chewed on the inside of her cheek, thinking. ‘The Elves! She talked her brother into getting her a close-up view of them.’

One of those sudden hushes rolled across the room diverting her attention. Granny’s brow furrowed as she sought the source. Those must be the Elves! And have mercy, weren’t they making toward Grimr and Káta.

Motion, too, seemed to have come to a standstill as the ambassadors made their way across the floor. A whir of movement caught her eye. Valr! And wasn’t that Jóra he was pulling along by the hand . . .

[piosenniel]

Where comes light, darkness follows.....

The cautionary saying whispered through Grimr’s thoughts as he looked on at the entrance of the Elves. Instinctively he crossed the first two fingers of his right hand warding off misfortune even as he wished for favor. Third time sets the charm. followed the gesture. Though, he wondered if the circumstance of this charm would work for ill or good

‘Good sir! I thank you for the service you rendered us earlier this eve.’ The Elf who’d asked directions earlier drew close, his companion in tow.

‘My Lord..s,’ Grimr said, adding in the lead Elf’s companion. The both of them certainly looked like great lords. How was he to know their relation? For all he knew the one who’d asked the directions, the one who’d greeted him just now, was servant to the other. Better safe than sorry.

He felt Káta’s hand squeeze lightly the back of his upper arm.

‘Well.....here I am looking on like the rest of my fellow bumpkins,’ he went on, bowing his head a little as he smiled. ‘Name’s Grimr. And this,’ he said, his smile wider as she stepped forward, ‘is my good-wife, Káta.’ He had just introduced the twins, Fálki and Falarr, when a pair of familiar voices, raised in argument, distracted him.....

~*~

‘C’mon!’ Valr held his sister’s wrist in a tight grip as they made their way through the crowd. He’d turned back to look at her, reinforce his urgency, even as he ran forward. ‘You know I’ve got something important to tell Da and Mami.’

For her part, Jóra’s cheek had become quite flushed, her mouth hung in a silly and surprised little grin. And with her free arm she was pointing back behind her brother. ‘It’s them!’ she mouthed at him, her eyes gone wide.

It was too late, when Valr turned to see the source of his sister’s alarm. He couldn’t stop the force of their forward momentum. That is, he drew up mere inches away from the tall, fair man who stood nearest his father. But Jóra still flew forward, and banged into her brother - both of them careening, then, into the Elf.....

[bill_n_sam]

Dag's irritation over the unexpected development in the personal life of his family was swiftly interrupted by the appearance of his unwanted patron. With an unctious smile, Ulfast approached them, saying, "I welcome you, Dag, and you, Mem." Casting a glance at Mem, he added, "If your song is half as fair as your face, your fame is well-earned." Dag knew the words were a mere politeness, but still, coming hard on the heels of this news about Falki, the smith fairly bristled, although he tooks pain to hide this from the chieftain.

"Do you have the sword?" Ulfast asked.

"Aye, my lord." Dag replied, his voice carefully neutral. He handed the weapon cautiously to Ulfast, not wishing anyone to get the wrong idea that he was threatening the chieftain in any way. Ulfast turned it this way and that, admiring the blade. He nodded in satisfaction and Dag waited for any further instructions or comments.

Ulfast though, along with everyone else in the hall, turned his head suddenly as a hush fell over the assembly. Dag looked in the same direction as 100 other pair of eyes, and saw that the envoys had entered the great room through the main doors. There was no need for anyone to announce the presence of the elves, as all present could clearly see that these two were no mere men. Their height, their faces, even their ears gave them away.

Mem whispered in Dag's ear, "Is it the elves? What do they look like?" and he could feel her hand trembling, this time from excitement, or perhaps nervousness at the thought of her upcoming performance.

Dag replied as quietly as he could, "Yes, it's the envoy from the north. They are tall beyond any Ulfing, fair of face, with a lordly air about them. And wonder of wonders! Who do they go first to speak with?" Dag looked in amazement.

"Who?" Mem whispered fiercely.

"Your friend, at least, your friend's husband - Grimr, and Kata!" Dag shook his head in disbelief. Yes, certainly, his wife was wise. If Grimr was a man of such importance that the elven envoy should choose to speak to him before the sons of Ulfang even, then this was a man it would do well to have as an ally.

[Child of the 7th Age]

With all the commotion created by the Elves, no one noticed a solitary figure slipping unannounced through the crowd and quietly placing a parchment packet in the middle of the head table where the King and his sons would soon be seated for the feast. Grogr was a plain man, a loyal servant attached to Khandr’s household, who had lived among the Borrim for so long that he no longer thought of himself as an outsider. The man had no desire to come face-to-face with Ulfang or any of his sons who had made their lives so miserable these past few months. His chief desire was to deliver his message speedily and disappear before anyone could question him.

Fortunately, Lord Khandr had been sympathetic to this approach. In normal circumstances, his master would have spoken personally with the King rather than draft a formal letter and have it delivered by a servant. That, however, was impossible. Those at court had not even shown the decency of asking the Borrim ambassador to their feast. And from the way tongues wagged in the street, the old King had little power. It was the sons who ruled and decided things. Who knew if Ulfang was kept on such a tight leash that he could not even accept or turn down the offer that had been extended to him? Moreover, Khandr knew there was a real possibility that the Borrim offer of a hunt would be declined, and the ambassador did not want that announced at the public feast, which could happen if he pressed for an immediate acceptance.

After debating back and forth, Khandr had addressed the outside of the packet to both the King and his sons, and had instructed Grogr to deliver the parchment to court in such a way that one or more of the family would be sure to see it and respond by the next day. Grogr retreated to the back of the hall, standing in the shadows of a wooden pillar, and watched as one of the lords walked up to the table and took the packet in his hands, beginning to read it. Satisfied that the message had gotten to the right person, the servant left the hall and headed back towards the Borrim encampment.

Grogr knew the words of the missive by heart. Khandr could have a tongue of honey when he wanted to. He knew exactly what the Ulfang lord would see once he broke open the wax seal:

My Brethren,

It has been long since our people came together in open and friendly discourse not directly connected with matters of governance. The Elven ambassadors have just informed me that we will be going with your muster to the wars. Yet it will take us some time until all the preparations for this outward journey can be concluded.

In the meantime, I would like to make a proposal. In hopes of promoting ties of friendship that will aid our joint endeavor on the battlefield, I wish to sponsor a hunt that will take place one week from today. As you know, the Borrim are noted for their skills in the tracking and hunting of game. All those at court are welcome to attend and enjoy the chase as well as an outdoor feast that my household will provide. The citizens of your fair city are welcome to join in these festivities. I look forward to your response.

Khandr

Now there was nothing to do but wait for a reply.

[Anguirel]

Lachrandir was mighty and steadfast in body, and so when the first young Ulfing smashed into his torso he was but little discomited, even smiling thinly in apparent mirth. But the advent of Jora, as unexpected as that of her brother, toppled him back a step. Several Ulfings in turn scrambled to get out of the way of the looming Elf, creating rather a hubbub.

"Well," the ambassador concluded, "we do not greet each other with so much enthusiasm in my land, though perhaps with a little more grace of movement..." He had regained his composure now, and found himself faced with Ulfings more shamfaced and awkward even than before. With a strained smile, he turned again to Grimr, "Your children, I presume, Master Grimr? I am well used to the exuberance of the young." The envoy cast a sardonic but fond glance at the silent Tathren.

"Shall we now go and find a place, and partake of your splendid, ah, fare? I suppose we shall be expected to sit beside the Lord Ulfang, or his sons, but I would be glad to have your family about us, sir, especially as our relations have begun in such an...intense...fashion."

[Folwren]

Having done what needed to be done with Gausen, Uldor turned and walked away. He passed through the crowd easily, for men stepped back to make room for him. He stopped half way across the room, looking towards the elves’ entrance. His chest slowly expanded and fell again as he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He didn’t want to greet them. In fact, he did not actually want this banquet at all. He hated such formality – such shows of dishonest courtesy.

All the same, it had to be done. He moved forward again. Once more, a slight path was made for him. He lost sight of the elves for a moment, but he knew their general direction. Men’s gazes were more towards the elves than towards Uldor and more than once, Uldor had to pluck someone’s sleeve to make way for himself. At such instances, the man would start and draw away quickly, frightened.

Uldor came in sight of the elven envoys again just in time to see two children run pell-mell into the older ambassador. Uldor’s mood had been tolerable until then, but seeing the collision darkened it badly. As little as he respected the envoys in his own mind, he understood the necessity to give them proper show of respect, even if it was false. This…lack of proper behavior, or proper dignity, belonging in the Ulfang Hall annoyed and angered him.

He approached swiftly, striding forward with more purpose than before. He would have to make up, he realized, for some brat’s failure. What were children even doing there? This was not a party for just anyone!

He came within earshot of them as Lachrandir was in the midst of speaking. “I suppose we shall be expected to sit beside the Lord Ulfang, or his sons, but I would be glad to have your family about us, sir, especially as our relations have begun in such an…intense…fashion.”

Uldor bit his lip in vexation, but decided to ignore the words and speak as though he had heard nothing. “Good evening, my lord Lachrandir,” he said when he drew near enough. “Welcome! I am very glad to see that my message bearer found you. Please – the banquet is ready – come and we will find you your place.”

[Celuien]

Like the others in the hall, Ulfast had fallen into a silent, awestruck gaze when the Elves entered. It was strange, he thought, that even he, second son of Ulfang, and rightful heir to the Ulfing lordship, and one who had met the Elves before, still felt the same wonder as the common smith at his side. And yet, it was not strange; for the Elves held a hidden strength and power, and that power reached through the crowd to Ulfast, again awakening his desire to rise and rule over his people.

A twinge of annoyance passed over Ulfast when the children careened into Lachrandir. If Uldor wished to play chief, he should have been awaiting the guests' entrance to see that their proper hosts met them: not lesser guests and their half-wild children. The spell was broken. Again drawing forth the sword, he turned to Dag.

"You have done well, indeed." Ulfast hung the sword from his belt. "And you shall be well-rewarded."

He glanced back toward the Elves. Good. Uldor had finally seen fit to make his appearance.

"But now, be merry! The banquet begins soon. We shall speak again later."

Still annoyed, Ulfast directed his attention to his brother and the Elves and began to make his way towards them. As he moved through the crowd, he spotted Ulwarth at the banquet table. He held a paper in his hands, and seeing Ulfast, beckoned him to come to the table.

"A message?" asked Ulfast.

"Yes. What do you make of this?" Ulwarth handed him the note.

My Brethren,

It has been long since our people came together in open and friendly discourse ...

"What a stroke of good fortune! Say nothing to Uldor." He folded the paper. "Of course the hunt will go forward. And we will announce it tonight. Do you see? We will accept the offer of friendship on behalf of the Ulfings. Not Uldor."

Ulwarth smiled. "I do."

[Lalaith]

“I suppose there is nothing that can be done...” The other woman’s questioning tone and glance awakened a strange feeling in Embla.

Fear, excitement, hope, horror....all fought for mastery and the tumultuous confusion of emotions made her feel slightly sick. As she stood there in the windswept field, watching this beautiful creature and listening to her honeyed words – so kind, so wise - something else awakened in her, something she barely recognised. It was the latent gift of her people, so long buried under crippling layers of morose, sullen brooding.

What she felt from Jord was, above all else, fear. Why? There was nothing in the gaze of this woman that hinted at any secret dread or alarm. No, whatever else she was, the stranger was absolutely fearless. The sense of terror must come from something else. From others....it made no sense, no sense at all. Embla could no longer bear the conflict of feelings within her and she had an overwhelming desire to turn and run.

She thought again. One thing was certain. This woman had spoken to her, with gentle words of courtesy and understanding that no other living creature had shown her for years. Whatever her forebodings, she must talk to Jord again, seek the wise counsel of a woman far above her in prestige and in freedom. “Thank you for your respect, Lady,” she stammered. “I like to see your proud bearing, and would fain hold up my head so high, just as you do. Perhaps, if you could find the time, we can talk again? I wish for more counsel.....but I must go.” With that, Embla rushed off back to the Borrim camp. The tears that streamed from her eyes were, she told herself, pricked forth by the sharp winds. But she knew they had another, deeper cause.

[Folwren]

As he approached the tables with the two elves at his side, Uldor caught sight of his brothers standing close beside each other. Ulfast was tucking something away in his breast and the two of them passed a few words together. Ulwarth nodded over something and they turned away from each other to take their seats.

Ulwarth’s eyes caught Uldor’s as he turned. For a moment, the brothers looked silently at each other, Ulwarth’s dark, half hooded eyes staring with peaceful stupidity back at Uldor’s dark, brooding face. The younger one turned before Uldor’s swift strides brought him near enough for words and with strange agility, he wound his path away from Uldor and found his seat.

Uldor showed the elves to their places and then took his own place beside Lachrandir. With a word to a servant by his side, orders were passed and the food was brought out. The talking in the hall quieted slightly as people broke their small groups of conversation to find seats at the many tables.

[littlemanpoet]

Lachrandir sat at table, Tathren to his right, Uldor to his left. The chair was too short in the legs, forcing Lachrandir to stretch his long legs out beneath the table. He was gratified that all gathered sat on the outsides of the tables, the walls to their backs, so that the servants had free hand to serve them from the front; there would be no competition for the space his legs needed.

It was a beastly dark place, even with lamps scattered here and there throughout the room. The tapestries hanging from the walls all around the room were rough and colorless, rank with the stench of the animal skins from which they were taken.

The pavilion of that Borrim emissary had not been so barbaric. What was his name? Kaldir? No, too Elvish. Something with less grace. Khandir? Yes, that must have been it. The man had had a silver tongue in his mouth - for a mortal. More so than these Ulfings - but then that was crediting these bowlegged mongrels too well, for none of the clan, not even their sire, had put more than a few sentences together in his presence.

Where was their sire? He should be here as host. Or was he the host at all? Was he a mere figurehead? Or not even that? - for if a figurehead then he would at least be present for the sake of appearances.

Uldor, the eldest, sitting next to Lachrandir, was no less hideous of face and feature than his brothers and the entire clan. And that seemingly permanent sneering scowl spoke not well at all. Apparently, the boor thought rather well of himself for some reason; but he seemed preoccupied, his fool's eye wandering as if he were looking for someone he missed; his sire?

"Master Uldor, where is your lord?"

[Nogrod]

Fastarr was already coming to his tent when he realised he had forgotten to ask for a portion of his salary from Khandr. It had been due for a few days already but as Fastarr still had some coins in his pouch he hadn’t felt any urge to go on reminding Khandr about it. But he’d need to buy new boots anyway, hopefully tomorrow, and there was not enough in his purse for them.

So he turned around and headed back to Khandr’s residence hoping his master would not have pulled off to sleep already.

Coming to the hallway he first met with the servant Hugo.

“So master Fastarr forgot the keys to his tent then?” Hugo flashed a smile. Fastarr chuckled.

“Don’t forget I may still mention this deal of ours to lord Khandr…” Fastarr replied smiling but then went to speak his his mind. “But really… Do you know if lord Khandr has already retired for today or whether he’s still awake? I’d need to have a word with him”.

Hugo gave Fastarr an arching look. “If you’re going to discuss with him about my extended duties to brush also the retainers on daily basis I might not be in the mood of telling you…” He waited to see Fastarr’s expression and then shrugged his shoulders and said in a complaining voice. “All right, all right, it’s the duty of a servant to do what their masters bid – even if it will mean trouble to themselves…” He was about to turn away when Fastarr took hold of his shoulder.

“Oh, you old clown! Now show me a decent smile and tell me whether Khandr is awake or not? I know my way to his room so you don’t need to stress your old feet.”

“The problem is…” Hugo answered, “…that I don’t know. He wrote a letter or something a while ago. I know it as Grogr went to deliver it just a while ago. I need to take a quiet look at it. Sit down there in the main hall, there should be a jug of mead there. It’s mine..." here Hugo blushed a little, "but help yourself with it until I come back. We’ll have a toast then if he’s asleep as I think he is.”

Fastarr walked to the hall where they had had their dinner with the elves just a short while ago. Everything was tidy and clean like there had been no party that day. You’re a wonder-man Hugo, Fastarr thought to himself and let his eyes wander around the hall. New logs had been added to the fireplace and they burnt brightly. There was a comfortable chair beside the fireplace and a jug of mead was placed on the low table right next to it.

Oh… so this is how the mice celebrate when the cat’s dozing off? Fastarr smiled and sat to the chair. He took a long draught of the cold mead and went to his thoughts about the discussions of the day.

Suddenly he felt that someone was watching him. He turned his head to see Embla at the door staring at him with an empty look in her eyes. She looked perplexed with something, sad in a way. Fastarr rose up from the chair confused and bowed to her.

“Please my lady, take the seat. I’m just waiting for…” He swallowed the rest of his words. He knew that the relationship between Embla and Khandr was not the happiest one and to start to babble everything from how Hugo was checking if Khandr was still awake and how he had been asked by Hugo to sit there to consume the mead and everything would make him look like a moron.

There was something in Embla that made Fastarr uncomfortable everytime they were in the same company. Her presence seemed always to stir the same reaction in him. She reminded him of Aud, his former wife. They had something in common not only in what came to the looks of the two but they were also of the same Bairka-clan both of them and thence their demeanor and the way they carried themselves and spoke were very similar as well.

That memory was a bittersweet one. He really had loved her wife – and in a way still did even she was the treacherous woman she had been and was. There was the pain of the lost children, the pain of being betrayed, the pain of his own anger leading to the death of a man… but also the love and affection which it was easy for Fastarr to project to Embla. And she was a beautiful young lady, only ten years younger than him so that would be perfect… but she was his lord’s wife and that would settle it. That was what he had always thought to fight the devils from his dreams.

“Please my lady… Are you allright?” Fastarr looked at Embla who was clearly shaking. “Is there anything I can do?” He was about to take a step towards her but thought better of it and waited for her to answer first.

[Lalaith]

Embla stared, bewildered, into the large honest face of the man before her. For years, her only relations with her fellow creatures had been stiff and stilted at best, unpleasant and bitter at worst. Now twice in the space of an hour, she had, seemingly, been offered warmth, sympathy and understanding.

She struggled to regain that protective layer of sullen bile she had adopted as a Borrim wife - but it refused to reassemble itself. She was still raw and sensitive, after the strange sensations she had experienced during her encounter with Jord. This newly-found Sight was painful to her – it was not a gift, but a burden.

She felt it again as she looked at Fastarr. Her last encounter with this fellow had been just a couple of hours earlier, when he had trodden on her robe and she had hissed an insult at him. Apart from the pleasure she had derived from his discomfiture, she had thought little about the incident, or about the man himself. Now she saw and felt things so fiercely that they hurt and confused her. From the large hunter before her, she sensed difficult memories...of hurt, murderous rage....and above all, regret.

Embla did not experience any of the strange fascination that had held her in thrall when she spoke to Jord. The sympathetic overtures of this clumsy man, and even his hidden unhappiness, felt altogether more genuine, more wholesome. Nonetheless, she tried very hard to work her expression back into its usual haughty smirk.

“No, I....you.....I don’t know.....I am frightened,” she blurted. And, to her shame and horror, she began to cry.

[Folwren]

When most of the guests were seated, the servants began to bring in the dishes of food. Uldor sat silently, looking over the gathering. His scanning eyes could see most of the people in the hall from where he sat. He named many of the men to himself, wondered why a few of them were there, and went on. Among them all he could not catch sight of two that he was expecting – Brodda and, more importantly, Jord. Had the rogue forgotten his order? Did he think it was not very important and did he mean to spend all night in finding her?

His thoughts were interrupted by Lachrandir. “Master Uldor, where is your lord?”

Uldor’s attention jerked suddenly to Lachrandir and he turned his head abruptly. “My lord Ulfang, you mean?” he repeated. Again, he turned his head and looked to where the old man should be seated. The Ulfing lord’s place was empty. Uldor had not even noticed his absence. Had anyone told him? Uldor had not thought to. . .

“I am not sure where he is, Master Lachrandir,” he said, turning back to the elf after a short pause. “He should be here shortly. . .very soon.” I hope, he added to himself. A slight spasm of annoyance could be seen fleeting momentarily across his face. Another thing to worry about. He would wait a few minutes and see what came of it. “Tell me,” he said after a moment and after their goblets had been filled with wine. He paused. What was he supposed to speak about with an elf? How was one to hold conversation? “How was your journey out this way? Was it very difficult?”

[littlemanpoet]

"My lord Ulfang you mean?"

Apparently, his sire was not the one Uldor was looking for. Who then? Lachrandir would not stoop to ask. Time would tell. Lachrandir was curious, and intended to watch Uldor surreptitiously for any indications as to whom he so eagerly awaited. It could be useful information with which to bargain later. Of course, one should expect that there would be no need to even consider bargaining with this ilk, since Caranthir was their liege lord and they owned this land from him; it was not their own. But sometimes these vile Men forgot such things as oaths sworn; so it would be useful to take any advantages that availed themselves.

Lachrandir smirked, and cared not if Uldor recked it; the fool had clearly not even thought of his sire, and did not know if he would be present. Which suggested that Ulfang was losing power, if he had not already lost it.

“I am not sure where he is, Master Lachrandir. He should be here shortly. . .very soon.”

Lachrandir furrowed his brow. Master Lachrandir? Fool. Uldor needed to be reminded of Lachrandir's deserved title as Lord Caranthir's emissary.

“How was your journey out this way? Was it very difficult?”

The fool was trying to make conversation. "Lord Lachrandir, Master Uldor. My lord is your sire's lord; and thus I am to be given the same honorific by my lord's servant's son. Be sure to remember it.

"As for our journey, it was quick and uneventful, of course, for we are Eldar and our horses are well trained for such journeys. I am sure you cannot understand.

"But mayhap you should send a servant in search of your sire." Lachrandir allowed a sarcastic drawl into his tone. "For he may be forgetful that he has arranged this feast, being a Man of such advanced years."

Lachrandir held Uldor's eyes, for he was almost certain that Ulfang knew nothing of this feast, not having been told by his sons.

[Nogrod]

“No, I....you.....I don’t know.....I am frightened”, Embla managed to utter before she started crying.

Maybe it was the late hour or maybe it was the mead Fastarr had enjoyed quite a few cups that night… maybe it was because Embla clearly addressed him… or because she said she was frightened, or because she started suddenly to cry. But Fastarr hurried to her and took a strong grip from her shoulders.

“Please my lady… there is no need to be afraid. You’re in safety now. Lord Khandr and Hugo are in the house as well as I. We will protect you from whatever it is you’ve met! … I’ll defend you with my staff… with my life, against anyone who dares to wish ill for you.”

Yes. Fastarr was a bit drunk again - the last long draught by the fireside had clearly done it - and he both seemed to think and talk things he shouldn’t. He vaguely realised it, but only vaguely.

“It’s not that…” Embla mumbled and started crying even more violently, wrapping her arms around Fastarr tightly so that Fastarr could feel her slender body trembling against his own. Instinctively Fastarr laid his arms around her and pressed her firmly towards him. How fragile she feels… like Aud felt… and the scent… But at the same time Fastarr became conscious about the awkwardness of the situation. If lord Khandr would enter the hall right now… Embla leaned her head against Fastarr’s chest and wept while Fastarr gently stroked her hair with his fingers.

So even if Fastarr felt quite happy to be in the position he was he still was relieved when Embla pulled herself away. Fastarr tried to look at Embla in the eye, but she looked resolutely downwards, scarlet in the face. Slowly she raised her head and met his eye

“No Fastarr, it’s not anything like that.” She looked terrified, guarded, shook her head slightly and paused. It looked like she was concentrating on what or how to say what she would say next. Fastarr almost held his breath under her stare.

“It’s just the strange athmosphere and…” she laid her eyes low once more and hesitated, “my life… it’s just a tunnel with no way out… except….” she shivered but as soon as she felt Fastarr pulling air to his lungs to open his mouth Embla looked up to him again and braved a smile. “Now you said something about mead, didn’t you? I think we need some…”

She pulled away from Fastarr and looked questioningly towards the fireplace. It took a second from Fastarr to be back in the here and now.

“Yes, my lady. The armchair by the fire, please sit down. I’ll get you a cup from somewhere.” He was about to turn towards the door when Embla laid her hand on his.

“No Fastarr. We need no cups, we need to talk.” She looked at the man just like someone used to giving orders. Fastarr was ever more confused but nodded and turned back to get a smaller chair from the table.

Embla sat down to the easy chair and took a long draught of mead as if she was desperate for a means to loosen her tongue and then offered the vessel to Fastarr who had just settled down beside her. After Fastarr had put the jug back to the little table beside them he realised that Embla had been studying him all the time he had drunk.

“This probably is no major secret to you but I still need someone to tell this… and if I know my husband’s household well enough then you are the one I can share it with… I mean you were married with a Bairka and so you know something about what we think and how we feel.”

Fastarr was stunned with that opening and couldn’t answer but by nodding slightly.

“How do you think a Bairka would feel if given to someone as a second wife?” She turned to gaze the fire while small tears moistened her eyes. After shaking her head she turned back to Fastarr. “It feels like being a carpet in the hallway, walked over by everyone… or like being a trinket bought and sold at a whim, then put away unwanted…” It was close Embla didn’t broke yet again but this time she had the jug to her hands and she took another draught from it.

Fastarr waited for Embla to put the mead back to the table and to wipe her tears. He didn’t do that only out of politeness but also because he needed every second he would be given. So many thoughts ands questions were criss-crossing his mind now. Why is she confiding in me? She’s honest, right, but what does she conceal in her heart? Surely she wasn’t afraid because of that? ... How beautiful she is! Her moist eyes that gleam like gems in the firelight… her straightforwardness and sense of honour like any Bairka would have… like Aud…so like Aud…

Now tears started to form over Fastarr’s eyes in turn. With slightly shaky hands he took his turn with the jug and then pulled himself together as well as he could.

“You speak like you’d be speaking about my life… my life with a beautiful Bairka-girl like you. But it was me then who was the carpet that was walked over…” Fastarr breathed in heavily. “I don’t know how familiar you are with my past but her name was Aud and she came from your village. We were married when I was twenty and had twins the next winter, a girl and a boy, Aïda and Farran they were. Then came that cursed winter spawned in Angband and they both died… cursed be that winter and the might of Morgoth for ever…” The tears were now flowing freely down Fastarr’s cheeks. He tried to concentrate on his story. With his voice breaking he continued.

“She started an affair with a Bairka-man called Starkadr right after our twins died. He came from a bit better off family than I did… I don’t know whether that was the issue but whatever... I hid that knowledge to my heart for a half a year and told no one, not even Aud about it… so I truly know how does it feel to lock your sorrow inside you. It grows and gets darker day by day...” Fastarr swept his eyes with his sleeve. He was about to reach for the jug once again when he suddenly pulled his hand back and continued.

“And so it happened that I met this Starkadr in the harvest-party at fall…” Fastarr went quiet and swallowed staring at the fire for a moment. “I went berserk and killed him… with my bare hands… I banged his head to the stonefloor of the inn so long he was no more…” Fastarr bursted into tears and hid his face into his palms shaking violently as he cried.

“I know, Fastarr…” Embla whispered and stretched her arm out to gently stroke at Fastarr’s hair. “That’s horrible…”

Slowly Fastarr regained his presence of mind and straightened his back. He turned to face Embla with a serious expression. “Never carry your load alone as darkness grows inside one when they’re not aired out and that may lead to deeds one can not take back…”

Little did his slightly drunken mind understand how right on the mark he had hit.

[Folwren]

Uldor burned under Lachrandir’s obvious rebuke. The elf tried in no way to go about it politely. To correct Uldor at all could be dangerous, but to do so bluntly was practically stupidity itself. Uldor’s left hand dropped down from the table and his fingers silently closed around the hilt of one of his daggers, out of Lachrandir’s sight. He could not keep a grimace of hate from passing over his face. But it was only brief, and then it was gone, and his hand left the hilt and returned to the table.

“But maybe you should send a servant in search of your sire," Lachrandir went on after answering Uldor's question. "For he may be forgetful that he has arranged this feast, being a man of such advanced years.” Uldor’s eyes locked with the elf’s. Lachrandir mocked him now, Uldor was sure. He guessed, or even knew, that Ulfang might not have even been informed about the feast.

“We respect the advancement of years here among men,” Uldor said coldly. “Some of us do our best to help those of older years. My lord Ulfang did not arrange this feast. I did it for him when he asked me to. He may easily have forgotten, however.” He lifted his hand to call a servant. One came and Uldor told him quietly to see if Ulfang were coming to the banquet. The man was off a moment later and Uldor turned again to Lachrandir.

“Is there anything else you are curious to know and to help me arrange or correct, Lord Lachrandir? You seem to have a keen eye, ear, and tongue and I’m sure you could help with a great deal if you set your mind to it. Come, who else do you see missing who might have forgotten about the banquet?”

[littlemanpoet]

If the fool did more than place his hand on his knife, he would be sorry, thought Lachrandir. No, it seemed he had some sense, certainly not of propriety, but of pragmatism. One does not kill emissaries unless one wishes to go to war with those the emissary represents. At least this Uldor knew that much. Ah, yes, this Man hated him. Lachrandir did not miss the flash of true feeling, brief as it was.

Now came a veritable flood of explanatory words, with even a little Sindarin thrown in to perhaps try to impress Lachrandir. The Elf's lip curled up ever so slightly in amusement. Nor did it escape his notice the Man's shabby attempt at complex Sindarin grammatical construction. It made Lacrhandir's skin crawl. And now he does precisely that which I suggested and should have thought of himself. Let the fool try to save face.

“Is there anything else you are curious to know and to help me arrange or correct, Lord Lachrandir?"

The Man's sarcasm was offensive and revealing, showing no subtlety, of course, especially when he thought he was being the most subtle. The Man continued.

"You seem to have a keen eye, ear, and tongue and I’m sure you could help with a great deal if you set your mind to it. Come, who else do you see missing who might have forgotten about the banquet?”

The Man could not help sneering as he finished his jibing insult. Lachrandir was not about to allow himself to be caught up in a child's game with this boor. He regarded Uldor with cold condescension as he considered what reply to make; one had to be made since a question had been posed.

It was obvious who was not there. The Borrim ambassador was conspicuously absent. The invitation that had come to Lachrandir at the Borrim emissary's home had requested the presence of only himself and Tathren. But to mention this would be to descend into the tribal affairs of Men, which was beneath Lachrandir's dignity if not his notice. And for whom had Uldor been searching if not his father nor the Borrim - for why search for uninvited guests?

"It is of little concern to me whom you might think ought to be here and is not. All that matters to me is what answer the Ulfings give my lord Caranthir, and that need not be given tonight. Time enough in the next few days or so. But I see one of your brothers rises. Is he then master of ceremonies instead of you?"

But Uldor did not have a chance to answer Lachrandir's question, for Ulfast had begun to speak.

[Celuien]

Ulfast had wondered how best to announce the hunt, and found a perfect moment provided by his brother's foolish jibing with Lachrandir. He had heard the question about missing guests; though they were a large part of the people near the settlement, the Borrim had not been invited. But hidden in his pocket, Ulfast held the note from the missing contingent. Ignoring the continuing exchange between Uldor and the Elf, he stood at his place.

"My friends! I welcome you all to the Ulfing hall. We are here to honor our guests, the emissaries of Lord Caranthir." He turned towards Lachrandir, still half facing the crowd. "May the friendship of our people grow ever stronger through the years."

The crowd cheered, and Ulfast missed the Elf's reaction in his delight at the sour frown that crossed his brother's face. He faced the room again and held up a hand for silence.

"Yes, we have new alliances from afar. But, truly, can we not find allies nearer our homes as well? The Borrim have long dwelt among us, and yet we have not always been as good friends as we might have been - as we should have been." He glanced at Uldor long enough to see by his disinterested, irritated expression, that he knew nothing of what was to follow.

"That error shall be made right." Ulfast drew out the letter. "I hold here a letter from Khandr, who has graciously offered to host a hunt for the Borrim and Ulfings alike. He wishes for a closer friendship between our people - as do I. And so, on behalf of the Ulfings, I accept this invitation, in hope that we shall henceforth hold a greater bond of unity and good will."

The room cheered again, and Ulfast sat. He was so delighted by Uldor's furious scowl that his own visage appeared nearly as benevolent as he hoped his words had sounded.

[Durelin]

The countless thoughts that flashed through Embla’s mind were clear in her eyes, and Jord smiled as the woman turned to leave. She had successfully scattered some seeds that would not require much nurturing. There was enough already there for them to feed off of: the girl’s hate and anger, her wounded pride. Nodding to herself, Jord turned to spot the man she knew was waiting nearby, trying and failing miserably to look as if he just happened to be there. When Brodda caught her gaze on him, he approached her.

“I cannot say I expected to see you again so soon, Brodda. What now?”

Her tone remained simply uninterested – she was in too good of a mood with her current thoughts to waste her time really snapping at him. Uldor’s servant relayed his master’s message to her, and her mood was hardly dampened. Not only was she firmly in the Borrim girl’s mind, but apparently she was in the Lord Uldor’s favor enough to be invited to yet another charming little gathering.

Absolutely charming…and she was sure the Elves would find it equally so.

Brodda led the way to the Hall of the Ulfings, Jord gliding along the dirt streets as if she had a fully armed and richly adorned escort. Uldor’s man hesitated at the doors – it was obvious the banquet had already begun. Jord doubted there would not still be a place for her, though, and she did not care about the Ulfings’ attempts at propriety, so she gestured toward the doors and gave Brodda a sinister smile.

The servant pushed the doors open and stepped aside as Jord made her way inside without hesitation, just in time to hear Ulfast, one of Uldor’s brothers, finish speaking. She did not spare him a glance, nor anyone else in the hall. She immediately approached Uldor himself, who was not difficult to spot as he sat with the Elf.

Jord gave a very slight curtsy, hiding her amusement at the sort of heated conversation she was interrupting. “I am thankful for your invitation, Lord Uldor, and am glad to be accepting it, though I am afraid I received it too late to seem a truly grateful guest.” She then smiled not at the man, but at the Elven emissary beside him.

[Folwren]

Ulfast’s announcement came utterly by surprise to Uldor. He had great difficulty keeping the displeasure from his face. How is it that Ulfast came to know of the feast before he? Why had he not received the invitation? And what in the blazes possessed the fellow to neglect informing Uldor before telling the entirety of the gathered guests?

What irked him more was that Lachrandir made another jab at him, using Ulfast against him. ‘Is he then master of ceremonies instead of you?’ the elf had said. Ulfast was master of nothing! And certainly not instead of Uldor!

The annoyed heir bit his lower lip as his brother finished his speaking and sat down. He was prepared to make a reply to Lachrandir when he caught sight of Jord behind them. He turned abruptly in his chair in time to see her make a small curtsey.

“I am thankful for your invitation, Lord Uldor, and am glad to be accepting it, though I am afraid I received it too late to seem a truly grateful guest.”

Uldor stood up quickly, nearly bounding to his feet. “It was not your fault the invitation arrived to late, my lady. I will show you to your seat. Forgive me, Lord Lachrandir.” He forgot to make himself unpleasant while he excused himself swiftly. “This way.” He didn’t touch her, but the movement of his hand indicated that she should walk forward in the way that his other hand indicated. She did, with a graceful nod of her head to the elven emissary.

Uldor led her to her seat and saw her comfortably situated. Uldor had scarcely seen her seated when he caught sight of Ulfast, returning to his seat. He excused himself swiftly from Jord and made his way over to Ulfast.

“What was that all about?” he asked in a hissing whisper, catching Ulfast’s sleeve before his brother could quite make it to his seat. “Where is this invitation? And why haven’t I seen it?”

[littlemanpoet]

There was a movement behind them. Lachrandir noticed Uldor turn swiftly and rise, almost bounding, from his chair. Lachrandir glanced at the disturbance, then did a double take. Lúthien, daugher of Thingol! But thas was impossible; the daughter of the King of Doriath would not be here for any reason. No, it was not her, though the resemblance was strong enough. Amongst the Ulfing? How absurd!

“I am thankful for your invitation, Lord Uldor, and am glad to be accepting it, though I am afraid I received it too late to seem a truly grateful guest.”

She turned to him, meeting his gaze. It was only then that Lachrandir realized that he had been staring. He quickly regained his self-possession, narrowed his eyes, and smiled with a slight curl of his lips at the woman. Her words had betrayed a courtesy that seemed higher than that possessed by these barbarians. Was she of the royalty here? There was something in her eyes that seemed - he searched for the word - scintillating.

Uldor was babbling uncontrollably at the woman. Did she enjoy the fool's company? Lachrandir could not imagine that, and decided that she was playing a game of some sort. Uldor motioned her to a seat down the table. She nodded graciously to Lachrandir, and he returned the gesture, his interest piqued.

Jord. An odd name, he thought.

Suddenly a connection struck him. She had been the one Uldor had been craning his neck for. Now that was interesting. It seemed that she held him captive in her womanish way. Lachrandir could see that she could have the pick of any brood, but why Uldor? Either there was more to the man than he had yet deciphered, or this Jord had something up her silky sleeve. Could she indeed be of the Ulfing? Lachrandir was not sure.

Absently, he wondered when some good wine might get passed around, not hopeful that any such quality beverage existed among the Ulfings. He sighed.

[Celuien]

"Why have you not seen the invitation?" Ulfast laughed merrily. "That I cannot answer. The letter was left here on the banquet table in plain sight. I was sure that you had seen it." He smiled broadly, amused both by his lie and Uldor's obvious anger. Ulfast pulled out the paper once again and held it out to Uldor.

"In any case, I have had it here during all of my announcement. Read it, if you like. It says little more than I have already told." Uldor snatched the paper from his hand and began to read.

"I trust that I have done well, brother. Surely you would not have refused?"

Ulfast was openly taunting his brother now. For the first time since Uldor's return, he had managed to outmaneuver his brother on a matter of some importance, and Ulfast was enjoying every moment of his victory.

[Folwren]

Uldor sneered at Ulfast’s words, but he didn’t look up from the letter until he had completed it. He wanted to crumple it up in his hand when he had finished, but he knew how that might appear to anyone who might happen to be watching him. Besides, it wasn’t so much the epistle he was angry with. It was his annoying, troublesome brother.

He shoved the letter back into Ulfast’s hand. “Next time, make sure I know before saying anything to anybody.” He placed his fisted hand on the table, and his other hand on the back of Ulfast’s chair, and he leant over him. “Do you understand?”

“Take care, brother,” Ulfast said in a hissing whisper. “There are people watching you.”

“Oh, right,” Uldor said withdrawing. He looked down at Ulfast. “As though you cared about what they thought of me. We all know what they think of me. They fear me. As you should, too.”

He turned sharply on his heel and walked away. Angry thoughts ricocheted about in his head, like a wasp caught in a jar, unable to find a way out. But his thoughts were able to escape. . .there was an outlet. Always. One of plotting and revenge - Uldor would call it punishment. He wouldn’t be mocked in his own hall. Not by anyone.

Uldor took his seat beside Lachrandir.

Not by anyone, he told himself, not even by this elf ambassador.

[Folwren]

The day following the banquet marked the beginning of a season of business and worry on Uldor's part. He had to see to it that a proper response to Khandr's invitation was sent to the Borrim and he also had to set about preparing plans for the muster of the troops that Caranthir demanded of them. He would have to send several messengers out and decide where to have all of the men congregate before setting out on their march.

And there were other dealings that needed seeing to. The matter concerning his brother was not the least piece of business in his mind. Even as he sat, twirling a quill between two fingers and drafting a letter that would summon all of his men, he was thinking of the previous night and his brother's infractions.

Finally, he threw down the quill and pushed back his chair. He stood up abruptly and went to the door to shout for a servant. When the man arrived, he said, "Tell my brother Ulfast that he can send a reply to Khandr's invitation to the hunt. Tell him I want it handsomely done. No slip shod work."

Once that was seen to, he was capable of sitting down and writing down the summoning that would be copied and sent with each messenger. The order was written out quickly and he called another servant to take it to the scribe to be copied several times in large letters. The word would have to pass as quickly as possible. Messengers would ride into each settlement, read the order to rise up and bear arms, and leave a copy in the market square and pass onto the next. Seven thousand men were not to be found in one place, or even in a few places. The settlements of men were many, and the miles long.

The riders would set out that afternoon, Uldor realized. For now, though, his job was done. In a week, after the hunt, he would hear back from his messengers, and in less that time again, he himself with all the men from his own settlement would gather their arms and go out to meet the entire muster. In the mean time, there was a great deal of planning to do. . .

[littlemanpoet]

After the feast, Lachrandir and Tathren had retired for the night to the deeps of the forests beyond the borders of the Ulfing habitation. Lachrandir breathed deeply of the fresh, clean air, satisfied with his day's work and even more pleased with having left the filthy, crude Ulfings behind, at least for a few hours.

While Tathren wandered amongst the trees, Lachrandir sat in the comfortable crook of a great beech tree, and thought. He did have to admit to himself that there was, beneath the unlovely brutishness of these Ulfings, a spark of vigor; indeed a strength of arm and will that promised well for their shared venture.

But there were secrets being kept from him. This was bound to be so. Nevertheless, he considered it to be his duty to uncover what secrets he could so that Caranthir would know that which he needed to know.

When Tathren returned to Lachrandir, moments before dawn, Lachrandir laid his charge before the younger Elf.

"Tathren, I want you to spy on these Ulfings. Be secretive, move swiftly and quietly so that none know you are there, and listen to the words that pass between the leaders of the Ulfings and Borrim. Give word to me after sundown of what you have learned."

For once Tathren did not betray undue excitement, which pleased Lachrandir. The two Elves returned by different paths to the Ulfings' village.

[littlemanpoet]

Thorn sat on a seat of moss that covered a fallen tree. The sun was westering and he was staring at the eyes of Owl. Some folk had guessed that his forethought came from the staff itself, that an Owl fëa had been caught and enslaved to his will. Foolishness. Owl's eyes served as a point of focus so that his own fëa could be fee to catch echoes of the Song that Celehan had taught him.

Thorn's teacher had told him that he had wakened beneath the stars long, long ago, and had been taught by one who had come from the West, who called himself the Great Hunter. That one had called the Eldar to come west, and Celehan had, with many others, harkened to the call and journeyed west. But the farther west he had come, the harder the road until the fear of Thangorodrim had stopped him. So Celehan wandered the wilds of Middle Earth, still hearing the Song though not crossing the Great Sea to be with his teacher.

Thorn listened for the Song. Sometimes it sounded unclear. At such times he would look to his own heart to see if he had allowed his steps to wander from the truth and the right. Usually he found some way in which he had, and when he eschewed such ways, found that the Song could again be heard. He could hear it now. Doom was afoot for the Ulfings, his people. Their lords would lead them into evil. It was time to return to his folk and tell them what he knew. He set his face westward, for he would have to pass north of the Ered Luin and come south to meet the Ulfings.

[littlemanpoet]

Thorn had turned south by southwest, keeping the Blue Mountains always to his left. He had already passed through one of the Ulfing outlyer settlements when a horseman came into sight, leading a second, riderless horse by its reins. The trail was narrow and the bracken climbed high on either side. Thorn did not move out of the way. The horse and rider came on.

"Get out of the way, fool, or I'll run you down!"

Thorn placed his staff at arm's length before him, doffed his hood, and assumed a wide stance, and he stared into the eyes of the rider, who did not slow his pace. Thorn stood his ground. At the last moment the rider pulled back hard on the reins.

"Old man, I ought to have you flogged! I'm on Lord Uldor's business!"

"Not Lord Ulfang's? Is Ulfang dead, then?"

"Er, no." Incensed at being questioned, the horseman frowned. "What of it?"

"If Ulfang is not dead, why are you not on Ulfang's business?"

"The son commands in the name of his father."

"One hopes so," Thorn murmured loud enough to be heard. "Your orders are to summon all able bodied Ulfings to war in alliance with Caranthir the Elf Lord, against Morgoth Bauglir."

The horseman's mouth worked in surprise as almost all his news had been told him and more besides. Finally he found his tongue.

"No messengers have outraced me. Who told you this?"

"The gods. Their Song sings it to me."

The horseman looked confused. "I have heard of no such song. Such things are not known among the Ulfings."

"A pity. But now lend me your second horse. I am in need of haste. The settlement ahead of you is mustered for I gave them your news. It is the last Ulfing settlement on this road, so your task is done."

"I'll not give a stranger and raving vagabond my horse, even if my task-"

"You shall, for you do not know until this moment that Uldor will betray Caranthir and commit all the Ulfings to the overlordship of Morgoth unless he is stopped."

"This is a dire accusation," growled the horseman, "and base slander if false."

"My words are true."

"How do you know? From this song you talk of?"

"The Song you jibe is true."

"How do I know that?"

"Your heart knows it, for you know Uldor-" Thorn lowered his brow and allowed his next words to be laced with menace to any such ally of the Enemy. "-unless you yourself are a minion of Morgoth."

The horseman straightened in his saddle. "I am no minion of the Enemy!"

"Then prove it and lend me your horse."

Thorn waited. The horseman hesitated, his face screwed up in a look of doubt.

"Do not stand in my way," said Thorn, "unless you would betray your people."

The horseman bridled. "I am no traitor, and no servant of Morgoth!" Then he seemed to settle. "And I do know Uldor well enough. Well enough not to trust him. I will give you my horse. What's more, I will ride back with you. I am called Fleet. What may I call you?" Thorn told him his name. Fleet grinned. "I ride back to the Ulfings with a thorn at my side."

[littlemanpoet]

The seven days between the feast and the hunt passed quickly for some and slowly for others. For those eager for the hunt, time passed slowly. For those dreading the coming war, time passed all too quickly. For many, however, the needs of each day's tasks drew enough of their thought away from either the hunt or the muster, and the days passed as all of them did.

Khandr's household was busy with the preparations and time sped quickly by, except for Embla who cared not for hunts or household business. All her interest had now gone to the woman, Jord, whose grandeur hid something she craved.

The house of Ulfang was busy with the muster, the hunt being a mere afterthought for which the three sons left the preparations to servants. Their time was occupied with currying what favor it was still worthwhile to be had from Ulfang, and their own positions as opposed to each other in the eyes of all the Ulfings. In this battle Uldor had the upper hand. Ulfast and Ulwarth chafed at Ulfang's favor to their elder brother, and they plotted with their friends how to use either the hunt or the muster, or the upcoming battle, to advance their causes.

The houses of Dag and Káta were full of daily need and fear for the future. Dag and Gunna had Mem's fears to deal with as well. She had been forced to sing before the entire company, and her simple voice weaving the spell of the old song of their folk had stilled the entire audience. But Ulfasts's unwelcome attentions afterward had left Mem shaken. Lord's sons were wont to cast their glances where they liked, and common folk might be as protective as they liked, and still not be able to wholly protect their loved ones. So Dag and Gunna tried to calm Mem's fears, well knowing that what Ulfast wanted, Ulfast could have. Mem's face was drawn and pale, her eyes dry and her fingers shaking at their weaving. The days dragged.

For Lachrandir the Elf and his servant Tathren, the cares of Men were of little concern, and the days and nights passed as they always did. Tathren gathered what news he could, and reported it to Lachrandir.

So when Thorn arrived, with Fleet, in the main hold of the Ulfings, few noticed. This was well enough, for it afforded Thorn a chance to learn what he could before he spoke word of what he knew.

And then the morning of the hunt arrived.

[Folwren]

Those in the household of Ulfang stirred and rose before dawn on that morning. The place was busy as a bee hive, dealing with the last preparations for the hunt. Those taking part in the hunt dressed themselves. As the grey light of dawn was creeping above the horizon, the three brothers with other lords of the court met in the courtyard. Their horses were saddled and stood pawing the ground and champing their bits waiting with impatience. The men mounted up and their spears were handed to them.

Uldor grasped the shaft of his spear and rested the butt of it on his stirrup. He glanced around. To his left his two brothers were mounted and on his right, the elven ambassadors sat bareback upon their tall and beautiful steeds. Seeing that all the others were ready, Uldor turned his mount’s head and led the way from the courtyard.

The Borrim encampment was on the edge of the Ulfang settlement. It took them less than half of an hour to reach them. The place was busier there than it had been back at the hall.

Uldor and his brothers with their followers halted on the edge of the encampment and waited. In a moment, Uldor spotted Khandr approaching them. He dismounted, handing his spear to his servant and walked forward to meet the Borrim leader.

[littlemanpoet]

Thorn waited, staff in hand, at the edge of the Borrim encampment. He could be patient when it came to waiting, for his purpose was clear; once that purpose had been seen to, then he would move on to the next thing.

After a whle, the Borrim emissary came riding out of the encampment.

"Lord Khandr!" Thorn cried. "A word, if I may! I have urgent news!"

The Borrim leader's horse came up and stopped a moment, and Lord Khandr regarded Thorn with a measuring look.

Would the Borrim leader pass him by, or would he stop? Either way, Thorn had a plan. But he waited to see which it would be.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Khandr had been up and about for several hours, stalking out of the house long before the sun had risen. He had spoken first with Briga and Embla and then visited each of his men, hoping that one of them had come up with some interesting tidbit that would confirm his private suspicions that something strange was going on in the Ulfang camp. His retainers, however, had met with little success. Despite their best efforts, none of the men had managed to gather any real evidence of what was happening behind the secrecy of the court. Khandr had picked up traces of rumors, but these were no more substantial than leaves blowing in the wind. Still, he had told his friends to keep their eyes and ears open today in case anything developed during the hunt.

Only once, when he'd been speaking with Embla, did he become suspicious. He had seen a sly look fall over the woman's face, perhaps an admission that she knew more about Jord than she was actually letting on. But even this, Khandr could not be sure of.

Impatient to be off, Khandr had mounted his horse and sent the beast clattering across the field. In the distance, he could see Uldor and his brothers leading their entourage. Uldor had dismounted and was walking in Khandr's direction. But before Khandr could go forward to pay his respects, he had been startled by an unexpected entreaty from one whose name and face he could not place. Pulling up on the reins, Khandr stared over at the man. He hesitated a moment and then spoke, his voice laced with impatience, "I must be going. I have business with Uldor and his kin. There is much on my mind. But if this urgent news can not wait, speak up now whoever you might be."

[littlemanpoet]

This Borrim lord was impatient to be moving on. Thorn wasted not a moment.

"I will speak quickly. Two things. First, the Ulfing princes will betray Lord Caranthir and turn coat. Second, make peace with friend and kin while you yet have the time, for your life ends today."

By the look on Lord Khandr's face Thorn could tell that his initial reaction was like they always were: a mix of startlement and disbelief. How could some stranger speak with such certainty? Did he know something or was he mad? Thorn knew how it went. But Thorn also knew that a man's heart knows things his mind wishes not to believe. So this was a test. Would Lord Khandr listen to his heart?

[Child of the 7th Age]

Up ahead, a considerable crowd had gathered for the hunt. Men and women dressed in elaborate finery were mounted on steeds who frothed at the mouth, both they and their riders clearly impatient for the chase to start. Villagers in simpler garments wandered along the edge of the glade, while excited children darted in and out shouting out their glee at having a day free from chores or study. The steady yip of the dogs punctuated the general din as the animals paced the grove with their noises to the ground, their tails resolutely wagging.

Yet in one instant all that had faded from Khandr's mind. The hubub and bright colors receded as the meaning of the man's dark words sank in. "Who are you?" he snapped. "What do you know of such things? What reason do you have to accuse the Ulfings of treachery?"

The Borrim lord was of two minds. He had long suspected that Uldor and his crew were up to no good. Why else would he instruct his own men to spy on their hosts? Yet he was not one to trust in strangers, and he had never seen this man before. Khandr's voice dropped to a husky whisper as he stared fixedly at the messenger. "As to my fate..... Since when can any man or elf say that someone's time has come? None can do that, except perhaps the great ones from far over the sea. And I do not think you appear to be in their employ! So who has sent you here with these grim words? Whose bidding do you do?" He stood stock still, demanding an answer.

[littlemanpoet]

Thorn allowed a thin smile and looked at his own staff. So many questions. This man put him in mind of a good half of the animals on his staff: eagle, deer, fox, and serpent. Which would turn out to be strongest?

A proper answer to all of them would take hours. The question of greatest import must be the one answered first. Who Thorn was to this man did not matter. What he knew he had already stated. His reason for accusing the Ulfings was an verbal attack rather than a question, and he mentally deflected it. Who sent him was not to the point. That left one question most needful to answer.

"I do no man's bidding," Thorn said calmly, looking the lord in the eye. "I do and say what I know to be best and right. It is now yours to decide what to do with what you have heard, for your heart tells you that it is true. Do well and it may be enough."

[Child of the 7th Age]

Khandr snapped back at the messenger out of sheer frustration, "You can not expect me to act on this unless you tell me more. I do not even know you. Perhaps you have been sent by Uldor to test my loyalty and that of the Borrim. Perhaps you are a fool who waits by keyholes and listens, misunderstanding the small tidbits that fall onto your plate or a minion who curries favor with the dark lord by planting discontent and suspicion among those who oppose him. Speak up, man, and say more, before I alert the guards to drag you away!"

Before the messenger could respond, Khandr shook his head and cursed, spewing out indignation, "If what you say is true, you should be on the road now, making speed to reach Caranthir or King Bor with your message. What can you possibly expect me to do? I am one man with a handful of retainers. I have no army here, no king who will hear me out. I am a failed diplomat on a failed mission that is going nowhere who is being swept into the jaws of war."

[littlemanpoet]

Thorn's eyes narrowed on the Borrim lord as the man behaved not as fox, deer, or serpent, but as eagle or perhaps hare.

"Your failure or success depends on your deeds this day. I expect you to do what is right, but you will not if you let fear rule you." He paused. Khandr was shocked by his words and had opened his mouth to round on him again, but Thorn continued in a louder voice.

"I am called Thorn. I was taught to listen to the Song of the Valar. What I have heard lately sent me with these words to you. The words of the Song for others are of no concern to you. That you have demanded these words from me shows that you cannot hear your own heart. Learn to listen to it quickly, or you may do no good before your end. I bid you farewell."

With that, Thorn turned away and blended quickly into the crowd. He realized that Khandr could have him chased and captured and brought before the Ulfings. If that turned out to be the case, then it might very well be Thorn's day to fly beyond the world's edge. If so, he was ready, for beyond the world's edge the Song sang most clearly.

If he was allowed to go free for a little while yet, he had others to confront.

[Folwren]

Uldor handed his reins to his squire and took a few steps forward. Khandr’s approach had stopped abruptly and he was locked in what appeared to be a heated, though short, discussion with a ragged old man from the press of people around them. The Ulfing watched Khandr and the stranger closely for a moment, but as their talk drew on his curiosity rose. What would keep the Borrim leader back from meeting him as he should? Why should this beggar man be more important than the proper office of greeting him.

Uldor walked forward suddenly. At that moment, though, as he approached, the stranger turned away from Khandr and wove his way swiftly through the crowd of men. Khandr sat upon his horse, staring after him with a clenched jaw.

“Friend Khandr!” Uldor hailed as he drew near. Friend? A smile twitched at the side of his mouth before he continued. “Why do you tarry? Is the hunt not ready to begin?”

[littlemanpoet]

There went Uldor, strutting off to corner the Borrim lord. No subtlety about Ulfast's big oaf of an older brother, none at all. It would be disastrous for the lordship to fall into his hands, for the people, but obviously for himself. Ulfast held no illusions about the likely span of his years if Uldor became lord of the Ulfings. It would be short. He would be accused of committing some treacherous crime, treason even, with no proof to be found, just the word of Uldor's mealy mouthed and fork-tongued witnesses. It would not matter how many witnesses to the counter Ulfast would produce, they would all go missing by the most inconvenient of accidents. Not clever, but effective, was brother Uldor.

And living in denial. For example, Uldor had no idea that Ulfast had had his own meetings with Jord; only they were held in secret, hidden from prying ears and eyes; they were never seen to converse in public, not even make eye contact. And Ulfast knew that Jord had greater confidence in himself rather than Uldor. She knew he was the clever one.

Ulfast saw the ragged old man flee an encounter with his brother. He had not had a chance to see him well.

Ulfast strode forward, not to be outdone by his brother. Before Khandr had a chance to reply to Uldor, Ulfast threw in his own words.

"Greetings, Lord Khandr! Did that old man have a name?"

[Child of the 7th Age]

For a long moment, Khandr stood silent, hearing the words from Ulfast and Uldor but paying scant attention to them. Finally, he turned to the men and replied, "A name? He spoke a name in passing, but as it meant nothing to me I let it slip away. He spoke some garbled nonsense....about mischief afoot in the court. But I understood nothing that he said. Surely you have heard of him for he seemed to know you two quite well....."

Hearing no response, Khandr forged ahead, anxious to be finished with any talk of the stranger. "But enough of such things. If we do not get on our way, the day will be gone and we will have no quarry to show for ourselves. I am tired of standing here. Can we not get on our way? Now I go to ride with my retainers."

Khandr pulled on the reins and turned the animal around, trotting over to join the rest of the Borrim who waited a short distance away. In that manner, he also avoided immediate conversation with his hosts, at least till he had done something that must be done. Riding up to Hunta, the Borrim lord leaned close, lowering his voice, and told the man something in his ear. Hunta's face turned ashen as he listened to the words.

"Now?" Hunta queried. "I am to go now?" the young man looked reluctant and nervous.

"Yes, go and pack a satchel of food. Gather all the weapons you have. Then go immediately on the road along with that dog of yours. Make all haste. Head straight to our King as fast as you can ride and tell him what I have heard. Hopefully, you will get there before our forces leave for the field. I do not know how much truth lies behind these charges, but I can not ignore these words. I will try to gain more information and send it along later, either from here or once our hosts join together at the meeting place. Go now Hunta, and may the hosts of the West protect you for we may surely need it."

With a final salute, Khandr turned and rode back again towards the larger group. This time, he asked one of his men, "Have you seen my wife Embla? Has she joined us for the hunt? I have great need to speak with her. Our party leaves now to follow the game, but I would have her ride beside me that I may share some news." He looked up and glanced around the clearing to see if she was there.

[Folwren]

“A name?” Khandr repeated, turning to look at the two brothers. His brows knit were knit together. “He spoke a name in passing, but as it meant nothing to me, I let it slip away. He spoke some garbled nonsense. . .about mischief afoot in the court. But I understood nothing that he said. Surely you have heard of him for he seemed to know you two quite well. . .”

Uldor cast a measured glance towards Ulfast, wondering if his brother knew anything of the ragged stranger. The brothers’ eyes met, briefly, but Uldor knew in that second that Ulfast knew as little of the stranger as Uldor did. Neither of them answered and they looked back to Khandr.

“But enough of such things,” the Borrim leader said with an impatient movement in his saddle. “If we do not get on our way, the day will be gone and we will have no quarry to show for ourselves. I am tired of standing here. Can we not get on our way? Now I go to ride with my retainers.”

Uldor nodded and stepped back as Khandr wheeled his horse about and trotted back the way he had come. He stared after him, his jaw clamped shut tightly. He said nothing out loud to his brother, but his mind was whirling with thoughts. ‘Mischief afoot in the court? What did he tell him? What does he know? What does he think he knows? I will have an answer. And if he dared speak anything dangerous. . .’

“Come, brother,” Ulfast said at his side. Uldor looked at him with a black look. He hated his thought to be interrupted. “It’s time to ride.”

“Yes. It is time.” He turned and strode back quickly to his horse. He mounted up and looked about himself. “Where is Brodda?” he asked of the nearest attendant.

“Down the line, my lord,” the man said, pointing.

“Stay here,” he commanded his squire, and he urged his horse forward and pulled his head about and rode down the line. “Brodda,” he said, catching the servant’s eye. He jerked his head sideways and Brodda came out away from the others. “Brodda, did you see the man talking with the Borrim leader?”

“Yes, briefly.”

“I want him.” Brodda looked about at the many people milling about. Uldor grabbed his shoulder and turned his attention back to him. “I want him found and brought to me. At whatever cost, Brodda. Do you understand? Use whatever means you must.”

Brodda looked bitter, but he nodded his head. He understood.

[Noinkling]

‘Valr, you go on and help Falarr with the hunting gear.’ Dulaan watched as he turned away from her and walked resignedly away. She could not help but see how the boy’s shoulders slumped and his lips clamped firmly together as he bit back yet another protest.

‘Here, help Granny, pack these seed cakes and little pot of sweet goat-butter,’ she instructed Jóra. ‘And fetch one of those pots of honey from the chest – one with the red string about its neck. Got that nice bit of comb in it.’ She gave the girl a nudge with her hand, one finger of the other pointing to where the family’s larder was stored. 'And those two crocks of jam there at the end of the top shelf, too.'

Again, she saw this child’s shoulders droop with disappointment. ‘Go, on now. You know we’ll put our heads together later, you and I, For now, let your mother and father sort this problem out without you, missy!’ She gave the girl a conspiratorial wink, nodding her chin as if to confirm the promise.

When the two youngsters were busy about their tasks, Dulaan made her way to where Grímr and Káta spoke in quiet, tense tones behind the curtain of their sleeping compartment. She waited for a pause in the conversation, then called cleared her throat loudly and called out to her heart's-daughter. ‘Káta! I’ve had a thought in this old head,’ she went on. ‘Let me come in and we’ll see if you two think it might help for now.’ She waited a moment, hearing nothing. She could just imagine the shrugging of her Káta's shoulders and the shaking of Grímr’s head as a deep silence filled the little space beyond the curtain.

‘Well, since I didn’t hear a “No!” ’, she said, pushing the thick material aside. ‘I’ll take it as a “Yes, come in”, then. She stepped into the small quarters, letting the curtain twitch back into place. ‘Well now, how about we do this so’s you can make the hunt with those outsiders and the Lords,’ she began, nodding at Grímr. ‘You know, make a good showing for the family.’ She turned toward Káta, pushing on with her idea before they could ask her to leave. ‘And it’s been a good turn of days since the ... banquet,’ she spit the word out with some distaste. ‘I think I should pay a call on Gunna. See how she and the baby are coming along. And I’ll need someone to drive me.’ She rubbed her left shoulder as if it pained her. ‘Hurts something fierce today! And no, I don’t want Jóra driving. She’s a little bit wild in her handling of the reins! I was thinking Fálki could handle the cart, while Jóra rides along to keep the cakes and pots and such steady in the back.’ She looked from one to the other, her brow raised in question. ‘Course, that’ll leave the hunting party a little short on your end. Why’nt you take Valr to handle your gear and manage your kill. He’s old enough now, don’t you think? I know he’s been out hunting with Falarr before...tagged along, wasn’t it. Boy’s moving toward manhood, be good for him!’

Before Káta or her husband could answer, there was a quickly squelched sound of delight come from beyond the curtain. A hasty protest. And the sound of a minor tussle threatening to escalate...

[piosenniel]

‘Well, wife, this is hardly the time to approach a man about his sister’s marrying!’ Grímr growled out his well worn argument in as hushed a manner as his frustration would allow. Womenfolk! He grunted to himself. Not all things are fixed by love! Love – of all things!!! The boy was still a pup. What can he know of love? Wanting.....more likely. There was a battle, most likely many long hard battles, coming certain as the moon’s turn. Sooner more likely. After would be time enough to think of binding one family to another. Not that the boy had a thought for whether this was a good match for his family. His brow furrowed as his thoughts traveled down this path. Excellent smithy, that Dag, though. Good man in his dealings. Straight forward, loyal to his friends.....loyal to his family, isn’t he. Didn’t he take on his wife’s sister and hasn’t he made a good life for all of them. Be a good man to have at one’s side. His brow eased itself upward from frustration to speculation.

Káta’s voice broke in on his reverie. ‘I can see the stubborn old mule is on his feet now and thinking about moving his carcass forward. So? What are we going to do, husband? Fálki’s much like you, dear heart. His mind and heart are set in this matter. He bows to your place as this family’s head. But not forever. And you know his brother will help him. I will not lose two sons to something that can be solved with a little effort from you.’ Her hand came up to rest on his forearm in a familiar gesture. ‘That unpleasantness at the banquet pushes for a swifter course of action on our family’s part. Especially if we are to tie a bond between Dag’s family and ours. And, really, that would be an advantageous tie for us, don’t you think? Well.....?’

‘Káta! I’ve had a thought in this old head,’ Dulaan’s voice cried out in the space between the question and the coming answer. ‘Let me come in and we’ll see if you two think it might help for now.’

Grímr’s brow furrowed once again; his breathed in just on the verge of saying ‘Not now!’, but the curtain twitched aside and in came the older woman, her eyes snapping with a determined light. She laid out her little plan, and he wondered if she and Káta had already set this in place. ’twould be just like the two wrens to have sorted this already! But his wife looked genuinely surprised at the older woman’s plan. Though now that he watched her, he could see his Káta’s head nod nearly imperceptibly as Dulaan talked. And that shrewd look come on her features as she considered how this might work out. He sighed inwardly, wanting to put this aside for the moment. The prospect of the hunt and being seen in the company of the Lords loomed large in the recesses of his thought. He could not spend all day arguing this problem. It would not do to skip the hunt. Too many offenses would be tallied against him for that breach of courtesy. These were unstable times. He needed to position himself favorably in whoever’s eyes would be the one to take power when the old Lord died. To their surprise, he nodded his own head, giving the final admonition that Káta was to go also on this visit.

It was Falarr, his younger siblings’ collars clasped firmly in his fists, whose grinning face greeted his father as Grímr yanked the heavy curtain aside. ‘So, I’ve caught these two nosy-pokes listening in! Pushing each other aside to hear better, weren’t they!? Don’t know what you’ve been talking about, but they both seem excited about it.’ He let go of Valr and Jóra, both of whom fixed him fiercely with their exasperated stares.

‘I’m to go with you! On the hunt!’ Valr said with an indignant tone. ‘And I get to see the baby!!!’ Jóra squealed. ‘Though I think I handled the cart last time quite well!’

Grímr gave instructions to Falarr. Yes, Valr was to go with them. ‘But as our weapons’ keeper. And mind you, Valr, bring the net bag for any smaller game we might bring home. The larger will go to the Lord’s hall.’ He dismissed the two with a wave, calling out to Falarr as he made off with his brother. ‘Send Fálki in. I’ve need of him to see the women safely on an errand.’

---------------

Joining the hunting party.....

The hunting party was already on their way when Grímr and his two sons joined in at the rear. He nodded to those he knew as he drew near, calling out a greeting to them. ‘First hunt!’ he said with some pride to one as he nodded back toward Valr riding on his right. ‘Good hunting today, I think. Should be plenty of meat for the Lord’s table tonight!’ he called to another.

He motioned his sons closer with a flick of his hand. ‘Stay close to me. Many people here we don’t know.’ Leaning left toward Falarr, he crooked his head toward Valr. The younger son sat his horse with an excited air about him, his eyes darting here and there as he took in the hunters, their weapons, their mounts. ‘If we are separated, you stick to Valr like a goose-grass burr. You know how things can happen in the heat of the chase and kill.’

[Nogrod]

Fastarr had been following the events unfolding in the field with only a slight interest. He was mounted beside Hunta and Bergr and ready to show the Ulfing their skills in the hunt. They had been generally just scorned in the settlement this far. Now it would be their turn to show what they could do. But as Khandr came back and talked hastily to Hunta with a grave expression Fastarr started to get notice. Something was going on. He scanned the field to see what was happening. He caught a sight he was troubled with and spurred to the side of his lord after Hunta had turned around and Khandr had called for Embla.

“My lord, lord Khandr! Who was that man you talked with? For I see he is in trouble right now. Is that good or bad?”

Khandr turned to face his retainer a bit confused as he was abruptly wrought from his thoughts focusing on Embla.

“What do you mean Fastarr?” He followed Fastarr’s eyes to just see Ruadan rushing into the crowd at the middle of the glade.

“Lord Uldor just sent his dogs after that old man you talked with while you had your discussion with Hunta. I saw that orders were passed. From what I can see, there is no doubt he was sent after the gamling.”

Khandr hesitated just a second.

“Go Fastarr, Go and protect him if you can find him. It might be important indeed.”

“I’ll follow that man and let him do the finding... and I’ll stop him if he doesn’t reach the oldtimer first.”

Fastarr turned to follow Ruadan’s advancement through the crowds to estimate the path he was taking. Just as he was turning to leave he heard Khandr address him one more time, now with a more graver face.

“Bring him to my quarters... if he accepts the offer. Hugo and Grogr can hide him there if necessary... and...”, it seemed Khandr hesitated yet again. Fastarr looked at his lord with a questioning look.

“If I’m not with you as this hunt is over pay heed to what he says. There are black clouds over us... You must do what is right then.”

There was an uneasy silence between the two men. Fastarr’s head was exploding with questions. Why was his lord looking that grim and why did he spoke like he spoke? Why wouldn’t he be among them in the evening? Who was this old chap anyway? What was going on?

“Go Fastarr, go like our fate was at stake!”

“Aye sir!” Fastarr spurred his mount towards the crowd where Ruadan had vanished.

~*~

“Hugo!”, Fastarr shouted seeing the older servant emerge from between the people preparing for the hunt. Praised be the spirits! He steered towards Hugo while following Ruadan making his way through the crowd some fifty yards to his right.

“Take Leafeye and follow me from a distance!”

Hugo gave Fastarr a confused look. “Yes Fastarr, but... what on earth is...?”

“I’m on lord Khandr’s bidding and there’s no time to explain. We’re trying to protect an old man from Uldor’s brutes... Now take these and follow me!” He unmounted as he spoke and after giving the reins to Hugo he picked his staff from Leafeye’s side and ran into the crowd heading towards the direction he had counted he could meet up with Ruadan.

It seemed like the whole settlement had gathered to the field outside the town. After passing through those feverishly preparing for the hunt with their aids Fastarr faced a wall of wellwishers and curious townsfolk who had gathered just to watch the spectacle. The children were chasing each other in their games and the grannies were handing out packed meals for the hungry ones. Fastarr ran alongside the narrow path between the crowd and the preparing horsemen trying to catch again a glimpse of his target within the crowd. He was running towards the towngate.

Finally he spotted him. He spotted them both. The old man was quite near the gate advancing steadily towards it and Ruadan was some fifty yards behind him pushing his way through the lunching crowd on his right. I could just manage to get between them at the gate... He turned to wave hastily to Hugo. Fastarr ran as fast he could jumping over lunchbaskets and horsegear not so much sidestepping people coming towards him but more swinging his staff to and fro to make them dodge away.

Soon enough Hugo made it to his side coming through the preparing horsemen.

“That old man there, can you see him, the one going through the gate right now?”

Hugo confirmed he had recognised the man.

“Take him to safety to the residence. Hide him away with Grogr. Say it’s a question of his life and lord Khandr’s offer. I will stop that brute chasing him. Now go!”

After Hugo beat Leafeye to full speed Fastarr focused on outrunning Ruadan to the gate. He’s too concentrated to the gamling as not to have noticed me yet... that’s good. Now I just need to beat him there... I can make it, I can make it!

Fastarr reached the gate when Ruadan was some twenty yards away from it. Hugo and the old man had entered the gate a few moments ago. Fastarr got a glimpse of the old man turning from the first corner with Hugo trailing just behind him. Fastarr jumped quickly to aside to conceal himself into the shadows of the corner of the gate. He took a two-handed grip from his staff and hoisted it above his head. He was ready.

[Noinkling]

‘Looks like Dag’s busy at his forge, eh?’ Dulaan’s chin lifted toward the smithy, a small smile wrinkling her face. From her seat in the back of the little wagon, she could see the thick plume of smoke rise up in the cool air, punctuated here and there with bright sparks. The sound of the smith’s hammer rang loud in the distance. Fálki nodded, his eyes sliding momentarily to where Dag’s smithy stood. A look of apprehension furrowed his young brow for the briefest of moments, replaced at once by one of determination.

Only a short space longer and they were at the house where Dag’s family dwelt. Before the brake was set, Jora had already bounced from the wagon’s bed. ‘Come on, Granny!’ she cried, grabbing the basket the old woman was handing over the side. The two pots of jam jostled against each other, their hard clay sides making a dull clanking sound.

‘Child, do be careful! I didn’t spend those hours bent over the Partridge-berry plants to have my good jam spilled all over the insides of this basket. I can feel my old back aching right now with the remembering!’ She turned back the napkin covering the contents of the basket and surveyed the contents. ‘Looks like they’re alright, then. ‘Long with the sweet buns your mother made.’ She handed the basket over the side once more, nodding favorably as the girl took the handle carefully.

‘Fálki, come round and give old gran a hand down, won’t you?’ The young man hurried to help her down. As she slid from the wagon bed, she spoke in a low undertone to him. ‘You’ve got it at hand, don’t you?’ His head nodded; his hand went to the small bulge inside his vest. ‘You just let your mother speak, y’hear? Then when I’ve said a few words, you come forward. Got that, sweetling?’ She patted his arm gently. From near the front of the wagon, Káta called out, gathering her flock about her.

[Lalaith]

Embla received the summons from her lord with mixed feelings.
She had been astonished that she was permitted to join the hunt, and she had been enjoying the simple and unaccustomed physical pleasure of riding: of the wind on her face, and the movement of her body synchronising with the beast beneath her. Her enjoyment had momentarily driven her anxieties away.
She saw that Khandr was deep in talk with Fastarr, and self-conscious following their kitchen encounter, she watched and waited until the serving-man had taken his leave and ridden off at high speed.

Then, when he was alone, she chose her moment. "You wanted me, Lord Khandr?" she said - looking, for once, her husband straight in the eye.

[littlemanpoet]

Thorn kept his mind's eye on Owl atop his staff, as he walked purposefully toward the gate: he could hear the Song. Thus he knew what Lord Khandr had said to the Ulfing lords, and what he had said to his retainers. Khandr was an Eagle with necessary shades of Serpent and Fox. He was a good leader, resigned to his fate if it be death, and would not shy from it; but also that he would be as clever as he knew to be, and would send word to his lord back among the Borrim. Thorn allowed himself the ghost of a smile.

The Ulfing lordlings were Bulls. Ambitious, reckless, making their way with whatever allies served the moment, even if it would be for the worse later. They had sent for Thorn's capture. They had sent one Ruadan to secure him. How fitting. They would rue their choices, as their choices would ruin their folk. He smiled to himself mirthlessly: if he said these things aloud, his hearers would jeer; but such connections were the trade-tools of seers. They need not make sense to others. The Song revealed all it would; what others thought of it meant nothing.

A servant of Khandr named Fastarr was faster than Ruadan and intercepted him. Thus Ruadan was rudely interrupted in his effort to obey his Ulfing lords; he would rue his failure and would be ruined by his lords. Another man rode after him through the gates, one Hugo by name. He came up beside Thorn and reined his horse and opened his mouth to speak, but Thorn spoke before the man could get a word out.

"Hugo, I am to go where you go," Thorn said matter of factly, enjoying the play on the man's name. The man looked stunned to hear from Thorn's mouth that which he thought he would have to persuade him of. Then his face cleared.

"Up you come!"

His fitness belying his years, Thorn mounted up behind Hugo and off they went.

[Folwren]

As soon as Uldor had given Brodda his instructions, he turned and headed back to his place at the head of the column. He took a deep breath as his horse trotted up the line and smoothed the lines of worry from his face. A mask fell into place and only the very few that knew him well would have caught the look of some concern hidden deep in his eyes.

He pulled his horse up beside the elven ambassador and his apprentice figure. “Well, my lord Lachrandir,” he said, giving as near a genuine smile as he could, “I imagine we will be starting soon. Lord Khandr is speaking over there.” He nodded in the Borrim’s direction where Khandr and Fastarr sat upon their separate mounts, together in close dialogue. “As soon as he is done there, I imagine we will be on our way.”

He relapsed quickly into silence and settled back into his saddle. His head swiveled about again and he fixed his dark eyes again on the Borrim leader. He was growing wearisome of the waiting, and now he was even more anxious to be off.

The talk between the two Borrim came to a close. The other man, one who Uldor did not know, turned his horse about sharply, bringing the reins about the beast’s neck and turning his nose all the way about before spurring him forward. Khandr at once turned to his other side to speak with a woman who had approached.

’What on earth does that man think I am – to be kept waiting so long?’ He drew an impatient breath. ‘And what did he send that other fellow off for? Why so quickly? Uldor turned to watch Fastarr urge his horse as quickly as he could through the thick gathering of men, women, and children. Suspicion slowly grew in his mind. He was sent on an errand, and sent in quick succession to Brodda’s errand. Were they connected? What was it he told him?

[Nogrod]

As soon as Ruadan entered from the gate Fastarr threw his arms over him and yanked his staff towards him forcing Ruadan's throat between the staff and his chest. Fastarr pulled Ruadan quickly to the shadows of the gate and forced him to his knees.

"Why were you after that old chap? Tell me now and tell me quickly. I've killed men before..." Gah, an overexaggeration but maybe I'm forgiven for the circumstances... Fastarr pulled the staff firmly tighter towards him leaving Ruadan gasping for air. Ruadan's feet started kicking into the air.

"Tell me now or end your journey right here", Fastarr hissed from between his teeth while slightly loosening the grip. Tell me you fool, I don't want to kill anyone any more... there has been enough sorrow from one...

"I... I... I can't t-tell... They'll kill m-me..." Ruadan was trying to get air to his lungs.

Fastarr yanked the staff even tighter he had done the previous time. Ruadan's face started turning blue.

"What do you think I will do to you if you don't tell me? Here your death is imminent. From the hands of your lords you may still escape". Just to make his point sink in Fastarr added the pressure and then released it. Ruadan was coughing his lungs out. There was water pouring from his eyes and bubbles fell from the corners of his mouth. Ruadan drew his lungs full of air.

"They just told me to get him with whatever it would take, whatever it would cost. I needed to turn him to Brodda the chieftain who serves lord Uldor. That's all I know."

Fastarr started tightening the grip once again and Ruadan felt it.

"Honestly! I know nothing else! That's what I was told to..."

Fastarr thought for a moment releasing the grip enough for Ruadan to breathe again. Then he took the staff from around Ruadan's neck and slowly straightened himself up. Ruadan fell on all fours from exhaustion panting heavily.

Before Ruadan had chance to see it coming Fastarr had knocked him unconscious with a firm hit from his staff. After dragging Ruadan behind a few barrells and checking no one had been overseeing the incident he straightened his tunic and ran after Hugo.

There was no one behind the corner. Fastarr made the conclusion and took to his feet. To Khandr's residence then... I can't take part on the hunt without Leafeye... and I want to know something before I go back there.

Rushing finally through the gate of Khandr's quarters Fastarr found the old man standing at the steps, seemingly waiting for Hugo whose noise could be heard from the stables to the right. He was frozen under the gamling's gaze.

Finally the old man raised his eyebrows and Fastarr felt like he could breathe again.

"Master...? Well, erm... I mean what did lord Khandr mean when he said that he might not come back from the hunt today? Is it something that has to do with you? And do you know what is the right thing we should do if that evil would befall on us?"

[littlemanpoet]

The Song did not sing this man's name to him.

"I greet you. I am Thorn, some time of the Ulfings. How are you called?"

"Fastarr, Master Thorn."

Having named himself, the young warrior cocked his head expectantly, making it clear that he was still expecting an answer to his original question. Thorn glanced at the images on his staff. Yes, this young man was almost all Eagle; there was a bit of Otter about him too; decisive and quick to action but strong of feeling as well.

"One of the Eldar taught me how to listen to the Song of Arda," Thorn said calmly. "I had words from the Song for your lord: two things. First, that the Ulfing lords will betray Lord Caranthir to Morgoth Bauglir. They will turn coat in the midst of battle. Second, that this day is the last Lord Khandr will spend within the walls of Arda."

Thorn raised a hand to stop Fastarr who had frowned and opened his mouth speak quick words of anger.

"Had I not told him the second thing, he would not have taken decisive action to warn of the Ulfing betrayal. He knows in his heart that this is his last day, and has proven true to his honor by sending your fellow armsman to warn the Borrim king of my words."

The one called Hugo returned from the stables, having overheard part of Thorn's words.

"Fastarr, he knew my name before I gave it."

Lachrandir

What, wondered the Elf, was all the fuss? Did they not want to go on this hunt? It seemed that this Borrim lord was very impressionable. Some fool of a shaman had apparently spoken some rubbish that had quite won the man over to change some plans he had laid out, and whilst the Ulfing lordlings chafed impatiently, he busied himself with seemingly urgent business that had nothing to do with the rest of those gathered. It was really quite amusing, especially to see Uldor so infuriated that there was someone - besides himself of course - whom he could not control. To cover his rage, Uldor spoke mindless banter to him, eyeing the Borrim lord suspiciously.

By contrast, Ulfast's eyes seemed to constantly be moving from one subject to the next, never resting in one place for long. What was he looking for? Game ready to be killed? Lachrandir shrugged, hoping that these boorish, ugly Men might turn out to be of some real use to Caranthir's military plans.

[Folwren]

It was not long before Ruadan came back to his senses. The first thing he was aware of was a terrible ache on the side of his head where Fastarr's staff had struck him. The next thing he felt was the ground beneath him. Slowly, he opened his eyes and sat up. His head swam and a sharp pain shot down his spine.

He looked about. He was lying in an out of the way place, an alley of sorts, tucked between the outer wall and a small shed.

Ruadan swore under his breath as his lifted his hand first to his head and then his throat. “Gah,” he said, gulping slightly as he rubbed his gullet. “I didn't even see the bloke.”

It did not good to sit there and feel sorry for himself. Slowly, and in much pain, he pulled himself to his feet and stumbled out into the open. He had to find his master, the cheiftan Brodda, and tell him what had passed. A sick feeling tightened his stomach and he quailed deep within himself. As little as he would admit it to any other man, he feared to make his report.

“Sir,” he said, when he had found Brodda after long search. “I was waylaid and my purpose ruined.”

[Nogrod]

"Fastarr, he knew my name before I gave it."

It was Hugo who clearly tried to make him believe in this man's speciality.

Thoughts were going to and fro in Fastarr's mind. So he is a soothsayer... but why did he have to ask for my name then? But Lord Khandr believed in him as well...And what is the right thing to do now? The right thing is to protect lord Khandr but if he is to die anyway... what then? Is there an alternative course I should take? The Ulfings will turn against Caranthir... well, we knew it even if we didn't actually know it... So that was what lord Khandr was talking to Hunta back in the field. Does the song say what a faithful retainer should do?


"Does the song say what a faithful retainer should do?" Fastarr mumbled aloud and met the calm gaze of the old man.

"I thought I'd be needed in the hunt to look after my lord and to find out whether there are some fishy things going on in the Ulfing court. Now you have undermined both of these occupations for if lord Khandr will fall anyway and it's true that the Ulfings will take the side of the dark one there is nothing I can do there."

The agonising outcome of what he said got clear to Fastarr only as he spoke his words.

What should I believe? What should I do then?

"Lord Khandr said we should pay heed to what you say. So what is it you say?"

[littlemanpoet]

Thorn watched the intense young man before him. Mere seconds passed as Fastarr, as Hugo had called him, mulled over his words. A slow smile came to Thorn's face when Fastarr had asked his question. He was loyal.

"Did your lord command you? Have you completed the tasks of his command?"

"I was commanded," Fastarr replied, "to find and protect you." He glanced at Hugo. "And to have Hugo and Grogr find a place of hiding for you."

"Have you done the second part?"

"I will now! Hugo, you and Grogr are to hide this man from the Ulfing lords."

"We will do our best, Fastarr, sir."

Thorn smiled. "Now that you have fulfilled Lord Khandr's command, your first task is that which it has always been. It would be a shame if Khandr's murderer is never found out."

[Child of the 7th Age]

"I would have a word with you, my lady. Come pull off the path so we may talk where none can hear." Guiding his horse towards the cover of a wooded copse, Khandr stared directly at the young woman and shook his head, uncertain how to go forward.

For a long time there was silence till Embla finally spoke, "You are not at the head of the pack today. What has happened? It is not at all like you..."

"No," he replied in a husky whisper. "I have much on my mind. There are signs and omens that all is not well. But these do no more than confirm what I already felt in my heart. I will leave now and go back to the house. I will tell Briga to ride back to our homeland. I will ask the servants to pack our belongings and accompany her quickly on the road, that she may go and stay with our daughters and their families. For there is no safety in this town. You are welcome, Embla, to accompany her as my second wife. But if that does not suit your needs, you are also free to strike out on your own. Since you have born me no child and are a second wife, the custom of our people is such that these bonds may be dissolved.

Khandr stopped a moment, staring fixedly at the ground, as he searched for the right words, "I am afraid in my desire to forge an alliance of our households that I have done you an injustice. For your eyes flash with anger, and sometimes I see a quiet sadness. I had to say something.... I would not leave this task undone." He shook his head and shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. Then he took a chain from around his neck. It was made of gold and fashioned with many stones. He held it out to Embla. "I would not have you leave with empty hands. For times are hard and you will need some help. My wife Briga will have my lands and all my other possessions, but you will need something to get by."

"You are free then to do as you please. To come or go as you want...."

He started to retreat, but then looked back one last time. "There is one thing. If you hear or see anything strange from those at court, and especially from the woman Jord, whom I do not trust, you would be wise to speak with me or, if I am not here, then to Fastarr or one of the Elves. There is evil afoot....great evil. I do not think I will live to see the end of it. But perhaps you may yet do some small thing that will help preserve the light that is left to us. Just keep your ears open and your heart fixed to goodness." With that strange pronouncement, the weary envoy signed and quickly rode away from the hunt.

[Nogrod]

Fastarr was startled. His confusion was easily read from his bodylanguage and from his face. Everything was clear and plain to see but Fastarr had to really strain to work it all out. A murder... of course a murder... but by whom and couldn’t it be stopped? He felt an urge to be on his way, immediately. How long had he been away from Khandr? Was it already too late? Or was there too late in this situation?

“Thank you... sire. I’ll pay heed to your advice and will speed on my way... and maybe...” he paused to swallow, “... Maybe there’s something that could be done to prevent the horrible deed?” He was not expecting for soothing words but he had to ask that question.

“The Song is the Song. It’s the truth woven from the very fabric of this world itself reaching farther human eys can see or ears hear. But you may affect what happens afterwards if you stay true. So go now. May the blessing of Valar be with you.”

Fastarr bowed to the old man and stood still for a moment. Suddenly he came back to his alert self. For an outsider it would have looked like he had been somewhere away for a moment but now he was animated again and turned towards Hugo who had just reached them.

“Quickly now Hugo, get inside before you’re seen by too many curious pairs of eyes standing at the porch.” He glanced at Thorn and returned back to Hugo. “And Leafeye...?”

“She’s inside”, Hugo waved towards the stables. “I just gave her some oats. You know how I spoil those beasts.” Hugo gave him a warm smile trying to uplift the mood but got graver immediately after that. “She’s ready to go. Don’t worry about us. We’ll manage. Valar bless you and lord Khandr”.

Fastarr took Hugo from the shoulder and looked at him with love and appreciation in his eyes. He shook Hugo’s shoulder and said solemnly: “You’re a good man Hugo. I’ve said that a thousand times but some things just can’t be repeated too many times. Now take care of our guest. I’ll see if anything is to be done.”

With that he turned and ran to the stables. Soon enough Leafeye galloped from the stables carrying Fastarr whose eyes now had an intense and focused gleam in them. The rider and the horse headed back towards the fields like fire was chasing their tail.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Khandr had gone bolting down the path scarcely aware of where he was going. His mind conjured up one grim scenario after another, each picture more horrifying than the last. He still did not know where the real danger lay, either to himself or, more importantly, to the military endeavor they were about to undertake. As he rattled into the courtyard, the old lord unsteadily dismounted, feeling his age drop down upon his head. Suddenly remembering what he had neglected to do, Khandr turned and barked out instructions to one of the stable lads standing in front of the house, "Go now. Quickly! Take one of the mares and ride back to the hunt. Leave word with the others that I have been unavoidably delayed by personal business.....something I could not put off. If I do not make it back before this morning's chase is done, have the others join me here for the festive meal that we have planned" Khandr stared at a broad grassy knoll where a series of tables had already been set out. Servants were running back and forth from the hall, each carrying plates filled with cheeses and meats and large kegs of ale and mead.

The boy looked quizically in Khandr's direction, but his lord gave no indication that he was about to share any further information. Nodding and pulling down on the brim of his cap, the lad raced into the stable and saddled up, hurrying back along the path on which Khandr had just come. Meanwhile, the man handed his horse off to another of the servants and then went inside the house.

"Briga....Briga?" He rushed into the kitchen where he knew he would find her supervising the last minute preparations for the meal. "She looked up startled to see him returning so soon when the hunt was still going on. Before she could inquire as to the reason, he waved off all questions and pulled her to the side, telling her something of what had gone on in the glade earlier that day, but leaving out the words about the personal danger that now confronted him. Quickly he explained, "That is why you must go now, as soon as the feast has ended. No one will think to check the roads so soon. You must go straight home, and the other servants with you. There is danger afoot and you would all be safer away from here and far from the field of battle. This place, at least, is no longer safe. One other thing....." Here he turned away so she could not see the look on his face. "You must take my personal papers with you....those things hidden at the bottom of the chest. The journal I keep of my dealings with those at court.... That must go to King Bor. And do not forget to bring my will or other official papers. Leave nothing here for I no longer trust our hosts."

Briga opened her mouth as if to protest, but he summarily shook his head. "There is no arguing about this thing. No one is safe here, and I will not rest easy till you and the rest of the household have journeyed home. One other thing....Embla may choose to come with you or she may not. I have given her a choice, and I think she will pick her own path." He glanced over at his wife, and saw a look of true relief on her face. For once, he had done the right thing......

[Lalaith]

"You are free then to do as you please. To come or go as you want...."

Embla caressed the necklace she had been given with her fingers, and gazed at her husband, lost for words.

Freedom. She could appreciate the shamed sincerity of his words, and for the first time, she felt something approaching affection for this man who had been her husband. Given the age gap, and the fact that their physical relations, such as they were, had been joyless and perfunctory, this warmth was hardly romantic. It was more like the feeling a niece might feel for an uncle who had given unexpected tip, or a that of a truculent pupil receiving praise from a hitherto forbidding teacher.

Khandr continued to speak. ".....the woman Jord, whom I do not trust.... evil afoot....speak with me or, if I am not here, then to Fastarr or one of the Elves.... help preserve the light...”
Jord....Fastarr....who to trust .... Embla felt like she was in a maelstrom. “My Lord....I too have felt this evil. I will speak...”
....but she spoke to the air. Khandr had spurred his horse and he was gone.

Too late. Alone, still clutching the necklet she had been given as her parting-gift, Embla sank down onto the greensward. But free.....her mind grew blank with the thrill of it, and suddenly the peculiar feeling she had in the field, after her meeting with Jord, came back with increased power. Her mind filled with horrors... nameless things that slowly began to form words....words that she she must share.
She rose up again. What she had seen had left her cold and sick in a grey world. Her hair stuck dankly to her brow and her robe felt prickly against her flesh. She needed to speak to someone, quickly. To find comfort. Fastarr...the name, and the face that went with it, came instinctively to her. She rode off at frantic speed towards the stable where she had last seen the hunter.
There he was in the field, about to spur on his horse, his broad, comfortable back to her. “Fastarr,” she almost screamed. He turned, looking distracted but at the same time welcoming. The words of her vision came blurting forth.
The fetters will burst, and the wolf run free;
Much do I know, and more can see

Fastarr wheeled round and stared at her, aghast.

I saw there wading through rivers wild
Treacherous men and murderers too,
And workers of ill with the wives of men;
There the vampire sucked the blood of the slain,
And the wolf tore men; would you know yet more?


Embla stared back, panting. She scarcely knew what she had said or what the fell words meant. She had seen in her mind’s eye something almost too horrible for contemplation.

[Folwren]

Uldor sat with no attempt to hide his boredom and annoyance. He tapped the pommel of his saddle with his gloved fingers and peered about him with his lips pressed close together in a scowl. About him, the murmur of many voices rose and fell as people talked and gossiped the minutes away.

He was about to turn and make a remark to his brother sitting near him when his eye caught sight of a figure riding through the press of people. It was a mere boy, but he was looking straight at Uldor and riding in as straight a line as he could manage. The Ulfing sat up straighter, picked up the reins he had allowed to droop over his horse’s neck and waited with keen attention while the messenger drew nearer.

“My lord,” the boy said, dismounting as he drew near and bowing. “Lord Khandr has sent me to say to you that he is delayed by – by a personal matter that could not be put off. He bids that you go on ahead of him, and if he does not join you in the hunt, he will be at the festive meal he has planned.”

“Very well,” Uldor muttered, more to himself than to the boy. He hesitated not an instant to make up his mind. “We will go.” He looked at Ulfast and relayed the message in few words, and told him his decision to be off at once.

“Is it not strange, brother. . .” Ulfast began, but then trailed off and did not finish his thought.

“Eh, what?” Uldor asked, but upon receiving no immediate response, he shrugged it off. “Never mind, let’s be off before the morning is entirely wasted and all our preparation goes to naught.”

Word spread quickly through Uldor’s company of men. Girths were checked and tightened and then men remounted. Uldor took his spear in his hand again and spurred his horse forward. With a clatter of hooves and a cheering upon either side from the onlookers, the hunters were away.

[Nogrod]

I saw there wading through rivers wild
Treacherous men and murderers too,
And workers of ill with the wives of men;
There the vampire sucked the blood of the slain,
And the wolf tore men; would you know yet more?

It was Embla and something was wrong. Something really was wrong.

Embla wawered to and fro on her saddle staring straightforwards with empty eyes when Fastarr finally reached her and took the reins of her horse bringing them to a halt. Fastarr unmounted to grasp her thigh and arm to prevent her from falling.

“What is it, Embla? What is it?” there was a slight panic in Fastarr’s voice as Embla seemed to be somewhere beyond the here and now of the fields. She didn’t react.

“What was that? You saw something? You’re allright?” he shook Embla’s thigh and tried desperately to find any signs of sense in her. He shook her violently now with both hands. “Talk to me! Embla!”

Suddenly Embla came back to her senses troubled with what had just happened and confused about Fastarr holding her in his grip. She looked down at Fastarr trying to compose herself.

“Please help me down, I’m feeling quite shaky...”, she whispered taking hold of Fastarr’s shoulders still looking a bit dizzy. Then she fell forwards.

Fastarr carried her weight easily and slowly brought her down to the grass. They stood there a moment looking at each other. It felt awkwardly familiar to stand there: Fastarr’s arms were on Embla’s hips and her arms were on Fastarr’s shoulders. But even as there were so much that reminded Fastarr of their last encounter most everything had changed. Fastarr knew things had changed but Embla knew even more... and there were new tides they both were totally unaware of.

“What was that Embla? You really scared me with all those murderers, vampires and wolves... What happened to you?”

“I don’t know... I mean... I’m not even sure what I said or saw... It was terrifying”, she laid her head low and shivered with even the partial remembrance. She started shaking all over.

Fastarr grabbed her tighter into his arms and let her cry silently against his chest while he tenderly stroked her hair and back trying to sooth her as best he could. He was trying to breathe slowly and calmly to assure her that everything was all right.

But even if he managed to look and feel calm outside there was a thunder and a roar inside him. It felt to Fastarr it could explode at any moment.

There was the passion he hadn’t felt since the early and happy days of his marriage... the passion he had kind of forgotten to exist in him. And now it was there much stronger than the last time. But there was also this feeling of fragility and tenderness and a great sorrow which would keep them apart to the rest of the days. A love that would never fulfill, pure and clean from the passions of the flesh. Wasn’t that something to strive for? And wasn’t she something he should just adorn and keep at a distance in the first place? Wasn’t it not only his duty to his lord but also to her that he would treat her as a flower, a crown jewel not be be violated with rough hands or physical thoughts? Wasn’t he just thrown into this situation and he’d need to get out of it with honour.

But there was also all this talk about evil, all this talk of death and treachery... That old man had talked about it, Khandr had talked about it and now even Embla had talked about it... Were all the people going crazy? No. He felt the evil himself as well... or at least he thought he felt it... all that talk made him feel it... the Song, the fates of men, the prophecies, the vampires, the wolves... And where was Khandr he was supposed to protect or at least wittness how he met his end? Now why was he here and not beside his lord? He’d need to do the right thing... Fastarr felt her breasts under her robes against him as well as her hip pressing his groin.

“Lord Khandr set me free...”, Embla managed to mutter in the end her face still buried in his chest.

That awoke Fastarr from his thoughts. He pushed her gently a few inches away from him and waited until she lifted her eyes to meet his.

“You saw Khandr? When was that?” he asked her getting focused again.

“Just a moment ago. Why do you ask that?” Embla answered truthfully although Fastarr thought he noticed something like disappointment from her face as she heard his question.

“What else did he say? Where is he now?” Fastarr asked now more agitately.

It looked like Embla had to compose herself to answer the question. Finally she was ready.

“He talked about there being evil afoot... and that he would probably not be here to see how it all turns out... and he told me to find you if there is trouble”. Embla studied Fastarr’s expressions as she spoke and Fastarr actually felt he was in a cross-examination rather than just listening to what Khandr had said.

“Okay... I’m found now”, Fastarr said and withdrew his hands reluctantly from her hips. He was more than confused about all that was going on.

“Now tell me about the trouble and I’ll do whatever is in my powers”, Fastarr managed to say but it felt like half of the words got stuck to his throat.

[piosenniel]

At Dag’s house

‘Granny, come here won’t you,’ Káta said in a low voice, gesturing to the old woman to stand by her side. ‘And you, Jóra, just here before us.’ Fálki still stood by the wagon, a hesitant look on his face. His mother motioned him forward, placing him just behind her and Dulaan. ‘Let’s go, then, and mind that basket daughter mine.’

The occupants of the house could not help but hear the clip-clop of the horse, the crunch of the wheels against the graveled dirt path way leading up to their dwelling. Mem stilled the spindle against her hand, her ear cocked toward the entryway. ‘They’re at the door, Gunna. Who is it?’

Káta rapped firmly on the wood, twice, and was about to knock a third time when the door swung open, Gunna’s face changing from one of a questioning look to a smile of welcome. Jóra stepped forward, a smile on her face. ‘Here,’ she began, holding the basket toward Gunna. ‘This is for.....’ Her mother’s hands fixed firmly on the girl’s shoulders, drawing Jóra back toward her.

‘Greetings to you and your house, Gunna,’ Káta began, in a more formal manner than usual. She nodded toward the forge where Dag’s hammer rang loud in the distance. ‘There were obligations which could not be left unmet, else Grímr would have come with us today.’ She urged Jóra forward, directing her to place the basket in the doorway at Gunna’s feet. ‘Accept this gift of food from our family to yours, if you will.’ Without waiting for the other woman’s reply, she went on, motioning Fálki to stand between her and Dulaan. ‘And if you will again, my son would ask to be allowed to gift a small token of his regard for your dear sister, Mem.’

Dulaan nudged Fálki, pointing with her chin toward where the basket with jam sat, half in, half out of the entryway. He reached inside his vest, drawing forth the small square of folded material. Grasping it lightly in his fingers he unfolded it, draping it carefully over the basket’s handle. A softly woven, light blue scarf, it was.

‘This was my mother’s scarf,’ Káta explained. ‘Her mother wove it for her from their finest sheeps’ wool. She was the flower and delight of my father’s life. And he often said, when she wore it wrapped about her head, that surely some lovely being had stepped out of a Spring’s morning just for him.’

A brief breeze skirted about the little group’s feet and riffled at the edges of the offering, inviting an answer.....

[Lalaith]

So calm, so solid, so safe...Embla knew she had done the right thing, found the right person. Fastarr´s touch and presence did so much to soothe the storm in her mind. Even the warm smell of him, redolent of leather and stables, gave comfort which helped focus her own turbulent senses. What this all meant, for her and for him, she did not know or even want to think about, just yet. It was what she had said, and what she had seen in her mind´s eye, that she must make sense of, now.

"The wolves...." She sat down on the grass again, and Fastarr crouched beside her, his hand on her shoulder, heavy and reassuring. "Ulflings...." she looked at her companion with a growing comprehension that was if anything, more terrifying than her previous bewilderment. "Fastarr, I think....those wolves I saw were men... who will turn on their friends....the Ulflings will betray us all....and the vampire, too...I knew this creature, it felt familiar, and close...."
"Embla..." Fastarr sounded urgent. "Even without your visions, I knew there was evil afoot. I was hastening on my way to find my lord Khandr - danger stalks him. But nor can I find it in my heart to leave you, frightened and alone. Will you come with meback to my lord´s dwelling?"

Embla felt great relief. She knew she could depend on this man, not just for comfort but also for a plan of action. "Yes, I will come." No more words were needed. Fastarr helped her into her saddle, and they both spurred their horses towards the Borrim stronghold, as fast they could go.

[piosenniel]

The Right of First Kill


‘At last!’ Valr flicked the reins against his mount’s neck, pulling up beside his brother. He was eager to be off on this, his first great hunt. The skin on his arms twitched in anticipation, mirroring his horse’s own excitement.

‘Ssst!’ Falarr glanced quickly toward their father, then back at Valr. ‘Quiet, now. It would not do to criticize, or seem to criticize, the Lords. They do things in their own time.’ He reached a gloved hand toward Valr, clapping him on shoulder as much to ground his brother’s energy as to offer a sympathetic gesture.

Grímr motioned them up beside him. The host had remounted and as swiftly as Uldor urged his own mount ahead the others briskly followed. ‘Now remember, the Lords should blood their lances and blades first. If we see a boar, we’ll give a yell out to Uldor and drive it toward him.’

‘Just Uldor?’ Valr asked, wanting to fix this rule in his mind. His father’s words had carried a certainty about them; the accompanying look on his face emphasizing the importance of what he was saying.

This was not the first hunt Valr had been on, thought it was his first as a hunter. His part on those previous times out with his father and brothers and sometimes his father’s friends had been to scout the prey and with shouts and noisy wooden clappers to drive the game toward the hunters. ‘Tis the first step toward being a hunter,’ his brothers had told him, reciting by rote the instruction of their father. ‘Noting the habits of the animal you wish to bring down, thinking as it would think will help you first to find where it has been and where it’s gone and what it will do when found and cornered. So was I taught by my father and him his father before. And so will it be with my sons.’ They had grinned as they had spoken to him that first hunt when he was nine years old, their twinned voices sing-songing the words. ‘Enough!’ he recalled his father had chastened them. ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t send the quail all higgledy-piggledy as you did, Falarr!’ Valr had taken those words to heart, both the instruction and the gentle admonition.

The hunters fanned out as the chase progressed. Valr’s eyes scanned the area they were passing through, old habits kicking in as he did so. Were this my brothers and father, he thought, his eyes fixing on a scattering of oaks with their thickets of low growing bushes beneath, then I would head that way for sure. He turned his horse toward the trees; his eyes flicked toward Falarr as he rode off, grinning widely at his brother. ‘Come on!’ Valr urged him. ‘Here’s your chance to show me you aren’t the bumbler father made you out to be.’

The two made a wide berth to the right of the trees and undergrowth, darting round to come toward them from the side farthest from the other hunters. There were acorns scattered beneath the boughs in the small clearing, some trampled in the soft dirt, some only empty shells, and overlaying all was the sharp-hoofed patternings of animal hooves criss-crossing the ground.

‘Good eyes, little brother!’ came the hushed whispering of Falarr as they neared the area. ‘Let’s see if there’s one fine hog left hiding among the leaves.’ With a gleam in his eye, Valr nodded at his brother, and giving a quick kick to his mount’s flank he urged the horse forward at a measured pace.

There was a scuffling sound in the thicket followed by an increasingly angry squeal. From beneath the cover of the shrubs a swarthy, hefty figure shot out and away from the approaching men.

‘Father!’ Valr cried, seeing Grímr approaching riding toward them. ‘Head him off!!’ Grímr rode at the charging boar, turning him more toward the other hunters.

‘My Lord! My Lords!’ Valr shouted, waving his lance wildly in the air toward Uldor and his brothers who rode apace off. ‘A boar.....a boar for your lances!!’

[Child of the 7th Age]

Khandr bid his wife goodbye and immediately retreated to his study. A large chest was positioned along the side wall, one that held many of his personal belongings. He knelt down on the floor, raised the heavy lid, and reached inside, lifting out a smaller wooden box shut tight with a copper lock. Placing the box on the table, he removed the thong from around his neck and inserted the attached key into the lock. Once it was open, he began removing the contents of the box, setting some sheets of paper and assorted items to the side, until he finally came to the small journal that he was looking for.

Khandr drew out the small leather case and sat down to read the entries: information that had been passed to him by the other Borrim when he had asked them to make inquiries of various people. He finally found what he was looking for. He read and reread the passage and quickly reached a decision, scribbling an extra word or two onto the last entry. Then he went and retrieved two sharp daggers from the wall and thrust them inside his belt along with the small leather case. If I am going to meet my death, he grimly mused, I might as well do so in a useful way. He stalked out of the room and decided to cut through the large storeroom that led to a door used occasionally by tradesmen to deliver their wares. He would be less likely to run into anyone that way.

The storage room was half empty and in complete darkness as there were no windows or other openings that would let in the outside daylight. Cursing himself for being without a candle, Khandr fumbled his way to the other wall, when he heard a noise from behind. He was still a long ways from the door that led to the back courtyard. Whirling around and drawing out both daggers, he snarled, "Who goes there? Show your face."

[littlemanpoet]

"Who goes there? Show your face." The words were the snarl of a man expecting his death.

Thorn came into the dim light.

"I am Thorn. You gave your man command to hide me in your house. I thank you. I did not expect to see you again. You have done as well as could be hoped."

[Child of the 7th Age]

"Ah, Thorn, it is you." The snarl was gone, and Khandr sounded strangely calm. "I took no chances. I owed it to my family to make arrangements for them, and I have done that for both my wives. Now there is something I must give you."

Khandr reached inside his belt and drew out a small leather case, the same one that he had been reading in his study just a short time before. "If something should happen to me, give this to whomever you think would get the most from it. Some time ago, I asked each of my wives and the Borrim retainers to gather information from those at court, both men and women. Some had better luck than others, and one or two, I think, may have learned things that they did not disclose. Still, a smart man can read between the lines. I ask that you not open this now. But, if I should die, sit down and read this over, and see if it is of any use. I can not put all the pieces together, but what you spoke to me on the field is also what I have been sensing. But perhaps you or someone you know would have a little more luck in understanding things. Now I go to the palace to see if I can turn up another piece or two...."

Without waiting for an answer, Khandr turned and stalked out of the cellar into the outside courtyard and then headed quickly down the street.

[Noinkling]

At Dag's house

There was a small gasp, quickly stifled, as Káta finished her little speech. Gunna’s eyes widened at the woman’s words, her eye’s flicking quickly toward her sister who sat on a little stool spinning some wool and then back to the scarf-draped basket in the entryway. For her part, Mem looked expectantly toward the entryway, a smile of delight at the promise of such welcome company lighting her features.

‘Well, sister,’ Mem said, wrapping the unspun yarn about her spindle and setting it aside. Her hands now free, she smoothed her skirt over her knees, and gestured to the cushions near her. ‘We should not keep our good friends waiting. Please, have them come in.’ Káta glanced at Gunna, waiting for her invitation.

Jora squirmed away from Granny’s side, her eyes on the baby just to the other side of Mem. ‘Oh, there you are, little sweetling!’ she laughed dashing across the threshold. She swooped down on the little girl and swept her up in her arms. ‘We’ve brought some of Granny’s jam,’ she confided to Mem as she sat down at the woman’s feet. ‘And Mother packed some of her sweet buns, the ones with the fat currants in them. Jora dandled the baby on the ground in front of her, the infants delighted squeals breaking the silence at the door.

‘Come in the,’ Gunna said motioning for the others to enter and seat themselves around the low table in the center of the room. ‘The scarf . . . it’s lovely,’ she went on, as she picked up the basket and followed Káta in. She gave Káta a smile. ‘I don’t suppose it’s for me, now, is it?’

‘It’s for you, Mem,’ Jora whispered. ‘You heard what mother said, didn’t you,’ she continued. ‘It’s really pretty. Blue like the sky and soft as ever.’ Jora went on with her running commentary to Mem. ‘Fálki’s brought it to give to you, you know.’ Her voice dropped even lower. ‘I think it means we might be sisters.’ Mem felt the heat from this last pronouncement rise to her cheeks.

Granny moved past Káta and Gunna, to a place near Mem. She patted the seat near her, one closer to the young woman. ‘Come, Fálki. Sit here.’

[Gwathagor]

Jord could feel it in the air; it, and its symptoms: suspicion, hate, fear. It pervaded the Ulfing village, like an invisible plague of the spirit, infecting all it touched. None were free from its influence, and none would acknowledge its presence. The false camaraderie of the hunt was a glorious, futile attempt to cover and ignore it. The strained relations of the three princes bore witness to its presence. Like the walking, living specter of the king, it haunted the halls and minds of the Ulfings.

Good, she thought. Good. These people are ripe for picking. I am the harvester.

She closed her eyes, and gloried in the foul stench...of treachery.

Jord was standing on the porch of the king's hall, and her hair and gown were blowing gently in the warm wind. Eyes still closed, she breathed deep through her nostrils, gathering the breaths and thoughts of the village, listening closely to the words contained therein. But this was no Song, no Deep Truth. This was a hungry creature scenting for its prey.

I am not the harvester, she thought, and smiled. I am the hunter.

Early that morning, she had stalked silently down from her chamber and out through the hall onto the porch, and there she had stayed. She had watched the town come to life, watched the scurry and bustle begin. Once or twice she had nearly smiled instinctively as she watched mothers going to market with their children. Even now, she frequently found that her human body had a mind of its own, and had to be controlled with great concentration and focus. Inwardly, she cursed her mortal prison, and cursed its base instincts and tendencies and weaknesses.

I am better than this. I am purer. I am the hunter.

She had watched as the hunt had been organized, as the huntsmen had mounted their horses and sharpened their spears. Both Uldor and Ulfast had ignored her as they passed her on the porch: whether out of spite, or out of some confused attempt at subtlety, she couldn't tell. She could never tell.

They were both fools, she told herself, but useful fools. Both believed themselves the sole possessor of her good favor.

Ulfast, clever, capable Ulfast is already mine, and Uldor will break soon. He believes treachery beneath him, but deep inside he knows that he is loyal to no one but himself. Soon he will come to see that my master’s way is the way of profit and of gain. Then it will be a matter of time, while one brother makes up his mind to do in the other. I will start the chain. I will clear the path. I will make the first kill.

The princes and their grand hunt had been gone for nearly half an hour when Jord left the porch. In the street she paused momentarily and looked around her once more. Once more, she took in the scent of the breeze.

Blood...I can smell it. It is on the wind, it is coming soon. I am the hunter. The hunt is up.

Then she moved through the crowd, unmarked, in the direction of Khandr’s dwelling.

[piosenniel]

At Dag's house

Fálki could feel the warmth rising at the back of his neck as he nodded at Granny. This will not do! he admonished himself. Had not his father taught him the art of staying steady in uncertain situations? He took a deep breath and walked slowly to the proffered seat, kneeling carefully so as not to touch against Mem, but to be on a level with her as she sat upon her low stool.

Jóra looked up at him from her place at Mem’s feet, a hint of gleeful anticipation in her eyes. He raised his chin to her, indicating she should move off a pace. A glance at her mother’s raised brows confirmed the command and she swallowed her protest. Though she scooted away the least distance she thought would satisfy. The baby girl she sat firmly on her lap facing the unfolding scene. ‘Now you be quiet, sweetling,’ she whispered into the baby’s ear. Jóra gave the little girl a gentle hug. ‘I might get to be your auntie!!’ For her part, Gunna stepped quickly to Mem’s other side, sitting down close to her sister, her arm resting about Mem’s waist in a light manner.

A certain studied quiet fell about the room, then Káta spoke a few words. ‘Mem,’ she began, drawing the young woman’s attention with her voice. ‘Grimr asks that you forgive his absence at this visit. There were.....obligations.....the discharging of which could not be put off.’ She paused, thinking how best to proceed. Putting her sense of convention aside, she slipped into her heartfelt thoughts. ‘Long have I wished for a good match for my son, Fálki. Now he is grown to manhood and I....that is, both his father and I can see his thoughts, his wishes and hopes, have settled on someone. On you, Mem. And we would welcome you, if that is your choice and that of your family,’ she added, her gaze taking in Gunna as she spoke.

I think you heard, as we first entered,’ Káta smiled at her daughter as she began again. ‘Heard that we had brought a small basket of gifts for your family. One of them is a scarf my mother handed down to me, one her mother made for her. I’ve given it to Fálki, to give to the woman he chooses for his wife.’

Granny leaned in toward Fálki, whispering a few simple instructions to him. He unfolded the woven scarf and laid it carefully across Mem’s knees. His hand brushed barely against her hands folded tightly in her lap, a quick touch only, and hastily withdrawn.

A voice at the doorway startled away the woman’s response.....

[Noinkling]

At Dag's house

‘What’s this?’ Framed in the doorway stood Dag, a look of puzzlement furrowing his brow. His gaze took in Mem, the blue scarf spilling brightly across her knees; her face suffused with a happy wonder, her sightless eyes followed Fálki’s movements.

For his part, Fálki rose quickly, turning to face Dag. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. His mother stepped forward, intending it seemed to intervene. Fálki motioned to her with a sharp motion of his hand to step back. ‘No disrespect meant, Master Dag. To you or your house,’ Fálki began, taking a few steps closer toward Dag.

Gunna moved closer to her husband, laying her hand gently on his forearm. She leaned in close to him, speaking low. Dag kept his eyes on the younger man, even as he nodded at his wife’s words.

Mem’s voice broke into the hushed conversation. ‘Look, Dag!’ She held up the scarf. ‘It’s a gift. A bride gift, from Fálki. For me.’ She turned her head in the direction from which Káta had spoken. ‘I didn’t get a chance to answer your question, Káta. At least I think you meant it to be a question – that if I chose, you would welcome me. I’d like to say yes to you. But . . .’

Jóra scooted closer to Mem and touched her on the knee. ‘Oh, you’re not going to say no, are you, Mem?’

Mem laughed, a sweet sound that spilled out into the seriousness of the room. She reached out, touching the girl lightly on the cheek. ‘I just thought, perhaps,’ she answered, ‘I just thought that I should answer first to Fálki.’

Silence settled over the little gathering.

‘Well,’ broke in Jóra’s voice after only a short time. She nudged her brother in the leg. ‘Ask her!’

[Gwathagor]

Like a shadow Jord passed through the press and din of the market. At its edge, she paused briefly, and looked back. Whether because of the crowded high street, or because of some dark magic she wove about herself, no one had noticed her. Satisfied, she moved out into the backstreets of the village, leaving in her wake a lingering sense of unease and disquiet, bickering merchants and fighting children. Her path, simultaneously following instinct and long-set purpose, led her down the narrow street of beaten dirt, every step bringing her steadily nearer to Khandr's lodgings.

The Borrim and their leader had been given a large house several streets over from the palace. As Jord neared it, alert and wary, she reached with her left hand into the wide sleeve of her gown and grasped a knife which she wore on her right forearm. The blade was long and slender, and forged of cold, dark, thirsty iron. It was a relic of her former life, before her humiliation at the hands of the elf-witch and her adoring minion. She clenched her teeth as the extent of her current disgrace again struck her full in the face. She had lost everything: her power, her shape, and even a measure of her Master's favor. All she had left was the cold knife, and this she now held in an iron grip. Many lives it had quenched, in the days of glory, when she had labored alongside Sauron at the will of Morgoth, but never had it tasted the blood of an Easterling. Jord smiled. Blood. It had been over-long since she, too, had tasted blood. Her smile was cruel, and there was no warmth in it.

I shall not fail him, she thought. I shall be restored, and Lord Morgoth shall reign. Jord turned the corner onto the street that led up to Khandr's house.

Her prey was before her. She stopped, but not out of surprise. Down the middle street strode Khandr, eyes cast down in thought, coming directly towards her. They were completely alone. Jord nearly laughed; it was absurd, and pitiful, and perfect.

Suddenly becoming aware of Jord, Khandr came to an abrupt halt ten feet from her. He froze, tense and hunched, his eyes narrowed, with the innate knowledge of a hunted creature that its end has come. Yet he did not waver. Swiftly he drew out twin daggers and raised them as he prepared to face the darkly clad woman that stood in his path, whose slight form belied the shadow that stretched out before her, ominous and threatening.

Jord was faster. She covered the distance between them with unnatural speed and silent ferocity, and leapt upon her prey, her face expressionless apart from a grim determination. They landed in a cloud of dust. It hung in the air for a moment, and then settled slowly to the ground, revealing a grim scene. Khandr lay on his back in the street, blood already beginning to trickle and pool about his head. Jord was on top of him, her right knee pressed into his chest. She had held his left shoulder in her right hand while with her left, she driven the dark knife straight through his throat as they fell. He never uttered a sound.

She pulled the knife from the wound, wiped the blood upon Khandr's cheek and stowed it again in her right sleeve. Still kneeling on his chest, she smiled and pulled his face closer to hers, looking as far back as she could into his eyes.

"You have failed, Lord Khandr."

She uttered the words mockingly, spitting them out, crushing down the dying embers of his spirit.

"Your death was appointed and could not have been otherwise. It was inevitable, for we...are...power. There was nothing you could have done. Take comfort in that, and in the knowledge that you will not be alone on your journey to the realm of the dead. Many more will follow after you; some sooner, some later. Many, many more: men, and elves. All appointed."

Her nails dug into his face. Her tone had become half-soothing, but she spoke now with a renewed contempt.

"The Ulfing lords will come to know what must be, as I already know it. They will betray your people and their liege lords. You have died for nothing. No cause, no purpose. You have accomplished nothing. Your death is meaningless. I am Thuringwethil and now I will taste your blood."

And she did, as with the last sparks of life Khandr's despairing eyes roved and his fingers twitched, searching, grasping for something...anything...

[Nogrod]

Embla and Fastarr rode like there was fire on their tails. From the bustling open fields to the narrow but empty alleys of the settlement they rode without a word.

Am I too late... am I too late... the thought kept recurring in Fastarr's mind until he suddenly had to steer fast aside when a cart pulled by a young boy not more than twelve winter's old appeared from behind a corner. Embla passed him so near he could have reached her with his arm. Her scent filled Fastarr while his eyes now followed her body moving up and down on her saddle in front of him. Are we too late... are we too late... Fastarr spurred Leafeye to a full trot to reach her and not to be forced to have that view that made him think of things he shouldn't.

He himself, Embla and Khandr all got mixed up in his mind. Love and death, honour and shame, daring and failing, finding and losing...

Suddenly Embla pulled her reins and halted. She could see Khandr's residence now from the corner some two hundred yards away.

"Now what is it Embla? Why do you stop?" Fastarr asked her with concern in his voice as he came to her side.

"That vision haunts me Fastarr... The wolves, the vampire... and all." She was looking straight forwards but still looking at nowhere. Her fingers were nervously fiddling with the reins. Finally she turned to face Fastarr and said thoughtfully.

"Khandr knows what is going on and if his fate is sealed there's little we can do about it... It can't be changed Fastarr... believe me, it can't be changed." There was a deep sorrow in her eyes even if she tried to brave a smile. Fastarr felt she had made a decision and was waiting for her to speak it out.

Fastarr was torn apart. He had wowed to protect his master and his cause but he had also promised to do the right thing. Which was which now if protecting Khandr was no option? If Khandr was in his residence with Thorn and the household staff he would be relatively safe but if he wasn't where should he go looking for him? And Embla made sense. There was a clear object that felt right.

Fastarr glanced at the lavish building and then turned to Embla.

"You mean the elves?"

First there was a silence. Then Embla nodded slowly not raising her head up. She knew the decision was hard to Fastarr.

"They're in the hunt... it will be hard to find them...", Fastarr tried but then fell suddenly quiet.

"Fastarr, they need to know. They need to know before it's too late". She looked at him with compassion in her eyes. "If you feel you need to go after Khandr I don't blame you but I'm decided now. I need to see the elves." Embla leaned backwards and took the reins pulling them gently to prepare her horse to yet another go, looking at Fastarr to the eye challengingly.

Fastarr glanced at the residence one more time before turning back to face her.

"We'll find those elves together! I'm no master-hunter myself but I know their ways... It would take you the whole day to find them alone... Let's go!" Fastarr pulled the reins almost violently and made Leafeye to turn around. "Follow me, I know the straight route!" With that call Fastarr strode forwards in full gallop with Embla trailing him as well as she could. They were flying now.

Fastarr led them the way he had used almost every day taking Khandr's horses to excercise outside the town. So even if Embla didn't know the way her horse knew it by heart. After bursting out from the gate Fastarr wawed Embla to follow him away from the fields towards the forest to their left. Before they reached the edge of the forest Fastarr made Leafeye to slow down enough for Embla to come level with him.

"Whatever the Ulfings lords may be they will surely take their guests of honour to the best hunting grounds... There's a small stream that goes through the wasteland and falls down to a pond not far from here. The game may ever be here and there but there's always some by the pond."

Embla nodded while she continued forwards towards the edge of the forest.

"Remember... if I raise my hand it means halt and be quiet. Spoiling a hunt is something no hunter forgives... to no one."

"Aye sir", Embla said half jokingly trying to uplift the mood but met only with a stern face.

Fastarr spurred Leafeye to a light trot and Embla followed him to the woods.

[Folwren]

“My lords! My lords! A boar for your lances!”

The call came from their left. Shouts rose among the men, but no one spurred their horses before Uldor and Ulfast. Side by side they urged their mounts, wheeling about and galloping forward. With excited shouts, several of the hunters split off to their right and others to the left, all with the intent to surround and capture the boar.

Ahead, Uldor could see the two young men waving their spears, and still shouted with excitement. And running in the space between them and the Ulfing princes the boar came pelting.

He was a large beast, his tusks shown white in the sunlight, and his eyes were red with fury at being disturbed. He charged forward, headlong into the line of horsemen waiting for him, directly towards the brothers Uldor and Ulfast. The two of them shifted their lances in their hands, lifting them from their resting place on the stirrups and turned them to be thrust downward, piercing the animal as it came near.

As it came charging on, it became evident that it would pass directly between them, on Ulfast’s right and Uldor’s left. Uldor reined in his horse and tried to bring him around in order that his spear might come to bear. Ulfast continued to gallop straight onward.


The lance was lowered, the point nearly grazed the ground. Two yards were between the charging horse and boar and then no space at all. The point of the lance thrust the boar in the shoulder, burying its head deep. Uldor saw Ulfast reining in his horse; he saw the lance twist cruelly in his hand and arm. The boar stumbled and then got up again to run, and Ulfast was half thrown, half pulled from the saddle.

Ulfast scrambled to gain his footing. The boar was squealing and roaring with fury and his feet plowed the ground as he drove himself forward, dragging against the spear, and lunging towards Ulfast.

Uldor gripped his lance and edged his horse forward. The wild hog twisted as Uldor’s lance pierced him, but then turned again to attack Ulfast.

With a curse, Uldor leaned downwards, driving the lance deeper and deeper into the boar’s side, but still the animal did not stop. He was nearly onto Ulfast now. The younger Ulfang turned to face it. He was still not on his feet and the struggle was hopelessly one-sided.

But Uldor leaped down to the ground as well. His knife flashed out. From behind and above he struck downwards once, twice, and again and finally, the boar stopped in its attack.

There was a pause and a silence, it seemed to Uldor. He knelt, panting, above the bloody hulk and then he lifted his eyes to Ulfast. His brother sat, clutching his arm where the tusk of the boar had grazed him, also panting as he stared at Uldor.

“Well, brother,” Uldor said. “You’re not going that way. No. I need you yet.”

[Child of the 7th Age]

Too soon....too soon.

Khandr's face had registered no surprise as he had watched Jord spring forward on his path wielding a narrow blade of cold iron. This had been coming. He had known it for some time. Whether she was woman or something wholy different, he still could not say. But her ravenous appetite for hatred and division had become all too clear in recent weeks, slowly made evident by the few words that Embla and his retainers had brought back to him. There was no regret for his own life, and certainly no surprise. It was a price he must pay for one last stand against the forces of the shadow lord who threatened to engulf them all. The ending, he had known, was never in doubt. There was no way to avert it. He was no Elf, nor one of the great and mighty....only a simple man.

Still, he cursed his own ineptness. Why now? Why here? Just a few more steps, a bit more time, and he would have stepped inside the palace. He would have made his way to the woman's chamber. There, he might have found something to prove his hunch that a great evil was about to descend upon their heads. Without that confirmation, he dared not raise his voice to speak with Lachrandir. The Elf, he knew, would only laugh at the bumbling guesses of one of the secondborn. If things had been different, if could talk freely man-to-man.....perhaps the story would have a different ending. But none of that was possible in the world in which they lived. Khandr still was uncertain what the woman was conjuring, but the fate of Beleriand and all of his beloved Borrim surely lay upon it.

All this slipped through the old man's mind in the merest instant. Khandr reached out with what little strength was left in a fruitless effort to communicate his suspicions, all the while praying that someone would blunder onto the path so that he might warn them of the woman's evil. He had been too closed in his dealings. If only he could share his suspicions now. But the streets were empty. Everyone was at the hunt. Still he clung stubbornly to life, though the blood spilled out from his great wound staining the skirts of his assailant a brilliant crimson.

[littlemanpoet]

Thorn was walking steadily away from Khandr's house toward the Hunt. But his mind was with the Song; it had grown in dissonance with the Morgoth theme growing in power. His minion amid the Ulfings had struck, her rage and envy blaring like reed pipes, high pitched and piercing. Khandr's lifeblood was spilling on the ground and staining Jord's gown with bloodguilt.

Khandr's heart beat its final halting dirge.

Too soon, too soon to my doom
and the end of hope for my folk.

Nay, it was not so. Thorn was aware that Jord's envy and rage, while adding to her might for the kill, rendered her almost deaf to the Song, and so she did not know who sang Khandr's elegy.

Bold you lived, Borrim lord,
caring for kin, friends and folk.
Bolder in death, O bringer of boons,
you warned the wary, sending word
to Borrim folk of Ulfing betrayal,
of doom the Bauglir wrought in his wrath.
The haughty heed not the warnings of woe,
but the humble hear and will heed your word.
The sons of your folk will find safety,
their daughters sing of the selfless deeds
of kindly Khandr, beloved lord.
Not vain your death, but valorous and daring.
Rest till you run where wrath cannot follow;
Hie you home beyond the walls of the world.

[littlemanpoet]

"Oh to be needed!" thought Ulfast ruefully.

'Well, brother, you’re not going that way. No. I need you yet.'

Uldor's words stung. It made Ulfast's blood boil. Who did he think he was? 'Heir apparent' was the answer, curse his hide!

Ulfast staggered up to his feet, testing his grazed arm. "My thanks, brother," he said offhandedly, as if saving his life was no great deed. "Had it come closer I might have had to break a sweat." Ulfast grinned so that the insult could be taken as a joke. Then he looked down at the beast that had almost been the end of him. "A fine beast! He will make a feast for many!" He turned back to Uldor. "Fail not to reward those who gave you the kill, my brother. And you!" he said, turning to Ulwarth. "Next time you act like my near death is a sideshow for you, I'll put a mark on you where you'll remember it!"

Lachrandir

These Ulfings had prowess, if little else. They would make good allies in the coming battle. "What think you, Tathren?" he asked his Elven aide.

"They are quick with their weapons. Let us hope they point always at our enemies."

"Indeed," Lachrandir remarked. Then he marked a disturbance coming their way from the direction of the village. "I wonder what nonsense this might be?"

One of the men at arms came racing up to the Ulfing brothers. "Lords! Two of the Borrim come with urgent word!"

"Bring them before us," Uldor said.

"Nay, lord, forgive me, but they seek Lord Lachrandir!"

Lachrandir raised a brow. "Bring them to me," he said. "Borrim messengers for me?" he said to Tathren. "What could they possibly want?"

[Folwren]

Ulwarth hadn’t viewed his brother’s near death as a sideshow. Not at all. He was insulted and stung, as he fully believed Ulfast wanted him to be.

“It seems you, at least, are already marked, and you’ll remember that for a long while yet,” Ulwarth answered.

Uldor rolled his eyes and gave an exasperated sigh. He stood up, wiping blood from his hands on his breeches. He glanced from Ulfast to Ulwarth, wondering how his youngest brother with so little brains could say something that sharp so quickly.

“Come, brothers,” he said quietly, “we should not bicker so, when one of us have been so near death.”

Ulwarth’s chin came up. He sent a flashing, angry glance at Ulfast before he wheeled his horse about and trotted away several yards.

It was at that moment that the man-at-arms came and announced the two Borrim. Uldor gave his permission to let them come and speak with Lachrandir and then turned to mount his horse again. His squire was standing there, holding the animal’s reins. Already, servants had come and trussed up the dead boar.

“Are you able to ride on?” he asked Ulfast as he gathered the reins in his hands. “As soon as lord Lachrandir has finished, we should continue the hunt.”

[littlemanpoet]

Ulfast righted himself and brushed himself off, smearing the boar's blood where it had spilled on his clothing. He watched the two messengers, a Borrim man and woman. The man was of negligible importance, Ulfast supposed, but the woman seemed familiar. He could not say how. Their message seemed urgent, but the Elf lord's face was unreadable as usual. Not even the Elf's servant gave much away. Had there been a look of suspicion given to he and his brothers as the two messengers walked by? Ulfast wondered if it had anything to do with Jord and their plans for Ulfast to become lord.

Confound Uldor! Especially that last little bit of false diplomacy, as if he had feelings of warmth for his siblings! What a fake. Did he think he was fooling either himself or Ulwarth? What nonsense. Or was he doing it for Lachrandir's sake? Ulfast did not believe it for a moment.

What was Jord up to while they hunted? He would make sure to find out when they returned with the kill.

[Lalaith]

Now that they stood in the presence of the great elf-lord, Embla did not know what to do: she felt small, grubby, ugly and foolish. She remembered Khandr’s feast, and how this tall, fair man had played a part in her humiliation.

Did he notice me then, and does he remember me now? But there was now only an echo in her of the old bitterness. She was no longer a second wife, a shadow and an afterthought. She had freedom, and she had Fastarr by her side. These thoughts made her feel bolder.

“My lord.” She glanced up at Lachrandir, and then at Fastarr. “I...I mean we....I beg leave to speak.” She blushed red-hot under the elf’s haughty gaze. Was her presence causing offence? How did elf-women speak to their men-folk? Were they subservient, like the Borrim, or did they look them in the eye, after the fashion of her own people? Should she have let Fastarr do the talking?

"I have seen things. Evil and treachery....wolves....blood....the Ulflings,” she stammered. “We are afraid and we wish to warn you and your people, that...that....”

The elf continued to stand and stare in silence; Embla floundered into incoherence. She turned to look at Fastarr, pleading with her eyes for some support, some way of explaining the danger that would sound convincing to the forbidding figure before them.

[Nogrod]

It was a nightmarish situation. The Ulfing lords were standing by and they'd need to assure the elves of their treachery. Fastarr would never have had the courage to open his mouth in such a company but Embla's silent plea made him take a step towards Lachrandir. He was nervously fiddling about his belt when he finally came forwards.

"My lord... your highness..." Fastarr had trouble addressing Lachrandir correctly and felt even more nervous after making two clumsy efforts at that.

"There is a great evil afoot. My lord Khandr, he believes he's dead before this evening falls - and there is this old man, Thorn, who told he has been taught by the Eldar to listen to the Song who told it to him. I saved the old man from attack not more than an hour ago..." Fastarr was going to and fro in his mind thinking how much he should speak about the Ulfing's right there as the Ulfing lords were listening to his words. Finally he decided to try and arouse the elf's interest so that they could speak in some privacy.

"And there was this dream Embla had, with a vampire amongst us working for the Bauglir himself..." He didn't dare to wink to the elf for them to go aside for a moment as it would have been outrageous for a plain retainer to make such an eyecontact with him but his eyes pleaded the elf to take him and Embla somewhere the Ulfing-ears would not hear them.

He glanced at Embla and found her almost shaking. She clearly realised the graveness of the situation for them also. If the elves did not take them seriously they would have to run for their lives from the wrath of those Ulfings who were listening to their plea right now. For surely Embla and Fastarr would be the next game of theirs then.

[littlemanpoet]

These two were almost incoherent with fear, Lachrandir thought. It was almost difficult to make out what in Middle Earth they were trying to say. One thing was certain: they were in earnest, especially to speak ill of the Ulfings before the Ulfing lords themselves. He could see the pleading in their eyes. Lachrandir gave thought to their words but found them confused and full of vague implication.

It was generally beneath him, but Lachrandir decided that there might be something to their words, so he reached out wordlessly and touched the edges of their minds, something which they would not even be aware of unless they were given to such mental activity already. The woman had dreamed a true dream, as far as he could tell. He probed more deeply, and came upon new words.

The fetters will burst, and the wolf run free;
Much do I know, and more can see
I saw there wading through rivers wild
Treacherous men and murderers too,
And workers of ill with the wives of men;
There the vampire sucked the blood of the slain,
And the wolf tore men; would you know yet more?

These words were charged with omen. Humans could be surprising now and then. Lachrandir had not thought such rabble capable of divining soothly, but this one had. Treacherous men. Who? A wolf. What wolf? A vampire. But had not that evil been overthrown, or at least hindered of late? But the man had spoken of Bauglir; that One could be behind all of it.

But that was always so. Perhaps the Bauglir had sent these two unknowing to spring a trap unawares, other than what they thought. It would be like him to do so. It would be best to hear more of what they had to say, so that he could discern truth from lie.

"Tathren, remain with the Ulfings."

"Aye, Lord."

Lachrandir turned to the two Borrim. "Come with me, both of you, you will sup with us."

Lachrandir turned and left the clearing. If these two had any sense they would walk away from the Ulfings and follow them.

[littlemanpoet]

Thorn made his deliberate way from Khandr's abode to the hunting grounds. The Song led him, singing to him strange tidings: Fastarr and a woman whom he did not know were before the Elven ambassador of the Fëanorians, speaking garbled words of doom. Their words were not unlike those he had been given to utter to the Elf lord. Odd. Yet not surprising; this would not be the first time the Song had been sung and heard by more than one set of ears, and found a pliable mind and will.

Just then Thorn heard the beat of heavy wings. He looked up, expecting to see a giant vulture, but he saw nothing. Then he saw the flitting figure of a bat disappearing before him in the distance, winging far more straightly than a bat would do. What food did it seek? Why had it beat with heavy wings upon his Song-listening ears, then appear as a small bat?

He pondered as he walked.

[Folwren]

Brodda and Ruadan rode together through the streets, searching in vain for the old man. Brodda kept up a long string of curses, bitter with his ill luck. Ruadan rode in miserable silence beside him.

“This might cost us our heads, you know, you miserable dog,” Brodda said in Ruadan’s direction. “Yours at least.”

Ruadan had nothing to reply with.

“Keep searching,” Brodda snapped abruptly. “I’m going to go back to him and feel things out before I break the news.”

Ruadan cast him a baleful look before nodding and turning his head away. Brodda reined his horse about and cantered off down the street. Once he had left the crowd of houses behind, he slowed the horse again to a swift walk and continued on his way, brooding silently over what he was going to say, what to expect, and how to deflect his lord’s displeasure.

Lost so in thought and consideration, Brodda did not spot the old man in the road ahead until he was withing twenty yards of him. His eyes lit up suddenly with recognition and an unfriendly smile twisted up the corners of his mouth.

“Holla! You, old man!” he called out, and spurred his horse forward into a canter.

[littlemanpoet]

Thorn knew how it would go. He knew that Uldor's and Ulfast's men were searching for him. He knew that he would be found and brought unceremoniously before the Ulfing lords, and he knew that he would be scorned and named traitor to his folk. It mattered not in the least to him. He did not look forward to the pain that would be inflicted upon him; he was, after all, quite human. But the Song led him, and it led him true. He would not waver, would not stray. He had learned at least that much: to waver or stray from the sooth of the Song never helped, only hindered, and to his own loss. He would walk straight to the doom awaiting him.

Such thoughts occupied him only briefly. Of greater moment was his inkling of a great winged bird or beast that appeared only as a bat. He knew that the Bauglir had many kinds of servants, and that there were fëar that chose to wear the shapes of beasts and birds of prey. Such a one had been she would had murdered Lord Khandr. Would it be so surprising that she had changed her shape and now sought more prey? He considered that he was walking toward Lord Lachrandir of the Fëanorians, and that the bat, if bat it was, flew straight toward him. Perhaps the Elf might be dead before he had a chance to deliver his message; perhaps not. Time would tell; the Song was silent on the point.

His thought was interrupted.

“Holla! You, old man!”

A horse and rider began to canter up from behind, bearing down on him.

Thorn stopped. He turned without fear and faced the rider, still in full charge.

[Folwren]

Brodda drew his horse in, barely bringing his horse to a stop before running into the old man. Thorn did not budge, although his head turned slightly to one side to avoid being hit when Brodda's mount tossed his head in protest to the tight reins.

For a moment, Brodda sat and looked down at the man. What did Uldor want with such an old, poor, shriveled man? What good would he be for their goal? It wasn’t his business to question the actions and wishes of the lords.

"You're under arrest, by order of Lord Uldor,” he said roughly. “Will you come quietly? Or do I need to knock you over the head?”

[littlemanpoet]

Thorn heard the Song even through this man's rough words. He knew that he would be going to his death. It did not trouble him.

"I will go with you, for I have words for your lords as well as with the Elf. You are on horse and I on foot. How shall we proceed?"

At this very moment (the Song told him), the Bauglir's emissary had come upon the Elf and the two messengers who preceded him; apparently their word would be enough or it would not, and he would not speak to the Elf. This meant most likely that the Ulfings would betray the Elves but the Borrim would not. That did not mean, however, that all Thorn's work had been in vain. Khandr had died well. Fastarr and Embla (the Song sang their names) would survive in infamy but free. The Borrim would not betray their allegiance. These things would be enough, until the Valar intervened.

These thoughts passed through his mind in a moment. He looked up at the Ulfing impassively.

[piosenniel]

At Dag's House

‘Jóra!’ Káta admonished her daughter. A rumble of deep laughter broke the tension between mother and daughter; between suitor and sought. Dag patted his wife on her hand and stepped forward shaking his head, his eyes twinkled, remembering himself as a young man.

‘Come, Fálki,’ he began, stepping close to the younger man. ‘I’ll say no disrespect was taken.’ ‘Now,’ he went on, ‘let me hear you speak to Mem and let me hear her answer.’

(a little later.....)

‘So this is what it will be like when my little one is grown,’ Dag thought to himself. He stood, leaning against the wall, surveying the little party scattered about the room. Mem looked happy and somehow less childlike. Fálki, aware of Dag’s scrutiny, restrained himself from touching Mem, though his eyes found her face constantly.

The women twittered about, like a group of little birds. Gunna had made tea and from the basket Káta had brought, the sweet buns were passed round along with the jams Granny’d made.

Dag caught Gunna’s eye, motioning for her to come close. ‘This is going to work out, yes? I can’t help but feel there is something dark waiting to crush what happiness any of us might find.’ He shook his head as she whispered some reassuring words to him. ‘Never mind my gloomy thoughts. Too much time spent looking into the heart of the forge fire, I suppose.’

‘Listen,’ Dag said, speaking to the others in the room. ‘We should have a little celebration. Tomorrow. How would that be?’ Gunna nodded, happily surprised at his declaration. ‘Grímr can come, yes? And your brother, Falarr, is it? And the young boy.....’ He looked questioningly at Gunna. ‘Valr,’ she prompted him.

Plans were discussed and set for the following late afternoon, with Káta promising they would all be there. She and her family took their leave of Dag and his soon after and made their way back home.


----------------------------------------------------


Leaving the Hunt

Excited as he’d been to be at the hunt with his father and brother, that excitement had now quelled. Valr could not shake the feeling of tenseness that permeated the supposed festive gathering. He could not understand what was going on beneath the conversations and claps on the back and toothy smiles. He kept quiet, focused on his father’s reactions to those of the hunters who came up to speak. This grown up stuff was not all he’d thought it would be. At least not today, not here, it wasn’t. He was happy when his father said they were heading home.

Grímr smiled and nodded to his acquaintances as he and his sons rode toward the outskirts of the hunting group. At times he stopped altogether making small talk with someone he knew well. Once beyond the edge of hunting party, he stopped, motioning Falarr and Valr to draw up close. ‘You both did well today.’ He urged his mount to a little faster pace. ‘And I know you must have questions.’ I know I do he thought to himself. ‘Let’s get home and see what the ladies have made for our supper. We’ll speak of the hunt later.’ And within our own walls.....

His horse broke into a run with a flick of the reins. Valr and Falarr raced after him, grinning. Valr let the wind from their quick pace blow away his sense of unease. He laughed aloud, sharing his joke with his his horse. ‘He called her a “lady”!’ he cried, laughing again at the thought of his crazy little sister as a “lady”.

[Folwren]

The man’s calmness disturbed Brodda. He shifted his weight in the saddle. “You’re not going to see the elves, you presumptuous rogue,” he said sharply. “You will proceed before me, walking, and I will ride behind. We’re going to the great hall, and if you don’t know the way, I’ll tell you. Now move.”

He jerked his head in the general direction behind him and then moved his horse out of the old man’s way so that Thorn had a clear path back into the narrow streets of the village. Thorn’s steady eyes gave him a final stare and then he walked forward obediently. Brodda’s mouth tightened with anger and disdain. The more he had to do with the old man the less he liked him.

Thorn knew the way to the hall. Brodda never once had to give any sort of direction and never once did he feel as though Thorn were contemplating any movement to escape and get away. He walked like a lamb to the slaughter, Brodda commented to himself. A cruel smile twisted its way onto his face. Like the lamb, he thought, the man probably didn’t know what he was walking towards.

At the gates of the courtyard of the hall, the guards sprang to attention. “That man is under arrest,” Brodda said as he stopped. “Put him away until lord Uldor returns and calls for him.”

The guards knew precisely what Brodda meant and one of them immediately laid hands on Thorn and took him inside the gates. Brodda looked after them a moment and then nodded briefly. Without a glance at the other guard, he turned around again and once more headed towards the hunting grounds, this time without dread of meeting his master.

[Lalaith]

The ill-will emanating around the gathering was so strong you could almost touch it. Embla shrank under the weight of the stares.
"Come with me, both of you, you will sup with us."
The elf-lord was looking into her heart and her mind, she could feel it. She had always been thin-skinned, but since the sight of her people had come to her, she often felt near-naked under the eyes of others: it was, in many ways, a most unwelcome and unwanted gift.
Embla moved closer to Fastarr, for comfort, and the two of them followed Lachrandir through the trees to a nearby clearing.
The elf looked at her, expectantly. It was time to be bold, to speak or forever be silent about what lay so heavily on her.
"I know, my lord, that to you I seem a mean thing - young and foolish. Wood, even,” she blurted. “I seem that way to myself, sometimes. I do not really know what it is I fear. But my heart tells me that there is no honour, no fealty, in these Ulflings; and if I do not tell you this now, I will never sleep easy at night again.”
Emboldened by her new-found eloquence, she continued, and her thoughts seemed to become clearer as she spoke, giving form to the nameless apprehensions that gnawed at her.
"I fear too, the woman Jord. She has the Ulfling lord in thrall, and little wonder, for her words are like honey. She has cunning, she has power over the souls of men...and women.” Embla reddened, remembering how she too had almost succumbed to the wiles and promises laid out by the dark-haired stranger. Instinctively, she reached out for Fastarr’s hand.

[littlemanpoet]

Hands were laid on him and he was unceremoniously pushed into the hall.

"You heard Brodda, this is Lord Uldor's prisoner, so I'm taking personal responsibility for him, and if any of you others have any complaints on that score-" the dark-haired man cast a baleful eye around at other guards who did not look pleased "-you can take them to Lord Uldor when he gets here."

"Fancy words, Anydor," said one of the taller guards, "but it was Uldor's man who brought him and so of course he says wait for Uldor, but more likely the order came from Ulfast."

"So that's how it's going to be, is it, Clegga?" said Anydor. "Uldor's men, to me! Let's put this upstart in his place, where his upstart favorite will no doubt be before too long!"

Clegga's eyes smoldered. "Ulfast's men, to me! We all know Uldor's a treacherous rogue who forfeited his claim but won it back through foul play! To me Ulfastings!"

Quickly, the men in the room formed two companies facing each other, with hands on hilts, eyeing each other angrily, waiting for the least provocation. A handful of men had stood aside and watched the two groups of guards nervously.

"What of them?" Thorn asked of Anydor, who still held his upper arm in a vice-grip.

"Never mind, traitor!" He faced Clegga. "You see we have the greater number, so stand down, fool."

Clegga glanced at those who had not taken sides. "We of Ulfast have no quarrel with those who love Ulwarth best, but know that if Uldor becomes lord of the Ulfings, it will go ill with all those who do not favor him now. To me, Ulwarthings!"

A three way civil war right in the great hall, thought Thorn. This could undermine the Bauglir's plans if it could be used so. He wondered what would happen next.

Lachrandir

Lachrandir remembered the woman Jord, from the banquet, how Uldor had seemed ready to eat out of her hand. This young woman's words did fit the pattern. Lachrandir had not been impressed with much from the Ulfing lords until this day when their prowess of arms came clear in the hunt, and he had been ready on that basis to report to Lord Caranthir that the Ulfings would make good allies. But base treachery, like that which the woman spoke of, threatened to turn the tide away from the Fëanorians and their allies, in favor of Morgoth.

"Woman, I am convinced that you believe what you are saying. Further, it is clear to me that you are speaking to me to no advantage for yourself, at least that I can yet see. Therefore, I am given to believe you. Therefore-"

His words were interrupted by the screech of a large bird that suddenly flew into the clearing. It came hurtling at him.

[Gwathagor]

It was not a bird. It was a bat. Or it seemed at least, though it was larger than any bat they had ever seen and it was indistinct, as if it was not wholly bat, but unsure of its own being, a creature caught between natures and cloaked by shadow. The great shadow-bat soared over the trees, beating its great translucent wings of trailing gossamer, then swept down towards them with terrifying speed. Its claws were long, and made of cold iron.

As Jord (for Jord it was) had stood triumphantly over the body of Khandr in the dusty street wiping the last trickle of blood from her lips, she felt a spasm of power ripple through her body. She waited, breathing heavily. It hit her again, driving cramps through her arms and neck. She looked down towards Khandr, and then at the blood still on her fingertips. Was it possible? she thought. As the power-spasm hit her a third time, her head was thrown back instinctively and her arms flew straight out, fingers splayed wide. This time, the power did not leave her. It rose in her throat, taking possession of her being. A darkness from the blood pooling about her feet began to swirl close about her, until it had obscured her from sight completely. Then, it dissipated in the blink of an eye. Jord had changed.

She was now winged and mantled by shadow. Her fingers had grown long and cruel. Her face remained Jord's, but there was no longer any color in it, save a the blood-red of her lips, between which a row of sharp, white teeth could be seen. Her dark hair had become dull and black as soot, and it blew about her face in an unnatural, chill wind which emanated from her own person. The only light in that dark figure was the glittering of the iron claws which protruded from her hands, the glittering of her sharp white teeth, and the glittering of her eyes.

She spoke not a word as she examined her claws and her wings. Everything was just as she remembered it, if not quite as vivid. She laughed quietly to herself. The change triggered by the drinking of Khandr's blood had been painful, but now that it was made, she wondered how she had ever been content in a mortal shape. She knew that it would not last long without the taste of new blood. But she smiled, for her sudden need for blood lent itself well to her task.

"And now the elf lord," she said, and then was gone, thrown skyward by a single great sweep of her wings.

In the clearing she found him and two others. Into their midst she hurtled like the Hammer of Morgoth, landing in a crouch. A great slash of her deceptively delicate wings threw both Fastarr and Embla to the ground with tremendous force, ten feet behind her, even as she was rising to face Lachrandir. Then, quick as a wink, her cruel, clawed fingers flashed out and seized the elf lord by the neck. She lifted him from the ground with utter ease and looked into his eyes.

"Do you know me, Feanorian? I am Thuringwethil, and I have come to destroy your people."

[littlemanpoet]

So it was true. What more could be said, or done? The Ulfings would betray Lord Caranthir, and it was beyond Lachrandir's power to stop them; unless - -

Lachrandir reached for his sword and began to draw it, but before he could, he felt the monster's claws tear into his throat. He knew his life was at an end. Where was Tathren? Maybe there was a moment yet in which he could send him a thought.

Tathren! Treason!

It was all he could manage; his life was spent.

Thorn

Clegga of the Ulfastings glanced at those who had not taken sides. "We of Ulfast have no quarrel with those who love Ulwarth best, but know that if Uldor becomes lord of the Ulfings, it will go ill with all those who do not favor him now. To me, Ulwarthings!"

A three way civil war right in the great hall, thought Thorn. This could undermine the Bauglir's plans if it could be used so. He wondered what would happen next.

Anydor, the leader of the Uldoring guards spoke next. "You play a dangerous game, Clegga. Be not a fool! You will not cow us! If we have pitched battle over this lone prisoner, it will be for nought, for you know as well as I that lord Ulfang has chosen Uldor as next lord, and once he comes upon this hall and sees bodies littering the floor, he will restore his place with an iron hand, and let any who stand in his way beware for their life and limb." He turned to the Ulwarthings. "Consider well, Ulwarthings, before you commit treason. Stand down, if you are not fools."

The Ulwarthings looked one to the other and one by one sheathed their blades.

Anydor cracked a grim smile. "Now then, Clegga, choose carefully your next deed."

Clegga looked at his fellows and with a scowl said, "Now is not the time to bring to Ulfast what is rightly his." He sheathed his sword, and his fellows did likewise.

"You are not so foolish," Anydor said. "Make way to the dungeon!"

[littlemanpoet]

Thorn sat in the dungeon, waiting and thinking. It was not a thoroughly disgusting and inhospitable place, for it was not marred with filth from past prisoners. In fact, it could hardly be called a dungeon. More like a cellar in which had been placed a bench. But it was dark.

One could only sleep so much. Thorn listened for the Song but could hear little of it. They had taken his staff from him, believing it to be a means of power; it was not. Rather, it was a means of focusing his thought. So without it, listening for the Song was harder.

Still, he was not troubled overmuch. He knew that he would be brought before the Ulfing lords and questioned before he died. He would use it to greatest advantage. Till then, he waited.

[Nogrod]

It was Embla who saw first the beast coming towards them.

"The vampire! The vampire from my vision!" she shrieked an tried to grasp Fastarr from the sleeve.

Fastarr felt his blood freezing with the sight of the oncoming creature. And it approached unimaginably fast. There was no time to think. Only time to act.

Fastarr had time to take one step and to swing his staff. He hit the creature just as it passed them. It was a blow that would have stopped a racing bull. But it had no effect on Thuringwethil. On the contrary Fastarr realised he was flying through the air and hitting the ground many feet away. Embla came stumbling down on him.

What is that monster-vampire? Fastarr managed to turn his head back towards the scene only to see the beast holding the elf-lord in it's talons and blood bursting all around. Instinctively he grasped Embla to his arms letting her not to turn towards the butchering.

"What... what is it... doing?" Embla mumbled in shakingly to Fastarr's ear while holding him tight. Her whole body was trembling... like Fastarr's.

Fastarr rolled himself to his knees and started dragging Embla away from the terrible sight. "Hurry now, he's dead and we can't do anything... Hurry now, let me help you..." Fastarr rose to his feet panting and pulled Embla up from the ground. He glanced quickly back to the ugly scene. Thuringwetil was stil holding the now lifeless elf in her talons.

"Run Embla, run!" he shouted and pushed her away from the beast just to see the Ulfing lords following the carnage on the slow hill just opposite of them. They looked like there was a spell on them as they stood there steady and expressionless, like time had stopped their bodies and faces... and even their souls into that posture.

"Noo!" Fastarr managed to grasp Embla back from the shoulder as she was starting to make a run towards the Ulfings. "Not there, not there!" He pulled her towards him to shelter her. Where are our horses? Where's that other elf? Where's my staff?

There was no going back or forward and the spell of the moment in the middle would be soon broken.

[Folwren]

Uldor did not see what took place in the clearing. None of the Ulfings did. The servants were yet busy about the boar, others were holding the horses. The three brothers sat mounted on their horses, forming a triangle with their backs to each other.

Uldor was consumed with impatience. Discontent, treason, and fear of treason in return never let him sit still for long without doubts creeping into his mind. Now he sat in restrained silence thinking about what the two, frantic Borrim might possibly have to say to Lachrandir in private.

“I should not have let them go,” he muttered. “Whatever they have to say to him should be for my ears as well.” His hand shifted and then clenched on his knee. His horse moved uneasily beneath him, and then suddenly lifted his head and gave a shrill neigh.

“Quiet, you beast!” Uldor exclaimed angrily. The horse’s noise subsided into an uneasy rumble in his throat, but his ears and head were still up.

At that moment, the shouts of a man reached the Ulfings’ ears. All the heads of both man and horse turned and looked in the direction the elves had gone. Tathren, who had remained behind, suddenly leaped back upon his horse and urged it into the trees, disappearing from sight almost at once.

“Ulfast!” Uldor called out behind him and spurred his horse forward without waiting to see if his brother would follow. He trotted through the trees and came to the clearing. He stopped his horse abruptly and his mouth opened at the sight before him.

Tathren knelt above the still and bloody figure of Lachrandir. The Borrim were nowhere in sight, and the killer, whoever it had been, was gone also

Udlor dismounted and hurried over. “What has happened? How was he killed?”

Tathren did not reply immediately. His throat worked momentarily as he tried to swallow. “I don’t know,” he finally got out. “But Lachrandir knew there was treason. He told me.”

[Gwathagor]

At the sound of the hoofbeats, Jord had fled the bloody meadow on pale shadow-wings, leaving no trace of her presence save the slaughtered corpse of Lachrandir. High she flew now, high above the clouds and human sight, as silent as death, back to the village. It was well begun now, well set in motion. As far as she knew, Lachrandir's had been the sole remaining voice which could turn Uldor's ear from her own counsel. With he and Khandr dead, the path to Uldor seemed clear. With a few deft twists and squeezes, she would soon have him doing her will - it did not matter whether he knew it or not.

The murders would serve a double purpose. Not only had they eliminated the chief obstacles to her goal, but they could now be used to foster further contention, distrust, and infighting among these dirty humans.

Jord dropped straight down out of the sky with the speed of a thunderbolt, and landed with perfect grace on the high roof of the Great Hall - all without making a sound. It was the work of a moment for her to slip over the edge of the roof and through the window into her chamber. Almost immediately, sharp pains began to wrack her body as her god-like bat-form diminished and dwindled, losing its claws and wings and fear-inspiring presence. She cringed, and not just from the pain; she had remembered how much she enjoyed being a vampire.

As soon as she had crossed back over into that wretched human-form, she would put on a new dress.

The one she was wearing was dirty.

[Lalaith]

Embla’s natural impulse was to succumb to hysterical panic – to sink to her knees and bury her face in the ground to get away from all the horror. But as she fell, there was something that forced her to stay in focus. It came – a vision, a fissure of clarity - trying to fight its way to the surface of her consciousness. “Fastarr...” at first she was whispering his name, then it turned into a hoarse, desperate scream, and she clutched feverishly at his tunic. “Khandr is dead. I can see him. They have killed him too. Oh Fastarr, please, let us run....” She kept talking, babbling insanely, hoping that somehow, the words would build a wall between them and the deadly threat hovering over them.
Fastarr looked at her blindly, as if he did not understand. He simply pulled her to her feet, stared at her, and because of the growing bond between them she instantly understood that it was time for action not words. Together, hand in hand, they ran frantically deeper into the forest. The horses they so desperately sought were gone - driven by their natural beast-like instincts to flee from the terror of Morgoth. Now the couple were alone amid the darkness of the trees, and danger was close behind them.

[Mithalwen]

It seemed to Tathren that his heart rose in his chest stopping his throat from uttering more even if he could: he could hear its pounding as the beat of mighty wings. His dark hair fell about his face as he knelt over his lord's body but it could not conceal that he was weeping; the sobs that broke from him convulsed his slight frame. Though his voice had been quenched by tears, words coursed through his mind, words that every Noldo knew even if they had not been alive to hear them, even if they defied them:

Tears unnumbered ye shall shed;.. not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains. On the House of Feanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass.

Betrayal, Treason. He thought of Lachrandir's desperate last message as his tears mingled with the blood that had stained the star of Feanor on the elf-lord's breast.

Ye have spilled .. blood .., unrighteously ... For blood ye shall render blood,

He gazed at the vicious wounds on Lachrandir's neck .... what instrument could have done this? The man and woman who had led him away seemed unarmed but perhaps they had concealed some dreadful weapon. Lachrandir's own blade was half drawn but unstained, and so keen-edged were the knives of the Noldor that one stroke would have sufficed. His master's neck had been pierced in many places, yet he with his elven swiftness had been unable to make even a single strike in defence.

He touched the wounds horrified yet fascinated, so much blood ... how could he have relished the prospect of the hunt? Now he knew what death really looked like. Though his father and blood-uncle had been slain at the Dagor Bragollach, their was a remoteness about their deaths that his child's mind had filled with glorious notions of heroism and valour. Never had he imagined that the death of a great warrior, a Companion of Caranthir no less, could be as mundane as slaughtering a beast.

.. ye shall dwell in Death's shadow... slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief; and your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos. There long shall ye abide and yearn for your bodies, and find little pity

He wept not only for the lord he had called Uncle and loved more than the one who had held more right to the title - whose conviction that his brother's lad was a milksop would not have been dimmed had he been able to observe him now - but the father he had lost before he really had the chance to know him. A craftsman by choice and a warrior by force he had become an exile through a loyalty to his own brother that the kinslaying had strained but not quite broken, and though guiltless shared his doom. He had passed to his son a greater reverence for the Valar than was held by most of his kindred in Middle Earth. So though he had no expectation that he might be heard on the edges of the world by the one who might offer pity, in his heart he invoked the vala Nienna and made her an offering of his grief, in the hope she would show her compassion to those he loved who were now in Mandos' keeping.

Whether by the intercession of the Lady of Mourning or no, his own tears subsided and he looked up to see the other hunters regarding him with ..... what? He had not yet learnt to read these mortals; but he guessed that they wished to be away from this place of death.

"I'm not leaving him, I did not stay with him and he died" he said at last. "I will not leave him now." . Then, on this occasion able to comprehend the bafflement in their faces he repeated it in a language they understood.

[Folwren]

The boy-elf wept bitterly. Uldor had carried no conception of the relative youth of Tathren until this moment, as he knelt above his fallen master. He understood his strange emotions even less than he understood the language in which Tathren addressed him by eventually.

“I am not leaving him,” he finally told the men standing around. “I did not stay with him and he died. I will not leave him now.”

Uldor stepped forward, and opened his mouth, about to ask ‘Will your remaining with him change anything now?’, but respect for the dead and the obvious grief for him kept him quiet. Instead, he changed his words to, “Very well. Two of the servants will stay with you. We will return and send a wain to bear him back in.”

Without waiting for any sign or answer, Uldor strode away.

What did this mean? Who killed him? Why was he killed? This could ruin all of his plans. What could he do now? What word could he send back to Lord Caranthir? What to the Great Lord Morgoth?

His fist clenched viciously at his side. This was a nasty turn of events for him and he knew it very well indeed.

“Ulfast, lord Lachrandir has been killed,” Uldor snapped when he reached his horse. He jerked the reins out of his squire’s hands and mounted impatiently. “We must return home at once.”

“How was he killed?” Ulfast questioned.

“How the blazes am I to know?” Uldor snarled. He glared at his brother, before turning his horse about to face his attendants. Two of them he told to go and stay with Tathren and the fallen elf. The rest he informed abruptly that the hunt was over and they were returning to the settlement.