Here There Be Dragons - RPG

[piosenniel]

Wasim . . . the return of the failed assassin . . .

The more he considered his options the less he like the idea of having to report to Wyrma. He knew, though, that if he did not the long talons of the maenwaith leader would reach out to crush his family. His family . . . A loud weary gasp was strangled back as he thought of his brother, now dead at the hands of the men of the north.

‘Bird’s got a touch of something,’ he heard one of the sailors below say, pointing up at him. ‘Let’s move away before he lets fly something foul.’ Wasim rocked back and forth nervously on the cross-tree of the mast. The headlands that marked the entrance to the Havens of Umbar were in sight, and the little tern stretched out his wings, then folded them securely against his body, waiting for the right opportunity for flight.

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The two guards eyed him as he stood fidgeting in the hallway, their lips curled in a smirking manner as they considered what their Mistress might do with him. ‘Where’s your brother, eh?’ one of them asked, prodding him with the end of his lance. ‘Give her the wrong answers and you might have the privilege of joining him,’ snorted the other.

Called in at last to Wyrma’s office, Wasim shuffled in and stood disconsolately before her desk, head down. She did not acknowledge his entrance right away, but sat looking through some pieces of parchment that were spread before her on the desk’s shiny surface. Wasim dared a look up at her and caught the image of her face as it rippled over the wood grain. He shivered and cast his gaze back to the floor. The angles of her face and jaw, the glittering orbs of her eyes as her visage passed over the shining surface reminded him too much of childhood stories and the murderous cunning of dragons.

He jerked up his head when she rasped out in a cold voice her command.

‘Report!’

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Wasim detailed his and Wahid’s plan, step-by-step, followed by a description of what had actually gone on the night of the attempt. He could see her back stiffen at his use of the word ‘attempt’, and he squirmed under her cold gaze. Wahid had been killed and he had barely escaped. And yes, the King still lived.

He’d shut his eyes tight by this time, expecting the worst, but was met only with an engulfing silence. Hopeful, and relieved that he still breathed, he went on. The King and his men had seen him change from man to bird as he flew away. Wyrma’s eyes narrowed at this revelation. Wasim hurried on to explain that they had arrested someone else the very next morning. Someone they called a ‘skinchanger’.

‘Another maenwaith?’ she asked, her brow furrowed.

‘Not one I’ve ever seen in any of the tribes here. A giant of a man, pale skinned with long dark hair and a full beard. He smelled familiar in an odd way, though – I visited him in his cell when he was sleeping. I’ve never seen another like him.’ Wasim pursed his lips, trying to dredge up the last bit of information he had wanted to remember about the man.

‘Baran,’ he said softly, nodding to himself. ‘They called him Baran.’

His reporting done, he cast his eyes down once again, hoping he would make it out of her office alive and safely home . . .

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Wyrma sat silently for a moment, her eyes looking past Wasim as she pondered his fate. Then her lips turned upwards in a thin, cruel smile. Yes, she thought, that will serve very well. It is a shame that I will have to look for new tools, but it will not be difficult to find better ones than these were.

Wasim’s head jerked up to look at her as she spoke in her most commanding tone. “You seem to have been more successful as a bird than in human shape. At least you were able to escape from the enemies that way, since you could not deal them a blow. Therefore you shall have opportunity to keep the shape that suits you best. Transform back to it!”

Puzzled by her command, he shivered slightly, then concentrated to obey her. She picked up the trembling little crow in her hands, almost crushing it with the pressure of her controlled anger. A few energetic steps brought her to the corner of the room, where an empty birdcage stood, forlorn and unused since she had banned the annoyingly cheerful singer from her presence. She thrust Wasim into the gilded metal cage and closed the latch before calling out imperiously, “Guards!”

The two burly men burst into the room, weapons lifted to ward off the presumed danger. Their eyes darted back and forth as they came to a standstill before Wyrma, awaiting her command. “Here is your prisoner!” she said, secretly amused at their obvious confusion. “Take him hence and place him in a small iron cage that cannot be opened by anyone.”

My family! Wasim attempted to call out, but all that the Umbarian guards heard was a raucous “Caw!” Wyrma understood him, and answered indirectly, “Ah yes – the cage with the bird will be sent to his family very soon. I am sure they will be happy to have him back alive.”

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

Later that day, she stood before Falasmir, unmoved outwardly, but very uncomfortable inside, a feeling she did not relish. He had taken out his frustration over the state of his ships and port in a tirade on the incompetence of shape-changers to accomplish tasks, and though she had listened with seeming patience, she was seething with the combined wrath over his impertinence and Wasim’s failure. Finally she could contain herself no longer.

“Not my people alone have failed – you forget the destruction of your ships, Falasmir! Gondor has proven harder to wound than you thought in your pride! You should clean the dung out of your own stables before searching for it in mine.”

Falasmir arose from his throne, his face livid with rage. “A fine ally you have proven to be!” he shouted. “You want my help without giving yours in return. You offer counsel and give criticism instead. You have not fulfilled your part of the contract. Leave my city before I have you kicked out of it like a mongrel dog!”

Wyrma’s voice was icy as she answered. “I will gladly forsake you so that you may see to the repair of your harbour and the building of new ships. What does a weak Umbar have to offer my people?” With those words, she turned and swept out of the room, her head held high.

In her room, she directed Elsta to pack her belongings immediately. The maid moved quickly and silently, and before long Wyrma’s clothing and personal things were stowed away in baskets and chests. In the meantime the Maenwaith leader had gathered the papers that her desk held, wrapping them securely and placing them in a leather bag that she carried herself. They were interrupted by a knock on the door.

Wyrma was nearby and opened it slightly to see who craved entrance. When she saw Galandor, she quickly let him in, glancing down the hallway behind him to be sure that no one was watching. “Was I convincing enough?” she asked, her eyebrows raised questioningly.

“Quite!” he answered with a smile. “News of your leaving will spread throughout the city within the hour, I am sure. No one will suspect that you still have contact with anyone here. I wish I could go with you, but I will have opportunity to further our plans here more than ever now.”

“Send me a messenger to let me know how it goes,” she murmured. “Farewell for a time!” As soon as the side door closed behind him, Elsta opened the other. One of their men had brought a cart for the luggage, and they made their way through the corridors rapidly. No guards impeded their progress, but Wyrma breathed a sigh of relief when they had left the city gates behind them. She was on her way home.

[piosenniel]

Chance meeting in Harondor . . . near the mouth of the River Harnen

Time . . . twenty five years ago . . . a fair night, much like tonight . . . a new acquaintance . . .

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‘Name could have been more apt, don’t you think? Flower of the Winds . . . . Hmmph!’

The comment came in a laughing voice from behind her. A close voice, the footsteps light. Pio half turned to see the approaching stranger, her hand coming to rest lightly on the knife in her belt.

It was a small woman, who now stood stock still as the Elf regarded her. Short in stature; she would barely come to Pio’s shoulder standing tall in her boots. Shoulder length black hair, unevenly cut strayed across her jaw line on the left, where the wind riffled the strands. A shock of pure white hair broke the dark field, startling the Elf into a smile as she followed the line of it. The woman’s hands were on her hips, her gaze on the sign swinging lazily by the one rusted chain left to it.

Half-broken, the sign featured the detailed engraving of a Wind Rose, ‘Flower of the Winds’, an old name for a ship’s compass. The colors of it, seen only in bits and pieces, had once been quite brilliant; the sort of spectrum whereby mariners kept to a true course. But the years had gouged most of them from their grooves leaving only dull hints of former glory and the only course left now ended at a ramshackle building with a mug in one’s hand.

The Inn itself stood a number of paces down a dusty track. Not far from the small harbor, the stench of the mudflats that rose when the tide was low engulfed the battered, grey wood building, making the only patrons brave enough to frequent the place the noisy gulls in search of handouts from the cook and, of course, those familiar with the strong spirits brewed by the Innkeeper and his sons. Dried grapes and figs, a pinch of dried hot peppers, mixed with the clear water from the well, and covered with fine date sugar brewed and simmered in their goatskin bladders until declared ‘Right enough to raze a sailor’s throat!’ as it coursed its fiery way to the brave drinker’s belly. And to be honest, the fumes of the fermenting ‘wine’ competed well against the drying mudflats . . .

‘It is a rather putrid posy, is it not’ answered Pio, grinning as she relaxed her guard. ‘But I was given to understand the nectar makes up for the fetid blossom.’

You’ve heard true, then’ said the woman stepping closer, one hand brushing the stray hairs from her face and tucking them behind her ear. She took a close look at the Elf’s face, furrowing her brow as the half-moon’s light picked out her features. ‘What in blazes is one of you doing here?’

Pio declined to answer the woman’s cheeky question. Her business, Elf or no, was her own that night as always. Instead she took another tack, and nodding toward the ‘Flower’, asked if she might buy her new acquaintance a round or two. ‘My name is Piosenniel. ‘Or Pio,’ she said smiling, ‘once you’ve had a drink or two under your belt and your tongue trips over the longer version.’

‘Bird’s mine,’ the other woman offered in return. ‘Birdland, as my Mother named me. And Birdie to some . . .’ There was a frown, as if some other, more unkind names had come to the fore as she spoke. The woman’s hands fluttered as she talked, and now she seemed to push the bothersome thoughts away, grinning wryly as she did so. With a quick movement she readjusted the strap of her small leather pack, so that it hung comfortably from one shoulder.

‘Bird it is, then!’ Pio declared. And how she does remind me of one . . . her bright black eyes . . . the smallness of her . . . the quick, rhythmic movements of her hands as she speaks – as if they were wings and she about to take flight . . .

Pio waited for the woman to draw alongside her then began walking toward the Inn’s front door. But Bird drew her off the path, motioning her toward one of the side windows. ‘Always best to see who’s tipping a cup in the old Flower, if you know what I mean.’

Unsure, Pio followed along behind Bird, waiting for her to peruse what patrons had found their way to the Inn this night. Whoever they were, Bird found the crowd pleasing. Her dark eyes had a certain anticipatory gleam to them as she turned away from the window, and she rubbed the palms of her hands together, though the night was quite warm. Pio was quiet as she walked beside Bird, wondering what sort of companion she had fallen in with as the woman murmured softly to herself, the words bearing an undercurrent of confident glee.

‘Come to Birdie, my little pigeons . . .’

The Innkeeper nodded at them as they entered, and coming near to Bird, spoke low. Pio stepped away to find a table, but couldn’t help but hear the warning to ‘keep it on the up and up’ from the man. Bird only nodded, smiling, and said, ‘Of course!’ Her eyes slid about the room slyly taking the lot in.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was soon evident what Bird had in mind for the customers in the common room. She sized up those who were ripe for the plucking, and stood them to a glass of spirits. Clearing a spot on the table before her, Bird drew a soft leather pouch from the waistband of her breeches and fished out three walnut shell halves, well polished from all their handling, and a perfectly round, dried pea-bean, bright blue in color. She laid them aside, and with a fumbling hand took off the yellow velvet scarf tied round her slender waist, smoothing it out on the table’s top. And all the time, she kept up a running patter for those whose attention now focused on her, drawing them in with her smiles and assuring words.

‘An easy bet,’ she nodded, putting a small stack of copper coins to one side of the velvet field. ‘Especially for such hawk-eyed men as yourselves,’ she went on, winking as she said it to confirm her high opinion of them. They laughed at her clumsy antics, her fumbling fingers and the snort of disgust she made as she dropped one of the shells on the floor. ‘Easy pickings this one!’ one mumbled to his companion, giving her a knowing leer as she stood back up again. She colored, shrugging her shoulders at his assessment of her. ‘Just give me a small chance, won’t you. A girl’s got to make her money for drinks and eats somehow, now doesn’t she?’

‘And this one’s not the sort can rely on her face to get her by can she mates?’ The leering fellow nudged those near him who in turn laughed at his crude jest.

Pio had drawn her chair a little ways away, and sat watching Bird work the little group. The small woman gave only the appearance of ineptness, or so it seemed to the Elf as she followed her movements. She’d bought another round of drinks for ‘her friends’ by now and had them off their guard with her clumsy movements and apparent newness to the game. Still, Pio noted the men were all armed, stout sticks mostly and the occasional knife in the waistband. She wondered if Bird had taken this into account; smiling as she saw how the woman had positioned herself across the table from the soon to be players. And with a direct path to the door! An admirable tactician, Pio thought, nodding her head, as the woman went up in her estimation. The Elf kept her eyes on the small ensemble, wondering how many times Bird had done this before.

Bird set the three shells in a row on the velvet, open side up to show they were empty and contained nothing tricksy. The blue colored pea sat like a jewel against the yellow background. ‘See! I just put it here under this shell and move the shells about. And all you have to do is pick the shell the pea is under. Right choice – and you’ve won the bet.’

http://www.chefanton.com/entertain/shellgame.gif

She nodded at a bleary eyed fellow to her left across the table and grinned at him. ‘You’ve an eye for this; I can tell. I see your keen eye following the shell. Show your mates you know which one it is.’ Bird’s movements had been slow and the man picked out the shell easily. Eager to try his hand again, he placed a small wager, one copper, and bade her go again.

He won the next two bets; then another of his companions joined in and won the next. Bird’s little stack of coins slowly dwindled as eager players joined in. Over the next few shufflings of shells, the luck turned a little, bringing the tide of winning back just a bit to Bird’s side of the table.

Luck smiled one way and then the other it seemed over the course of four or five more rounds of drink. Players came and went; some grumbling at their losses, others happy with a copper or two rounding out their ragged purses. Pio sat with the same drink at hand as when she’d first come in. Beyond the bright patter of the game, a certain table had caught her eye. Set in the shadows at one corner of the room, three shifty-eyed men hunched about it, watching the flow of monies changing hands. And Bird by this time was winning, her now unfettered fingers deftly picking up the majority of her winnings and securing them in the small pouch which hung from her belt. The men’s piggish eyes glittered in the darkness at the soft clink of coins piling one atop the other.

Pio’s attention was drawn back to the gaming table by the sound of Bird’s laughter. ‘Let’s call it even, friends,’ she said scooping the shells and pea up with one hand and dropping them into the same pouch as the coins. ‘My poor fingers are nearly worn to a nub moving the shells about.’ She folded the yellow scarf and stuck it in a side pocket of her small pack. ‘The only moving I want to do now is to a comfortable chair with my fingers round a cup of the Flower’s finest.’

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was late when the Innkeeper urged the last of the patrons from the Common Room. Pio had spent an enjoyable time talking with her new acquaintance. Unencumbered by any alliances, political or romantic, both had a certain sense of adventure and enjoyed the freedom of traveling where and when and how they wished. Bird was a good story-teller and one with a wicked sense of humor, much to the Pio’s delight. Her understated assessment of certain individuals she had met left the Elf almost senseless with laughter in the telling. She was not one to defend herself by blade or cudgel. And unlike Pio who always had a sharp blade of one sort or another quick at hand, Bird’s best defense was her quick sharp wit and the sly cunning of the put upon . . . or so the Elf had gathered from the stories she told. And best yet, as the night had worn on and the number of cups drunk increased, Bird revealed yet another facet - the large repertoire of song she had acquired in her wanderings. The two had sung a couple of short ones together, the Elf singing harmony to Bird’s well warbled tune. And Bird had surprised her with variations on the verses she had learned in her travels, a wink and a knowing smile leading into the more bawdy of the refrains.

In short, Pio liked her.

And as talk turned to what each would be doing come the following day, Pio found herself asking Bird would she care to accompany her on a trip north. To Edhellond . . . there were some old buildings still standing there from the days when the Sindar had established the haven. There were records Pio wanted to obtain . . .

‘You’re not talking about libraries are you?’ asked Bird, her mouth pursed as if she had just tasted something quite sour and unappealing. ‘I’m not given much to libraries. Too silent and dusty. Makes me sneeze just thinking of them.’ Inns and marketplaces were more to her liking. Pio assured her she only meant to give a quick look to finding the scrolls she intended to borrow. Bird snorted at the Elf’s choice of words. ‘Obtain . . . borrow? You’re going to steal them aren’t you? And what were you planning for me to do – create a small diversion of some sort?’

Pio was quick to defend herself, saying that technically she believed the information she wanted to retrieve was hers by right and need. And as to a diversion, she hadn’t thought that far ahead, but now as she considered Bird’s offer she thought it a good idea. Bird laughed outright at the spurious logic of the Eldar and at the assumption that she had offered her assistance . . . though if truth be told it sounded like a bit of fun and besides she had heard there was a great, sprawling marketplace in the Havens, with many opportunities for a person of her talents to fatten a purse or two.

Arm in arm they wandered down the dark lane toward the harbor, talking of how they might accomplish each of their needs, should they agree to travel together.

‘You hear that?’ Bird whispered, nudging Pio in the ribs. The crunch of heavy footsteps sounded on the graveled path behind them. ‘Of course, I hear them,’ returned the Elf, drawing her arm from Bird’s and stepping away from her. ‘Get behind me!’ she hissed, knowing Bird was half sauced and carried no weapon. Pio turned drawing her sword, and narrowed her eyes at the dark path. Two hulking figures hunched toward the two women, stout sticks raised for an attack.

‘We only wants the money the scrawny wench has in her purse,’ the nearest one called out; his piggish features loomed closer in the pale starlight. It was one of the men from the Inn. He was close enough now she could smell the sour stench of his breath and hear his breathing. Another followed close behind him. But there had been three at the table, she recalled. Where was the other?

Pio leveled her blade at the forward man, telling him to leave them be. He laughed and swung hard at her sword arm with his thick oaken stick. The man behind him lunged forward with his shorter cudgel, and she caught the flash of steel in his left hand. Stepping back, she dropped her arm, letting it slide away from the intended blow, then brought it round in an upward swerving arc to slash the forward man’s face with the tip of her blade. He fell back, his place taken by the second attacker who beat at her with his cudgel, several blows falling sorely on her upper arms before she regained her stance. One lucky blow from him knocked the sword from her hand and he rushed in close to her, thinking to bash her soundly about the head. His plans were brought to a sudden halt as the knife from her belt found its way into her other hand and she slashed his club arm deeply, then drove the blade into his belly.

With barely a moment to catch her breath, Pio heard a great commotion behind her. There were various streams of colorful swears intermingled with frantic shouts of ‘Away you hellbird! Leave me be!’ Turning she saw the third man engaged in a frantic dance with a small black bird who darted in and out of his stick’s reach and tore at his face as it could with tiny talons and the beak of her rapidly darting white striped head. Pio picked up her dropped blade and hit the man broadside across the head. He fell with a great exhalation into a crumpled heap in the dirt. She nudged him with her toe, then did the same for the others. All were well out of it, though the one with the blade to his gut appeared to be tending toward a more permanent state in that direction. Now where was Bird?

‘You say the ship’s close you’ve got a berth on?’ Surprised, Pio looked up thinking to find her new friend standing near. Instead she felt the grip of the black bird’s feet hard on her shoulder and noted the ragged breathing from the bedraggled creature. ‘Bird?’ she said, looking about as she sought to brush the jackdaw from her shoulder.

‘Here, you half-brained Elf!’ came the little voice from the bird clinging frantically to the fingers that had sought to unseat her. ‘Best we get away from here and quickly. What passes for the guard here seems to have been roused and there’s a small mob of angry men coming down the path toward us.’

The Elf raced for the harbor, the small bird holding desperately onto her shoulder. ‘Skinchanger, then, is it?’ Pio panted. ‘I don’t suppose you could change into something larger and fly us out of here.’ ‘Not a chance,’ returned Bird. ‘Jackdaw, neeker-breeker, and the occasional dolphin – that’s the extent of my repertoire.’ ‘Ah!’ was all the Elf could manage as she slipped beneath the pier into the shadowy waters below, making as quietly as she could for the ship.

They hid in the hold til the ship set sail, coming up to Pio’s quarters only after the open sea was made. The captain said nothing about the addition of a bunkmate . . . the Elf had paid quite well he reasoned, and he was not about to question her. He had done so once before . . . and she had turned his curiosity aside, saying only that her business was her own . . .

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Time . . . the present . . . nearing the Havens of Umbar . . .

Peering out over the moon-shot waves, Pio rested her chin on her steepled fingers, a smile lingering on her lips at the pleasant memory of her old friend. ‘I wish you were here with me now, Bird,’ she thought. ‘I could use your bird’s eyes in picking out two stray men of Gondor lost in a sea of sand, Southrons, and the Stars know what else.

Her thoughts were cut short as Hamar came up softly beside her and pointed to the glittering lights of the far off shore. ‘I’ve ordered “lights out” as we pass by Umbar,’ he said quietly. The wind willing we should make Faragaer’s position late morning of the coming day.’ He looked at her expectantly. ‘I’ve set the watches for the night, and we’re running far out to sea. There should be no trouble.’ As he knew she would, she declined his suggestion that she get some rest. He shook his head, wondering at her reserve, then made his way to his own bunk for what little rest he could snatch.

Pio remained on deck, watching the city and the night pass by . . . her thoughts fixed on planning how she might proceed once they had landed.

By the One, Bird! she growled at a long tailed cloud scudding across the face of the moon. I need your help. Where are you?

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Surinen

Once inside, Surinen realized with disapproval that Latah was alone in the tent with the two foreigners, and made a mental note to speak sternly to his cousin. She should be more mindful of her safety, for these were not only strangers to them, but also born out of a vastly different tradition. Who knew what customs the people of Gondor might practice, or how they might view their womenfolk. It would not do to find these things out, haphazardly. And Surinen did not feel it should be his cousin who discovered the differences.

In his displeasure Surinen quite forgot the bird that had followed him into his uncle’s tent, and striding briskly away from Sorona, he made straight for the young woman. Dusting off various plates and cups with a cloth as she removed them from a chest, Latah looked up smiling to see him standing before her. And Surinen, seeing Dinsûl’s familiar bowl on the table and looking into his cousin’s upturned face, lost all resolve, tempering his words so that he might not risk frightening her. “Latah, you should be more cautious,” he reminded her. “It is not right that you should be alone among these men.”

“But the whole village waits, listening outside the tent,” she said hurriedly resuming her work. “And there are guards at the door, Suri! What trouble should I find here, that they would not know of immediately? And besides, these men apparently have not caused Ráma concern, or she would have taken pains to lose them in the desert.”

“Even so you should be wary. We know nothing of them or their ways,” Surinen declared looking at the Gondorians with unmasked suspicion.

Latah also stole a glance at them once again, but her eyes betrayed no mistrust, showing rather concern for her father’s guests. “At the moment I would be glad to know simply if they would be opposed to having their food served by my hand. I would guess that they are not, though I am not certain.” Then glancing down to her belt, she showed him the knife that it held. “Look, one of them had Ráma’s dagger. How do you suppose it came to be in his possession?”

“I suppose she might have had cause to throw it at him,” Surinen said muttering under his breath. And then louder, “Which one was it that carried this?”

“The younger of the two.” Surinen regarded him more closely through narrowed eyes. “They say he is the first mate,” his cousin continued. “Let’s hope that the first mates of sailing ships don’t make a practice of stealing women’s knives, or you may never eat mutton again!” she laughed. But seeing that Surinen did not join her in her amusement, she sought to calm his misgivings. “Don’t you worry Suri, I can take care of myself.”

“Can you?” Surinen questioned, intending to point out her vulnerabilities, but at that moment a gasp drew his attention, and he saw Sorona with foot raised, showing it to the men of Gondor. Struck with embarrassment, his face burned as he thought how he had sought to restraint the eagle but a few moments before.

“What is the matter Suri?” Latah asked. “And who is it that talks to our guests?”

“Her name is Sorona, that much I know,” he said feeling self-conscious as he turned back to the young woman. “She alighted in our camp just outside this tent soon after we last spoke. She is maenwaith Latah, and speaks our tongue. I feel she might be one of our clan, but she has known great trouble in her time, and now lives out her days in this form.”

“Does anyone know she is here?”

“I suppose the elders have seen her, though no one of them came forward. In truth I think they didn’t realize she wasn’t one of us.”

“You must find my father and bring him here, Suri.”

“Only if you promise to be more prudent!” the outrider insisted.

“Yes, yes! Just hurry!”

But when Surinen started to leave he saw that the eagle had moved outside also, barely visible through the tent opening. Hurrying, he dashed to follow her thinking she might fly away. In the bright light he squinted, noticing that the ground outside was nearly empty, save for the two guards, one of whom was ready to follow Sorona. Signaling the guard that he would keep her in sight. Surinen called after the bird, “Where are you going?” She stopped allowing him to catch up.

“I must talk to Thorondil or prehaps the elders,” she said. “Would you tell me where they are to be found?”

“I don’t know who this Thorondil is, though I am curious to find out, but I am on my way to find one of the elders now if you wish to come with me.”

“Yes, you also would not know him as Thorondil now, but rather Aiwendil," the eagle sighed. "Then again, it seems he has had many names."

“And many friends other than eagles, but I suppose that is as good a sign as any,” Surinen said. “I will show you the place were he stays, though with no guarantee he will be there. He quite often is to be found with the Meldakher.”

After passing though the maze of tents, they came across an empty and blackened patch at the heart of the encampment, and bearing to the right a small tent with two lean-tos poised beside it. Surinen headed for the larger of these. And coming near it they found the old man and Rôg seated on cushions in its shade, a flagon resting between them. The old man’s bushy eyebrows rose expectantly, as they approached. Bowing slightly to him, Surinen addressed him respectfully. “I have brought to you a friend who has lately arrived in camp and wishes to speak with you, if you will.” Donning an expression that seemed as though he looked both inward and outward at once, Aiwendil shifted his glance from the wiry young man down to the bird that stood beside patiently beside him.

[piosenniel]

Rôg

Little rituals learned in childhood are not easily forgotten. Rôg rose from his seat at once at the entrance of the eagle. ‘We are honored, Elder,’ he said, bowing deeply once Surinen had made his brief introduction of her to Aiwendil, ‘to have your presence.’ As he raised himself back up, he noted the perplexed looks on the two men’s faces, and even the eagle had cocked her head at him as if she did not know what to respond. Embarrassed, the color rose from his neck to flood his cheeks, and he stammered out an apology. ‘I’ve misread things again, haven’t I,’ he asked, looking to the old man for some direction. ‘I think I shall leave you to speak among yourselves before my ignorance comes to the fore again.’ Rôg gave a small bow to all three and withdrew, saying to Aiwendil he would see to the preparations for the evening meal.

‘You are such a fool,’ he muttered to himself several times as he trod the distance to the camp’s well. He had picked up a large pot as he passed his and Aiwendil’s tent, intending to get enough water for tea and the making of the flat bread to serve with the stewed desert hen. He was nearly to the well, when he felt a small tug at the hem of his tunic.

‘Did you do something wrong?’ Miri’s worried voice halted him in his tracks, her frowning face looking up expectantly for an answer. He frowned back, about to remind her she was not supposed to visit him, when she stamped her foot, saying, ‘I promised not to let you teach me any more changing tricks . . . I didn’t exactly say I wouldn’t talk to you ever again.’ ‘And besides,’ she went one, looking about at the others who were nearing the well for their evening’s water, ‘there are plenty of nosy eyed grown-ups about to keep me in line, don’t you think.’ Rôg bit his lip to keep from laughing at the fiery spirit of this Eagle child. ‘I suppose you are right, little mistress,’ he concluded with a grin, resuming his walk. ‘Well, then,’ she demanded, ‘what’s wrong?’

Reaching the well, Rôg lowered the bucket with its rope and drew up more than enough for his needs. He passed the rest on to the next in line, and motioned for Miri to walk back with him. ‘What’s wrong?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Everything I do, apparently. We both come from maenwaith clan, but our customs are so different I seem to stumble all over myself when I try to be helpful or polite.’ He explained his latest misjudgment to her, telling her of the eagle who had come to visit and how he had greeted her in the way he was taught to greet an Elder.

It was now Miri’s turn to be perplexed. ‘You thought the eagle was an Elder of our clan?’ She screwed up her face thinking. ‘Do your Elders come in your clan’s special shape when they come to visit? And if they come to visit, where do they live and where do you live?’ Miri pointed out some of the tents of her clan’s elders as they walked back to his. ‘Ours live right here with us. Don’t yours?’

‘Some do, little one,’ he explained as they reached his firepit. He let her build up the fire as he gathered the foodstuffs and pans needed for the meal preparation. ‘But a number,’ he continued explaining, ‘choose to live a little apart from us, in the big mountain caves on the rim of the northern desert.’ He set the pieces of hen to frying in the big iron pot, along with a handful of pungent herbs, dried onions and peppers from his pack and when the meat was browned, he covered it with the well water and set to cleaning the tubers one of the clanswomen had given him. He cut those into good sized chunks, letting Miri plop them into the pot as he finished.

Miri sat wondering all the while about that other desert and what it was like. She’d not heard tales of a desert up north, and looked askance at him, wondering if he were pulling a little prank on her. ‘And what do they do there in those caves . . . in the north, you said.’

By this time he had measured out a sizeable mound of flour, and making a little well in it, had poured in some oil, a little water, and a sprinkling of salt he’d ground in a mortar. ‘Mostly they talk to each other, I think,’ he went on, mixing the dough together, then dividing it in half so that she could help knead it on the smooth plank laid out for it. ‘They share the old stories, tell jokes, sing the old songs and make up new ones. And often they come in to visit the clan to see how things are going and to help out where they can. And best of all, to share the old tales and songs with us.’ He smiled at her, pinching the kneaded dough into balls to be patted into thin circles and baked on the flat bottom of a large heated pan. ‘Those are special times, exciting to hear the stories of old heroes and villains.’ ‘I like the stories, too,’ she told him. ‘But Narika is the one who tells our stories.’

‘We visit them, too,’ he continued, ‘especially when we are older than you. Fifteen or sixteen summers . . . that’s when the Elders begin to teach us our clan’s shape and the rules that go along with it.’ He smiled again, recalling his time with them. ‘And by the time we are twenty, for the most part, we have learned the change.’

‘You mean if you were Eagles they would teach you to change to an Eagle?’ Miri’s prow was furrowed as she tried to reason this out. ‘Girls and boys?’

‘Yes, both can do this,’ he said firmly. The stew was bubbling by this time; some of the water had boiled off, and the sauce had thickened a bit. Miri sniffed it appreciatively. ‘That smells good!’ she said with grin. ‘But I’ll bet my mami’s still tastes better than yours!’ ‘Probably so!’ laughed Rôg, throwing up his hands in surrender. ‘But,’ he said, winking at her, ‘my mami’s tastes best of all!’ Miri, in answer, simply shook her head at this statement with an impish grin on her face.

The circles of dough were set to cook on the hot surface of the pan. They required little attention save to turn then when they had bubbled up on top. And when they were done, they were stacked in a little basket, covered with a clean cloth, and set near the fire to keep warm. The kettle for tea was then made ready and set near the fire also to steep. Miri was not quite done with her questions and as they relaxed on their cushions she asked him how far away he lived from her.

‘Right now, my clan is south of yours . . . a number of weeks journey . . . at the south end of the mountains here. But soon we will go back to our real home in the north. The Elders have kept it safe for us. And that is very far from here . . . many, many weeks of travel if you were to come for a visit.’ Miri’s little face clouded over with this answer. ‘But you said you were going to visit your clan and see your Elders and you promised you were coming back,’ she grumbled, just on the verge of tears. ‘Now you say you won’t be back for a long, long, long time!’ ‘I won’t be that long,’ he assured her, gathering her close to him. ‘I promised I’d be back and I’ll hold to that. You’ll barely know I’ve been away.’

She looked up at him with one brow raised, a disbelieving look on her face. ‘And just how are you going to do that?’

He was saved from answering by the insistent call of her brother. It was meal time in their tent. Miri hopped up and ran after her sibling, who had already turned and headed for home. She waved to Rôg and called out over her shoulder, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow!’

Rôg waved back at her and turned back to the stewing hens. Spoon in hand he stirred the fragrant medley, awaiting the arrival of Aiwendil and his guests.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil watched as Rôg bowed and hurriedly withdrew from the tent, an expression of discomfort evident on his face. The istar turned away from his companion with a sigh, sensing that he could do little to help the young man, and instead concentrated his attention on Sorona. Aiwendil stared once and then twice at the familiar pattern of brown and grey feathers that covered the Eagle’s powerful wings: he had the distinct feeling that this was a figure from his past he should recognize. Sorona cocked her head and gazed up at him with oddly expectant eyes, half hopeful and half fearful, as if she thought the istar could unearth the central clue that would help her solve a riddle of great import. A stray memory tugged insistently from just outside the old man’s mind, but he could not recall when or where he had first met Sorona.

I cannot be this addled. Perhaps, she went by another name. What sort of Maia forgets such things? Yet, however Aiwendil struggled to discern the truth, he found only grey mists of forgetfulness draped over his mind like an intractable curtain.

The old man felt vaguely embarrassed. Trying to mask his disgruntlement, he stood up straight and formally addressed the bird, “I am afraid we have not met before. Is there something I can do to assist you?”

Sorona’s tail feathers drooped perceptibly. She had never forgotten their first meeting. The woman would not have been surprised if the old man had fussed at her. He was often like that, and she had given him genuine reasons to complain about her behavior. The one thing she had not counted on was that her rescuer had totally forgotten her, like a tiny nameless twig set adrift on a fast-flowing river. But perhaps he had really not forgotten her. Perhaps, her rescuer had been so appalled by who she was and what she had done that he wished to pretend he had never met her. She really could not blame him.

The Eagle replied in an equally formal tone but underlined with nervousness, “Thorondil, sir, I have been having dreams and….”

The old man quickly interrupted, “Please do not address me by that name. A simple ‘Aiwendil’ will do.”

Sorona nodded, “Yes, sir…..Aiwendil, sir. I have been having dreams. I believe these dreams may have something to do with the Eagles and their troubles. In any case, I thought I might speak with someone who could explain what these visions mean. Perhaps to you, or the leader of the clan.”

Aiwendil shook his head. “To me? No, I cannot help you. Ayar may want to hear your story. You might try speaking with her, though I fear she will soon be beyond all our voices, or with her daughter Narika.” The Eagle looked down at the brand on her claw and wondered if she dared speak to either of these women. They were likely to turn her away politely just as Aiwendil had done.

The istar averted his eyes and glanced over to Surinen, hastily adding, “I have guests this evening. Mithadan and Airefalas have promised to come for supper. I am sorry if this inconveniences the folk who have offered to put up the Gondorians. Please give my apologies to their host, but Mithadan is an old friend whom I have not seen for some time. You two are most welcome to join us.”

Surinen shook his head, “Thank you, but I am expected elsewhere.” Sorona nodded her head and mumbled similar apologies as she gracefully escaped out the door of the tent.

“In any case,” added Surinen, “I believe your guests are here.” He gestured towards Mithadan and Airefalas who were just arriving and then left.

Aiwendil added his welcome to the Gondorians, “Ah, I see they have allowed you to come. My companion Rôg has graciously prepared us a fine meal. Please come inside where we may eat and talk.” The two men proceeded to the inner chamber, while Aiwendil went over and drew the tent flap tight. A guard was stationed outside to make sure that Mithadan and his companion did not try to escape. But the canvas walls were quite substantial, and it was unlikely that he would overhear what was being said.

‘Radagast’, ‘Thorondil’… What next? But anything is better than Thorondil! Aiwendil shifted uncomfortably. The last time anyone had used that name was when Olorin had met him near Bombadil’s house to tell him that he would not be going back to Valinor on Cirdan’s ship, at least not yet. He pushed down these unpleasant memories and went inside where his guests were already seated on the pillows on the ground and Rôg had begun to bring in the food.

[Child of the 7th Age]

By the time Narika had arrived in camp, most of the maenwaith had already gathered in family circles and were sharing their evening meal. The young woman halted just once, when one of the Elders emerged from a tent and hastily apprised her of some of the happenings and arrivals from earlier that afternoon. After thanking him for the news, she urged her horse forward, dismounted at the entrance to her mother’s tent, and rushed inside after briefly speaking with the guard to make certain that there had been no further mishaps.

Narika fell into her sister’s arms, embracing Ráma with a warmth born of both affection and urgency. Her sister sat near Ayar’s bedside; more ominously, her mother had fallen into a deep sleep from which she showed no signs of waking. Seeing the unspoken query in Narika’s eyes, Ráma responded bluntly, “I fear she is dying. Earlier this afternoon, she spoke with me. She seemed weak but alert. Yet for the past hour, neither Yalisha or I can rouse her.”

Narika glanced at her sister. Unlike Ráma, she had nursed her mother for several days and understood that the poison would ultimately take her life. Her twin had only arrived home and had not had time to accept the situation. “I’m sorry,” she responded softly. “From the first we knew there was little hope. I am only glad you came in time. At least you have spoken with her.”

“Yes, and she had much to say. About what should happen to the Eagles and….”

Narika interrupted. “I will hear your own news and mother’s words later. I think we may need to sit up tonight, to stay with mother. Only now you must go and rest. Eat something, and brush the dust of the road from your clothes.”

Too tired to argue, Ráma mutely nodded her head and turned to leave when Narika’s voice suddenly followed after her, “There is one thing though about these strangers: the men who came with you, and the Eagle… Can they be trusted?”

“Yes, Mithadan and Airefalas have already proven to be honorable men. Mithadan has an errand that concerns a maenwaith friend. And mother knows Sorona the Eagle. She spoke out on her behalf.”

“Sorona, you say?”

“Yes, that is the name she goes by.”

Narika’s face remained impassive but a hint of suspicion showed in her eyes. To her sister, she only said, “This is not a good time. I wish you had left them behind.”

“They are good people, sister. I am sure of it. I will plead their case before the Elders, if it comes to that.”

“You may need to. There are tongues wagging all over camp. And even I would not trust strangers so easily. It is enough that we have extended a hand to Aiwendil and Rôg.”

Ráma started to object but then stopped herself. This was not the time or place for such a discussion. “We will speak of it later then.” She turned and quickly left the tent.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Surinen

Making way for the Gondorians to pass, Surinen stiffened and putting on a formal air as he returned the first mate’s courteous nod, he saw no malice in the tall man’s glance, and so relaxed a little. But the moment the two had disappeared into the tent, he went up to the armed guards as they approached, grilling them in his good-natured way, on the behavior of the northerners. He was a little surprised as well as relieved to find their conduct described as faultless, the guard even going so far as to say that they took direction well under the circumstances.

“They seek to make a good impression!” Surinen pronounced wagging his finger. But attention swiftly turned from the outrider to the tent opening when to the dismay of all, the thick flap descended and was tightly secured by unseen hands. “Ah, what plans might be hatched in there? Only the unlooked for dinner guest might discover that mystery!” Surinen winked at one guard knowingly "I’ll leave you to your work then, Yemnya,” he said turning to leave and almost running into Sorona who waited behind him.

“No Surinen, they should not be disturbed,” the eagle advised. “Unless much has changed Aiwendil is honorable, and he would neither harm your encampment nor encourage others to do so.”

“This from an eagle I met only today,” Surinen sighed. “But a wise eagle no doubt, and one who seems to share the same trust in Aiwendil as Ayar.” But Sorona was looking around as he spoke, seemingly preoccupied with some other matter. “Perhaps both eagles are right, and we should leave them be,” then addressing Sonora he said, “Come friend, I know where there is ample food for us and a good lady who would be glad to share our company at dinner.”

“Thank you Surinen, but no. I would speak as soon as possible with Narika, if you would take me to her tent,” the bird said looking rather crestfallen.

“I would if I could, but I can not fly, you see…and she is far away just now. She should return soon though, for her mother has sent for her. Meanwhile, humor me by being the guest of my family, for we would welcome you heartily.”

“Then I will wait with your family until she arrives,” Sorona said accepting the invitation.

When they arrived back at Fador’s tent, Latah had finished sweeping the hard ground and had already put down the mats unrollingthe mattresses to preparing beds for her guests. Neither Narayad nor Fador had come back since Surinen had left, and their plates still sat, covered with a brightly embroidered cloth, at the edge of the table in anticipation of their return.

“Surinen it is you! I thought that Narayad had returned.”

“No it is only me, and bringing a guest to share in your feast,” he replied smiling. “That is if we are invited, and you have enough for us.”

Latah grinned and stepping up to the eagle said, “My cousin has told me about you Sorona. Please forgive Surinen for not introducing us properly; he is rude by nature and not design. And I believe him to be quite hungry by now! I am Latah and you both are most welcome to share food in my father’s tent. ”

“As for her introduction, my cousin is too modest. I would present to you Latah, an excellent cook and generous hostess, and more a sister to me than cousin, as you can see. You are now in the tent of the elder that is her father, and the one I have neglected to look for,” he said sheepishly turning back to Latah. “I have not seen him at all today,” he shrugged.

“Thank you Latah, for your kindness. It has been a long time since I have shared food with others." Sorona said.

[Ealasaide]

Mithadan and Airefalas arrived at the tent of the elderly istar just as the eagle, Sorona, and one of the tribal outriders, a lean and wiry fellow they had seen around the camp, were departing. Airefalas stepped out of their way as they passed, exchanging a glance with the outrider, who seemed to regard him with suspicion at best. Airefalas met the outrider's eyes with an even gaze and nodded courteously. The outrider responded in kind, but, even so, Airefalas had the distinct impression that this fellow trusted his and Mithadan's motives about as far as he could spit into a strong headwind, which was not far at all.

He supposed such a reaction should be only expected, considering the timing of his and Mithadan's arrival into the Eagle camp. With the tribal leader lying on the brink of death, the victim of an unknown assassin's strike, and the tribe itself poised on the brink of war, Airefalas knew that they were fortunate to have been granted as much hospitality and freedom as they had. The fact that he and Mithadan had been allowed to keep their weapons and wear them openly was tribute to one of two things: either Ráma's good will and considerable influence within the tribe, or the tribe's underlying desire to see Gondor as an ally, even a distant one, until proven otherwise. Either way, as much as being under constant guard chafed at him, Airefalas understood very well that their reception could have been much worse. He only hoped that it would not take too much time to win the trust of the tribespeople, but he knew better than to be overly optimistic. In difficult times, trust could be very hard won.

Accompanying Mithadan into the istar's tent, he noticed both that the guard that had accompanied him and Mithadan over from their own tent had been left outside, and that the heavy tent flap had been secured tightly behind them once they had gone inside. To Airefalas, this was a good sign. Perhaps some of the questions and secrets that had tantalized them since their arrival would finally be addressed. Following Mithadan's example, he took a seat on one of the many cushions that graced the floor of the tent and waited as the istar and his younger companion joined them. As Mithadan and Aiwendil made the required introductions of himself and Rôg, he bowed politely when appropriate and thanked his hosts for their hospitality. Then, he fell into silence, watching and listening as Aiwendil and Mithadan entered into a friendly conversation about the terms of their prior acquaintance, Mithadan's wife, and so on, while Rôg busied himself with the food.

Finally, catching Rôg's eye, Airefalas leaned forward. "I notice, Rôg, that you and your companion, while not being of the Eagle tribe, are not held under guard either," he said in a friendly tone. "Do you share a long acquaintance with the Eagles?"

[piosenniel]

Rôg

‘It is Aiwendil who has no guard, actually,’ returned Rôg, kneeling down near Airefalas, a tray in his hands. With an economy of motion he poured a small cup of fragrant wine for the man and passed it to him, then did the same for Mithadan and the old man. Mithadan nodded at him, then returned to some reminiscence about a certain journal. Aiwendil’s face softened as the captain spoke on, his head nodding thoughtfully.

Taking a cup of wine for himself, Rôg sat down on a cushion near Airefalas. ‘And if you look closely when I’m out and about, I do have a guard. Though a rather lackadaisical one at most. I fear he feels slighted that I have not proven to be more dangerous.’ He picked up a small tray of savories he had brought in earlier and offered them to Airefalas; then placed them on a low table near Aiwendal and Mithadan. ‘In fact, I heard him grumble to one of his friends that he felt like some old Granny herding a grandchild about.’ Rôg laughed and pointed to Airefalas’ blade. ‘Perhaps I should borrow your sword and saunter about a little outside the tent. My guard could then think of himself with the same level of esteem as your guards.’ Rôg sipped at his wine, His eyes sliding every so often to where Aiwendil sat. The old man’s head was inclined near Mithadan’s, his voice pitched low.

Rôg drew his attention back to the younger man sitting near him. ‘It was only by chance that we came to the Eagle camp. We were on our way to the city in Umbar, actually. To get supplies for a birding expedition, actually.’ At the frown on Airefalas’ face he explained they had come south so that he could show the old fellow the different sorts of bird life found here. ‘A set of unfortunate circumstances set the course that ended here . . . with us as “guests” of the Eagles.’ He refilled Airefalas’ cup as well as his. ‘To be honest, I do have some acquaintance with the Eagle Clan, but only in passing, and many years ago when I was only a child. I’ve been away a number of years. Many things have changed . . .’

Rôg colored slightly, realizing he had been the one doing most of the talking.

‘Please, excuse my rudeness,’ he offered as an apology. ‘Here you are, Aiwendil’s guest, and I have let you say little . . . won’t you tell me a little of yourself? How is it that you find yourself in the Eagle camp?’ He raised a brow at Airefalas. ‘It will be interesting to hear the real story.’ He laughed again. ‘You would not believe the tales that I’ve heard at the well early in the mornings . . . colorful rumors - flying thickly among the women . . .’

[Ealasaide]

Airefalas chuckled at the mental image of this small, rather scholarly-looking fellow strutting about before the mouth of the tent bristling with weapons for the benefit of his guard, but sobered quickly. If Airefalas had learned anything about the friends of his captain it was that while they may not carry a weapon so obvious as a sword, they were no doubt well-armed in other respects. At the mention of the other man's "birding expedition," however, he frowned slightly. Mithadan was on a "birding expedition" of his own, as it turned out. Knowing now the connection between Mithadan and the elderly istar, he wondered if the two were not actually on a related expedition, both of them searching for the same mysterious, but specific, Bird. It was certainly a possibility, but, Airefalas decided, that was Mithadan's business, not his own. What concerned him more was the rumor of dragons that Mithadan had confirmed, and the related threat to Gondor. Mithadan had already suggested that the two of them throw whatever support they could offer to the Eagles in defeating Wyrma and her followers, and Airefalas had agreed. What he wondered now was how and where Aiwendil and Rôg fit into the picture. His gut instinct told him that they were on the side of the Eagles, but he couldn’t help doubting that their presence was purely a matter of accident or serendipitous timing. He took a sip of wine and let his thoughts return to the ongoing conversation.

“....How is it that you find yourself in the Eagle camp?” asked Rôg, raising one eyebrow. “It will be interesting to hear the real story,” He added with a laugh. “You would not believe the tales that I’ve heard at the well early in the mornings, colorful rumors - flying thickly among the women . . .”

Airefalas grinned. “So, we’ve set the women abuzz, have we?” He laughed. “Actually it is a pretty colorful story.” He went on to relate how he and Mithadan happened to be in Umbar on a trading mission, their imprisonment in Falasmir’s palace and their subsequent escape. When he got to the part about torching the docks, he saw Rôg smile and nod, apparently having heard that part of it already. As he drew to the conclusion of the tale with his and Mithadan’s arrival at the Eagle encampment, he realized that he had omitted two significant details, both involving himself and Ráma. The first was the circumstances of his and Ráma’s first meeting, which was frankly embarrassing, what with him jumping at her like a lunatic when she had come to help them. The second was the incident with the sand viper at the oasis. He had not yet determined whether his actions had had any bearing on her subsequent change of heart regarding sending him and Mithadan north with the caravan, or if she had simply changed her mind for other reasons. As far as he could see, both details were rather incidental to the overall story, so he left them out. He could always fill in the blanks later if it became necessary.

As he concluded, Airefalas cast a glance in the direction of Mithadan and saw that he was still in deep conversation with Aiwendil, both of them speaking softly, their heads held close together. Not wishing to disturb them, he turned his attention back to Rôg.

“And so, my friend,” he said with a smile. “That is how we ended up here. But what I am wondering now is what we are going to do next.”

“Next we eat,” answered Rôg with a smile of his own. He picked up a set of plates and began to serve up the meal of stewed hen and flatbread, first serving Mithadan and Aiwendil, then Airefalas, and finally himself.

Airefalas waited for him to finish and sit down again before continuing the conversation with a slight change of subject. “You mentioned that you have had a past acquaintance with the Eagle clan as a child. Please pardon me if I am prying, but does this mean that you share their ability to change shapes?” He hesitated, then added. “You see, until I met Ráma-” he colored slightly “- I had no idea that shapechangers truly existed. Naturally, I am a bit curious.”

[piosenniel]

Rôg

Rôg hid his reluctance, poorly at best, to discuss ‘shapechangers’, as men termed them, by passing the basket of flatbread to Airefalas. The man looked at his offering in surprise and declined. A few moments of awkward silence ensued, during which Rôg looked to Aiwendil to intervene. But, the old man looked on in some amusement and lifted his chin slightly to Rôg, encouraging him to handle the younger man’s questions as best he might.

‘You’ll excuse me if I lecture a bit,’ he began, putting his plate aside. ‘Shapechangers is a term used by those who don’t have the skill for changing. And often it is heard in an . . . unkind way. Better you use ‘maenwaith’, ‘skilled folk’. An Elvish word. Less offensive. And in some ways it’s been taken over by the clans and made their own now for their collective self.’ He looked at the younger man, wondering if he’d ever traveled in the northwestern regions. ‘You have maenwaith, you know . . . in the upper regions of The Great River. Beornings, they term themselves. An interesting clan . . . they only take the shape of bears. In fact, before we left Minas Tirith, we saw one in The Seventh Star.’ He shook his head at the remembrance of the gigantic man who had been challenged by the Captain’s wife. ‘It was the first time, actually, that I laid eyes on the Captain’s wife, Mistress Piosenniel. She was . . . well, let me say, she had been wary of the stranger and when he addressed her, she did not receive him well.’

‘Pulled her blade on the Beorning is what she did,’ he heard Aiwendil say to Mithadan who had looked over at the mention of her name. ‘Thought he might put the children in danger in some way. Never mind he towered over her and outweighed her by a good ten stone if not more.’ Mithadan’s brows went up in alarm. He was quickly reassured the Beorning had backed down. ‘Invited him for a visit, she did,’ the old man continued. ‘He’d asked about Bird, as I recall . . .’

Mithadan and Aiwendil fell to talking about the incident as Rôg took up his conversation with Airefalas. He gave a very brief description of the maenwaith clans in the south – a brief reference to clan names and what they signified; how the maenwaith were organized for the most part within each clan and the loose organization they shared as a whole, saying that his family had been traveling traders and had interactions with many of them. The picture he drew was colored, he knew, by his own clan’s view of things . . . stressing the fiercely held autonomy and independence valued by each clan. ‘Though,’ he said, ‘since I have returned, there seems to be some shift in the way of thinking of those who are said to lead the confederated clans. The Eagles, and other of the more outlying clans, I have heard, wish to keep the traditional ways while those who live more in concert with the men in Umbar wish to move toward a mannish style of life.’ Rôg’s quiet nature had often allowed him to be overlooked in conversations in the camp, allowing him access to various bits and pieces of what was going on within and without the camp.

He made no mention of his own clan or its whereabouts. Despite the fact that Aiwendil seemed to trust Mithadan, both the Captain and his First Mate were Men. Nor did he go into what details he had gleaned in the past days about the Eagle Clan. Old cautions learned from childhood die hard. He did address the direct question – ‘. . . does this mean that you share their ability to change shapes’. ‘As for me,’ he said lightly, before passing on to questions of his own, ‘My clan is also . . . maenwaith. And I have a little skill in changes.’

‘But tell me, I know little of you or of your Captain, save what has happened here in the South. Are you both from Minas Tirith? Have you sailed with him long?’ He paused for a moment, wondering if he should ask, but natural curiosity stayed his hesitancy. ‘What sort of man is your Captain, I wonder . . . to have such a dauntless wife. And who is this maenwaith they call friend?’ He leaned forward and spoke with a low chuckle. ‘When Aiwendil first found out that Mithadan was here, in camp, he said a very strange thing about him and Piosenniel.’ He gave a quick glance toward where Aiwendil and Mithadan sat, their attention on their own conversation. ‘People of honor, he said, but wherever they go, trouble follows . . .’ He spoke lower. ‘I half expect to see Mistress Piosenniel come bristling into camp at any moment, blade drawn, to effect your rescue! Though I’m sure,’ he added quickly, ‘she will stay at home keeping her own little ones safe until your return.’ He drew back and spoke in a more normal tone. ‘And what of you? Is there a wife and family waiting for your return?’

[Ealasaide]

Airefalas noticed Rôg's skillful avoidance of discussing any specifics regarding himself or the Eagles, but let it pass without comment. He had promised Ráma that he would not pry, so, in keeping with that promise, he had adopted a strategy of asking questions to learn what information he could, but to back away when the other party began to get uncomfortable. Since Rôg was clearly not comfortable discussing specifics, Airefalas made himself content with familiarizing himself with the basics of maenwaith history and culture. He listened intently to Rôg's lecture, grateful to have it all explained at last and in such a way that required very few additional questions on his part. The feeling that he was floundering blindly finally began to recede a bit. At the mention of the Beornings to the north, however, he made a short exclamation of surprise. He had not been aware of them either.

"You miss a lot on land when you spend your life at sea..." he murmured under his breath as Rôg concluded his explanations and turned the topic of conversation back toward him and Mithadan.

"But tell me," continued Rôg. "I know little of you or of your Captain, save what has happened here in the South. Are you both from Minas Tirith? Have you sailed with him long?’ He paused for a moment. "What sort of man is your Captain, I wonder . . . to have such a dauntless wife. And who is this maenwaith they call friend?’ Rôg leaned forward and spoke with a low chuckle. "When Aiwendil first found out that Mithadan was here, in camp, he said a very strange thing about him and Piosenniel." Airefalas noticed him send a quick glance toward where Aiwendil and Mithadan sat, their attention on their own conversation. "People of honor, he said, but wherever they go, trouble follows . . ." He spoke lower. "I half expect to see Mistress Piosenniel come bristling into camp at any moment, blade drawn, to effect your rescue! Though I’m sure," he added quickly, "she will stay at home keeping her own little ones safe until your return." He drew back and spoke in a more normal tone. "And what of you? Is there a wife and family waiting for your return?"

Airefalas laughed. "Though I have only met Mistress Piosenniel on a few brief occasions, I would have to say that your first impression is probably the more apt one. I don't think I would be surprised at all to see her come bristling into camp, as you put it." He cast a amused glance at Mithadan. "Now that you mention it, I wonder what's keeping her..."

"But seriously," he continued after a moment. "This is the first time I have sailed with either of them and, as such, I cannot vouch for Mithadan or Piosenniel one way or the other in terms of honor or trouble except to say that they do carry a similar reputation to what you describe in Minas Tirith." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "My personal experience with Mithadan on this journey, however, has earned him my respect as a man of honor, good judgement ...and action. But, as for the maenwaith they call friend, I'm afraid you shall have to save your questions for Mithadan. It was only the evening we left Umbar that I first heard mention of her."

He shrugged helplessly and paused to take a few bites of the meal that had begun to grow cold on the plate in his lap.

"And you?" prompted Rôg, reiterating his earlier question. "Have you a wife and family awaiting your return?"

At that, Airefalas grimaced slightly and put aside his plate. "No," he said finally. "There is a lady that I had hoped would become my wife, but - at this stage - it doesn't look as though that is going to happen." At a questioning glance from Rôg, he added, "Her father has taken a disliking to me and she, being devoted to him, is not likely to defy him. Actually, he has informed me that if I don't break off the engagement upon my return to Minas Tirith, he will break it off for me." He rose and walked in the direction of the closed tent flap. "So there you have it," he finished with a bitter laugh. "The short version of the story, anyway."

As he thought about the situation surrounding his engagement to Isabel, Airefalas' face darkened noticeably. On the morning he had first set sail with the Lonely Star, he remembered he had been furious with Isabel's father for his high-handed pronouncements and ultimatims regarding his daughter. Now, the farther removed Airefalas grew from the situation, the more he began to doubt himself, whether his love for Isabel was genuine or merely a deep infatuation born of the many pressures of Minas Tirith society. Granted, she was a beautiful woman, the sort to turn the heads of men on the street, but she was a silly and fatuous creature as well, prone to constantly batting and poking him with her fan. He remembered with a rueful smile the evening that he had gotten so outdone with her and her fan at a ball that he had taken the fan away from her and pitched it out the window into the back of a passing cart. She had left in a huff and refused to speak to him for a week until he had finally given in and purchased her a new fan. Now, so many miles away in the desert, he found himself wondering, aside from her beauty, what exactly it was that he loved about her and why he was so determined to go back to Minas Tirith and win her. Though his motives were faulty, perhaps Isabel's father wasn't so wrong after all...

"Ego," Airefalas said aloud, frowning to himself. Maybe that was what lay at the root of it all, not love.

"Excuse me?" asked Rôg politely. "I don't think I quite follow you."

"Sorry," answered Airefalas, looking back at the other man with an apologetic smile. "It's a complicated situation - please excuse me for stewing a bit." He came back over and took his seat again on the cushion near Rôg. "And what about you? Have you a wife and children awaiting you at home... wherever it is you come from?"

[Nerindel]

Nodding modestly Latah gestured for both her and Surinen to be seated. Taking the place offered her she looked upon a generous supper of cooked meats, cheeses and freshly baked breads. The delicate aroma of the spices filled her senses, and she knew she had truly returned to the place of her birth. Latah proving to be the host her cousin boasted her to be graciously helped her fill her plate and then poured her a bowl of fresh goats milk another taste of the desert that she realised she had missed. Before eating, she bowed her head and gave thanks to the spirits of their ancestors, asking them to bless and watch over Latah and her family, for the kindness they had shown this weary messenger.

As they ate, Surinen and Latah made pleasant conversation about the weather, trade and the general musings of the day’s events. Sorona listened intently, but soon her mind wandered as she struggled to piece together the missing segments of her life. That Ayar was clan leader could only mean that her father had passed on from this life, a fresh pang of regret tugged at her heart and although she knew he would not have passed on alone and unloved she regretted not having been able to tell him how much she loved and admired him. He was a kind and loving father and a wise leader, she missed him dearly!

“Are you feeling alright Sorona?” Latah asked, concern sweeping her delicate features as she caught the forlorn sigh of the eagle.

“What, eh no my apologies, I was thinking of my father,” Sorona smiled apologetically.

“Forgive me for prying but my cousin tells me that he thinks you are of our clan, perhaps your father is here, I could find out for you if you like?” Latah offered.

“I thank you for your kindness, Latah but I do not think you will find him. I have been gone such a long time and he was not a young man when I ….” Sorona paused for a moment as she remembered the circumstances of her departure, “left,” she finished pushing the horror of that day away and forcing a smile in hopes of masking her pain.

“But come there is no need for such talk at dinner, I would hear of what I have missed these past twenty years, tell me do the old tellers still visit to share their wisdom and pass on the tales of the past, so much has changed that I feel a stranger among my own people.” Sorona smiled warmly, recalling her times spend wide-eyed listening raptly to the old teller’s tales.

[piosenniel]

Rôg

‘A wife . . . and children . . .’

Rôg’s features softened; he had not thought along these lines in a number of years. And now the young man’s questions reminded him that his parents would be prompting him in a similar manner, and soon after he arrived back for his visit, he thought. Rôg chuckled as he began to answer the question.

‘What you've asked caught me by surprise,’ he said to Airefalas, ' . . . pleasant surprise.' ‘I’ve no wife, or children yet, either. But, I’m leaving soon to visit my family. My mother and father will be reminding me it is time to lay aside my wandering life and fulfill my obligations to the family.

‘Your roving days are done now,’ he said in a higher pitch, mimicking his mother’s sweet, insistent voice. ‘It’s time that I had grandchildren. Your father and I have consulted the Elders about our choice for you. We’ve only to speak with her parents to make it official.’ Rôg shook his head, saying he could see his father standing at his wife’s side, nodding his head at her words.

‘I have an older sister – but she has left me in the lurch,’ Rôg continued. ‘She won’t rescue her baby brother this time.’ She had declared several years ago, he told Airefalas, that she would not be marrying. Nieces and nephews would be enough for her she had written to him; she intended to study herbal lore and follow in one of their father’s older sister’s footsteps as a healer. The duty of carrying on the family line would fall to him.

‘And to be honest, I don’t begrudge my sister her choice. My parents will choose someone well suited to me. I’ll be a good husband, I think . . . I have my father to model after in that role.’ He smiled at his bemused listener. ‘Love will come, if that is what you are thinking of; it follows a learned respect for your companion I’ve always thought – rounds it out with an abiding easiness in the other’s company, and an assurance of mutual support.’ He grinned as he finished this pronouncement. ‘Of course, as in all things, the theory is much neater than the actual sequence of events.’

Miri’s bright little face intruded suddenly upon this chain of thought. Rôg’s own face brightened at its appearance, and at the remembered enjoyment he had felt teaching her that simple change. He leaned forward, touching Airefalas lightly on the arm. ‘And of course, there will be the children. The Winged One willing! Many of them, I hope . . . wife willing, too, that is . . .’

Aiwendil’s attention had turned to Rôg. It was nice to see his young companion relaxed in someone else’s company. And speaking of personal matters at that!

Rôg nodded at Mithadan, who was also looking his way. ‘I must say you have a very enjoyable trio of children. I met them only briefly, but they speak well for you as a father. And your wife, she seems a very good mother.’ He paused, looking at Mithadan, to gauge whether he had offended. It was hard to tell sometimes around Men what was acceptable and what stepped too close to their sense of privacy. Rôg sat back for a moment, a sudden thought come to him. This was an area he had not thought previously to discuss with Aiwendil. But now curiosity got the better of him, and he asked without thinking . . .

‘And what of you, Aiwendil? You are of an age . . . are there sons and daughters you have kept to yourself . . . and fat little babies who call you grandfather?’ Rôg frowned, trying to recall without success any mention of family by the old fellow. ‘Where are your children scattered?

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Halfr had to step briskly to keep up with Wyrma’s energetic stride. He managed to do so with the slightly stiff bearing that showed his military training. He did not have to look at Wyrma to know that the muscles of her jaw were tightened; he knew well enough how angry she was after seeing the destruction of the building stones with her own eyes, though she had said very little. He did not venture to speak until she turned to him.

“You have heard nothing from Korpulfr.” It was a statement, not a question. She was certain that he would have informed her immediately had he gotten news from his son.

“No,” he said, shaking his slightly greying head, “but it is said that the absence of news bodes well.”

“Not all that is said is true,” she answered, with a curt laugh, “though I too think that one of us would have heard if something had happened to him or Tinar. Hasrim at least has a level head on his shoulders and enough experience to keep himself out of trouble.”

Halfr refrained from commenting, merely enquiring, “Do you want to send a messenger out to search for them?”

“Not yet,” she replied, somewhat absentmindedly, and he did not press her further.

They reached the imposing building which housed both the official rooms and her living quarters. Though neither of them said so, they both thought how good it was that it had been completed before the hoarded building stones were destroyed. They walked up the few steps that were more decorative than necessary at its front entrance and turned down the hallway to her office room. When Halfr closed the door behind them, she spoke again. “I have an idea where we can get stones to continue building.”

He looked at her expectantly.

“The fire in the haven of Umbar destroyed the buildings there, but the stones of the larger warehouses will have survived,” she said. “I will send word to our people in the city that they should take advantage of the confusion there and gather what they can. Prepare several of your men with wagons to transport the stones here. They should meet the others under cover of night just outside the city walls, far enough from the gate that they will not be observed by the guards.”

Halfr bowed and left the room to give orders to his men. Wyrma sat down at her desk, shuffling the papers on it with unseeing eyes. Before ringing the bell that sat on the corner of the table, she breathed deeply, wishing that she could go herself, could stretch her wings in flight, feeling the wind in her feathers.

But why can’t I? she thought suddenly. I could take a look at Galandor’s ships and then see if I can locate Tinar and the others. The thought was so tempting that she had to push it to the back of her mind forcibly. There it stayed, beckoning to her imagination. Perhaps one day soon…

[Child of the 7th Age]

Children and a wife? Aiwendil shook his head, making an effort to conceal an impish smile, “No, such fine things are not my portion. Yet I am not without family. In the land I call my home, I am a humble member of a very large household, which is shaped by bonds of affection and the common purpose we share. I am nothing more than a gardener and keeper of beasts, one of the lesser servants but with much good work to do. It has always kept me quite occupied.” His voice was clear and without regret.

The istar halted for a moment, wiped his bushy brow with the back of his hand, and then noted, “In fact, I do miss home, and the kind heart of my good Lady. But it is her kind heart that saw a need for me to leave those shores to attend to other duties.” Although sadly, Aiwendil reflected, I still have not figured out what that task might be, since my own path has run so differently than all my brothers. He wondered if the rest of the guests would be surprised if he told them that Curuno had come from the very same household. Because of the Ring War, Saruman's name was known even in Umbar.

“Where is home then?” Rôg prodded, interrupting Aiwendil's thoughts.

“West, far west from here, on the other side of the furthest Sea. It would do no good to try and explain. And I think I can safely say that none of you or your kin, however far you may have traveled, have visited my home.”

Until this point, Mithadan had been sitting silently near the back of the gathering, listening intently but saying little. Seeing the wry look that now passed over his guest's face, Aiwendil cleared his throat and mumbled, “Or perhaps it might be more true to say that no one in this tent has actually visited my home.”

“But come. That is enough of me. Are we not here to discuss the plight of the Eagles and what we might do to help them?” Aiwendil stared pointedly at Rôg, but then raised his eyes, sweeping them across to his other dinner guests who had settled down to eat.

[piosenniel]

Rôg

As Aiwendil spoke, Rôg filed away the explanation given by him. A servant?! He didn’t seem to fit the type of servant that Rôg had seen in some of the houses he had visited on his journeys. A gardener and a tender of beasts . . . well, yes, that could account for his intimate knowledge of plants he’d shown in little dribbles and drabbles since they’d been traveling together. And his affinity for various sorts of animals . . . that would explain it also.

The mention of the kind Lady from the far, far West set his thoughts rambling down other paths. The old man had once implied he’d been to the Star Isle. But this “far, far West” was beyond that, Rôg thought. A hasty memory of something heard long ago resurfaced . . . the story of the Star Isle had started with a mention of something farther west, a place on the rim of the world. An unnamed place where The Lords of the West lived . . . and their eagles . . . they had sent eagles in that old story . . . Rôg’s woolgathering was brought to a halt by the change in tone of the old man’s voice.

‘But come. That is enough of me,’ he heard Aiwendil say in a firm way. ‘Are we not here to discuss the plight of the Eagles and what we might do to help them?’ Aiwendil stared pointedly at him, then swept his gaze about to include the men from Gondor. Neither of them spoke up as the old fellow’s voice trailed off. Rôg, following his previous line of thought mumbled the re-found name of the old story, turning the words about in his mouth, tasting them with his tongue as they tumbled out.

‘Narîka 'nBâri 'nAdûn . . . The Eagles of the Lords of the West . . . that was it!’ he muttered.

‘Speak up, Rôg!’ said the old man, his words crisp with a feeling of command rather than request. ‘These old ears didn’t hear you clearly.’

‘Eagles, Old One,’ he said, the respectful title slipping easily into the response. He scrambled hurriedly to round out a sensible answer. ‘There are old tales of great eagles who were sent in dire times, are there not? To offer their assistance as they may . . . you don’t suppose that if we dug a little deeper we might find such help for the clan that holds their name? They can’t all have disappeared . . .’

[Mithadan]

Mithadan glanced back at Aiwendil with a ghost of a grin on his face. But when no response was forthcoming and the silence grew heavy, he cleared his throat and spoke. "Eagles?" he said. "Indeed there are many tales in the north of the great eagles of the Misty Mountains and the even greater ones that dwelt in the peaks of Beleriand before them." Here Mithadan paused, for the tent flap was pulled aside and the little girl, Miri, entered followed by Rama. He nodded and smiled at Rama as she paused before stepping forward.

"Am I intruding?" Rama asked.

"Nay!" answered Airefalas as he rose to his feet and bowed slightly. "We were just enjoying some conversation over the remains of dinner." He spread a blanket upon the floor and motioned for the newcomers to sit.

"I was just speaking of eagles," continued Mithadan. "It is said that the Eagles of the north fought on the part of the Elves in Beleriand during the long war against Morgoth the Accursed. And when he was overthrown, it was the eagles, along with Earendil that slew or drove off the dragons that issued from Thangorodrim..."

"The eagles?" asked Miri eagerly. "The eagles defeated the wyrms?"

Mithadan nodded, wondering if more was being read into his words than he knew. "And even more recently, during the War of the Ring, eagles came to the aid of the West several times. Gwaihir the Windlord twice rescued Gandalf the wizard and he and his peole flew against the armies of Mordor during the battle before the Black Gates. And after the fall of Sauron, after the Dark Lord fell, the eagles carried the Ringbearers from the burning feet of Mount Doom."

"There are many such tales in the north," he concluded. "But it seems that in each case that the eagles were summoned by one of power, Gandalf or another. I do not know if any could be summoned here to aid this clan. What do you think Aiwendil?" He looked back to the wizard with a hint of a grin...

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Surinen

The mention of the old storytellers visiting the camp sparkled Surinen’s interest. Dinsûl had mentioned many times to his son, the long celebrations of the past that had marked such occasions. Sometimes the stories went on for days, the old ones who visited picking up where they left off the evening before, continuing for several nights until at last the end of the tale was reached. Dinsûl always had reminisced fondly of how this was a time of community, all drawing together closely to listen and enjoy the stories of their shared past, hearing the feats of their ancestors who traveled this ground before them, and the advice offered them couched in those chosen tales.

“So you were here when the epics were still told?” Surinen asked the eagle, wiping his hands on his pants. “They have not been recited in their ancient form here since before I was alive.”

“Then they no longer visit, for that what they live for. This is sad news to me. But why is it that they have stopped walking here among you?” Sorona asked.

Latah looked to her cousin to see what he would answer, but he looked puzzled, as if searching for an answer. “We don’t really know,” she explained to Sorona with a shrug. “There have been many rifts as well as hardships among the maenwaith clans, some more painful than others, and there are people among us who would blame this. But others say that the old tellers have gone to the high mountains to watch as a new story unfolds, and that they will return when this epic draws to a close to tell us its meaning.”

“And in the meantime Narika has taken their place by the campfire,” Surinen explained. “She is young, but knows much of our people, though I do not think she has herself heard her lore from the mouths of those tellers of tales.” Sorona nodded her understanding.

“But tell us, why did you leave the eagle clan?” Surinen prodded, curiosity getting the better of him. “You seem to have missed our ways, as well as our food.” He said gesturing to Latah, who heaped another ladleful of meat in front of the stately eagle. Sorona hesitated to answer the question.

“I am sorry, you need not speak of it,” Latah said glaring at Surinen. “Such matters are sometimes best left alone. A long time has passed since then.”

“No, no,” Sorona said. “I do not mind. It is just that it is almost as if I were a different person, so long ago it seems. I left the eagles marrying into another clan. In those days it was in the best interest of the eagles for me to do so, but I did for a time frequently return to visited my people.”

“Of which clan is your husband? If you don’t mind I inquire. For my own husband is also an outsider.” Latah asked interested, for her own marriage was also arranged for the good of the clan, and she sought to find some common ground to speak about.

“I joined a clan that at the time was closely allied with our own, my husband being from among the wolf maenwaith.

Surinen shot Latah a glance in time to see her smile fade as she lapsed into stoney silence. “We have heard of these wolves,” he said, marveling at the birds calm as she spoke of this clan. “But our people are no longer their allies. When was it last you were among them?”

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil stared off into the distance. By all the sands of Tol Eressea, was he to have no rest from all these questions?

Rôg and Mithadan meant no harm. They were merely trying to come up with a way to help the clan in their struggle against the evil Wyrma. But they had unwittingly stumbled onto the one piece of Aiwendil’s past that the istar had no desire to share.

He had so enjoyed his short stay here: to be living among free folk who took pleasure in the shifting of shapes. Yet he devoutly wished they had been Wolves or Leopards rather than Eagles. This subject would likely not have risen if he had been dwelling among shapeshifters who took on a different form.

A sharp voice cut through his reflections, “Speak up, old man. My mother has spoken well of you and says I am to consider your words. If you know anything of the Great Eagles, share it with us that we may all learn." Ráma stared across at Aiwendil, clearly sensing that the man knew more than he was willing to disclose.

“The stories are true," the istar mused. “In days past, the Eagles sometimes aided those in need. And once in Beleriand they helped to defeat the mighty wyrms whom Morgoth had summoned.”

He wiped his brow and continued. “The last time I came to them, they still dwelled in the northern reaches of the Misty Mountains. But where they are now, or who may summon them is another question.”

“But surely….” Mithadan interrupted.

“There is no ‘surely’ about it!” the old man retorted crossly. “These are no tame creatures. They answer only to the Lord of the Winds.”

“Stop a moment, both of you,” pleaded Ráma. “Aiwendil, you have actually visited these Eagles in the place where they live?”

“Yes, but that was years ago. The Misty Mountains are vast. I could not lead you to the Eagles even if they had stayed on the same mountain peak. And it is likely they moved on at the end of the Third Age.”

Ráma pressed again, “Still, you know these great birds. And perhaps you possess some strange power or means of command for them to have listened in the past. They would likely hear you out if you requested their aid.”

“I can not help you. Not now.” There was an edge of sadness in his voice. “Once perhaps, but that was long ago. These Eagles do not suffer fools. My last parting from them was far from amicable. When they hear my name, they are likely to fly off in the other direction.” More than that he was reluctant to say.

Ráma stared pointedly at Aiwendil. “Perhaps you are right, perhaps not. But you are still the best hope we have. And I will not be dissuaded. My mother has commanded me to undertake an errand that touches upon these Eagles. I am to travel south with the party that will go to rouse the other tribes to war. There is someone in the southern mountains who may be able to help us find these birds. Since you already know something of the Eagles and their ways, you will come with me.”

Remembering his promise to Ayar, Aiwendil inclined his head and responded somewhat stiffly, “As you wish, young lady. As long as it is a matter here in Harad, I will be guided by your wishes.”

Miri looked up to Ráma with excitement written on her face. “May I go too? Please. I wish to meet this person who can lead us to the Eagles.”

“I do not think so, Miri. You are brave but very young. We will speak more about it later.”

“I promise to do what you say. But I think I can help. For now I will serve the melons that my mother sent for our guest.”

“Yes, please do. I am sure we will enjoy them. But there is one final question I must raise as we eat.” Here Ráma turned towards Mithadan and Airefalas. “I am in your debt. That snake might have injured or even killed me. I wish to repay you by helping you find your friend. Yet I have little time to go off by myself. I have been thinking long on this and the answer seems quite simple. You must tell me what shapes your friend took on, especially the largest or most deadly one. This Bird of yours is likely to have searched out her clan. It would be an easy thing to send out a messenger to that clan and have her tracked down in that fashion.”

Ráma smiled gently at the Gondorians awaiting their response.

[piosenniel]

Rôg

‘I promise to do what you say,' said Miri with great reluctance. 'But I think I can help.' A considering look slid quickly over her face, replaced by one of apparent acquiescence. 'For now I will serve the melons that my mother sent for our guest.’

Offering his help, Rôg gathered two of the small melons into his hands and motioned for Miri to bring the other one. Withdrawing to the other side of the tent, they set about cutting the sweet melons into thin crescents and arranging them on two small silvered platters. Miri did not want to miss a word of the conversation. Picking up one of the platters carefully, she rose to to cross the room and begin passing the slices to Aiwendil’s guests.

A tug on her breeches turned her round to see Rôg shaking his head at her. ‘Sit down,’ he whispered, ‘until the man, Mithadan, has had a chance to answer your friend, Rama.’ He tilted his chin toward the captain who had furrowed his brow as if considering well how he might describe his maenwaith friend. Miri sat down with a small sigh, mollified only by the fact that if she kept very quiet she would be able to hear everything that the dinner guests said.

Rôg smiled fondly at her, seeing the look of unabashed curiosity on her face. She would bear watching, though, he thought, when the woman, Rama, decided to go on her search for those eagles Aiwendil had spoken of. I should let the old man know that Miri may try to follow. She’s a clever child, and may stow away in one of her new found forms. He inched a little closer to where Miri sat on the floor mat. To be honest, he was curious himself, what sort of maenwaith had made friends with a man of the north.

There was an air of expectant silence as the small group of diners spooned up the last few bites of their meal, waiting for the man from Gondor to speak . . .

[Mithadan]

From the moment that he had heard of the deep division between the Shapechanger tribes and the threat posed by Wyrma and her clan, he had been dreading the question that Rama had just posed. He and Airefalas had forged a friendship, albeit uneasy and suspicous, with Rama and some of her people. The Gondorians were now wholly subject to the power of the Eagle clan; both dependant upon their hospitality as well their good will. They were not now captives, though he suspected that this was not a matter which had been firmly decided. An honest answer to Rama's query could jeopardize both the Eagles' good will as well as the safety of himself and his first mate. Yet the thought of lying to those who had extended their friendship was distasteful.

He realized that all in the tent had fallen silent, waiting for his response. Drawing a deep breath, Mithadan spoke. "I have known Bird for nine years and my wife knew her for several years before that," he began. "She is a person that I would risk my life for, worthy of high praise. She is dark of skin and slight in build. Her hair is raven black but she has a streak of silver down the middle. She is a person of rare humor, yet she is fierce in the defense of her friends. Bird can take a number of shapes..."

"Then she is a maenwaith of great skill and power," interjected Rôg. "Many of us can take but one or two forms. Relatively few are those who can take three and I have known none who can take more than four."

Mithadan started a bit at this, for Bird had never seemed to be a person of great power. To him she was just...Bird, dear and funny with a wonderous gift. Nonetheless, he continued. "She can take the shape of an insect akin to the cricket which she calls a 'neeker-breeker'." Miri laughed and clapped her hands at this. "Her second form is a jackadaw; a black bird with sliver coloration. Bird can also take the form of a dolphin." This drew blank stares from Rôg and Miri; they had never heard of such an animal. Mithadan smiled.

"A dolphin is a sea creature," he explained. "A strong and agile swimmer longer than a man is tall. But it does not breathe underwater. It must surface from time to time for air."

Rôg seemed both surprised and impressed byt his. "An insect, a bird and a fish!" he murmured. "That is rare indeed!"

Mithadan was silent for a moment, tempted to wait and see if the others might assume that those were Bird's only forms. But Rama looked at him intently as if she could discern his thoughts. "She has another form?" Rama asked.

Mithadan nodded. "An Ent," he added. Again, the Shapechangers did not recognize the word. But even Aiwendil seemed surprised at this revelation. "Bird can take the form of an Ent?" he exclaimed. Seeing the confusion of the others, he explained. "An Ent is a Shephard of the Trees. One of the speaking people, but more like a tree than an Elf or a Man. Very tall, sometimes ten feet or more, with a thick hide. It is said that long ago the first Dark Lord made trolls in counterfeit of the Ents."

"But a maenwaith cannot take the form of one of the speaking peoples," cried Rama. "We cannot take the form of a Man, and Elf, a Dwarf or even an Orc. You must be mistaken."

"I have seen her take this form," Mithadan continued, almost reluctantly. "I cannot say how she does it but she can."

Aiwendil considered this for a moment, then spoke. "Long ago when the Ents first arose in the North, they were mute. They could not speak. But then they met the Elves and through long effort the Elder Race taught the Ents the trick of language. Perhaps that is why Bird can assume that form."

"Four shapes!" cried Rôg. "Two that fly, one that swims and another that walks and is tall and strong as well! I would like to meet this Bird. Four shapes!"

Mithadan shifted uncomfortably on his pillow. Rama's sharp eyes did not miss this movement. "Is there another?" she asked. "Can Bird take a fifth shape?"

Mithadan was silent for a moment. Then he sighed. "You must understand that I think very highly of Bird. She is a good friend that I love dearly. She is good-hearted and faithful. But I fear that you may not like what I am about to say. Please know that Bird is no more evil than I am."

Rama's eyes narrowed in confusion. "She can take a fifth shape?" she asked.

"Long ago, she was a member of my crew," he continued. "We found ourselves in a very difficult situation. We were attempting to save some people who were being attacked. We needed to find a way to perhaps carry them away from danger in numbers. I cannot speak more of this, but we too came under attack and Bird took a new form, one that I had once mentioned to her. I don't know that... She told me that the forms found her; that she could not choose her forms. But in this case she took exactly the form that I had mentioned. I had no idea if it was even possible, but she did it. And using that form we eventually saved many people from certain death..."

He looked up and his eyes met those of Rama. He held her gaze as if pleading for understanding. "Her fifth shape is a silver and black winged dragon..."

[piosenniel]

Rôg

‘. . . a silver and black winged dragon . . .’

The man from Gondor’s words seemed to echo riotously in Rôg’s brain. His hands trembled, their grips loosening on the tray of melon slices he had clung to during the man’s description of his friend. The tray clattered to the ground, the slices scattering.

Bird . . . that is what Mithadan had called her. Rôg rolled the name around on his tongue. Try as he might, he could recall no one with that name in the clan lists.

A sharp tug on his sleeve brought his attention back to the tent. Miri hissed at him, pulling him across the room. She left her own tray near Airefalas and had gathered up the spill, piling it helter-skelter on the dropped tray. Nudging Rôg out the back flap of the tent, she urged him toward the midden, telling the guard that they were needing to be rid of an unfortunate melon that had been spilled on the floor.

‘You lied!’ she whispered harshly to him as they scraped the broken slices onto the heap. ‘Why did you act surprised that the man’s friend could take on those shapes? And why did you say you have never known a maenwaith who could take on more than four shapes?’

‘I did lie. I’ll not try to tell you differently. For my part though, I was surprised that she took on such different shapes and that number. It is rare, or so I have learned, for one of the tribes of maenwaith here in the south to take on that number of forms and that range of changes. And the way the man described her telling how she did so shows she is untutored in her skills. For someone so untaught as she must be, she has a rare talent . . . but a dangerous one, since she has no understanding of the process.’

‘Dangerous?’ asked Miri, a perplexed look on her face.

‘Yes, dangerous, because the form can overtake the changer and become permanent if care is not taken. That’s why I made you practice the change-back rhyme as well as teaching you to change.’

Miri nodded her head at this as they walked back toward the tent. ‘But why did you lie, Rôg?’

‘Rama’s sister did not want to believe me when I spoke with her about the ability to do changes. I doubt Rama would care to hear me blather on either about how four changes need not be a limit. I didn’t want to stir things up – I just voiced the common sentiments in your clan, hoping the man would keep on speaking. His friend sounds to be an interesting person. Don’t you think so?’

‘Well, yes, she did,’ agreed the girl as they neared the tent. She stopped, causing him to halt also, and looking up with her eyes narrowed, asked another question. ‘Why did you drop the tray of melon slices, though, there at the end? You know, when the man said his friend could become a dragon?’ Miri fixed him with an unrelenting stare, awaiting his answer.

Rôg, instead, drew back the back tent flap, and ushered her in with his hand to her back. ‘We should offer another round of tea, I think, to the guests. There will be time later for an answer to your last question.’ He picked up the teapot and marched forward, Miri following in his wake. If I’m lucky, she will forget her question he thought to himself. But I am never that lucky he argued, feeling the weight of her considering stare on him as he passed from guest to guest . . .

[Nerindel]

Sorona

Surprised by Surinen’s question and the news that the clans were no longer allied she looked at her two hosts, how long have I been away for such things to occur and what brought about such a parting of friendship? She thought to herself as she studied their stony expressions. She pressed herself to recall how long had past since she was forced from her homelands, she recalled that last day with a mixture of pain and sorrow.

“Twenty years!” she gasped startling herself as she counted the seasons past, “Yes, it has been Twenty years since last I walked these lands with our wolf brothers and sisters,” she smiled weakly attempting to regain her composure.

“Please forgive my ignorance, but you say that the Eagles are no longer allied to the Wolf Maenwaith, this I do not understand for when last I walked these lands the ties between them were strong. The Eagles ,the herders and gatherers who provided food and sustenance, The wolves, the hunters who provided the means for warmth and tools and together they worked to locate and dig new wells, they worked together for the prosperity of both clans and when the tellers came there was much joy and cause for celebration. But how comes it that such friendship has been forsaken.” She asked with genuine concern.

"Twenty years? Then surely, you must have been witness to the great Haradrim raid that sundered this friendship, ravaging the wolf clan, but sparing our own. It has served as the fire of a forge, breaking even the strongest bonds between us. Though the wolf clan has recovered, the alliance has not. We are at odds, even to this day. How is it that you do not know of this?" Surinen asked.

Sorona stared deep into the young mans eyes searching past the fresh doubt and suspicion to see the truth in his eyes, then with a heavy heart and weary sigh she nodded assenting to answer his question. “Yes, I had the unhappy misfortune to witness the raids of the Haradrim,” she began sadly. “But I assure you there was nothing at all great about it!” she added pointedly taking in the gaze of both eagles.

“But of the sundering of friendship I knew not and can not fathom, I was not fortunate to return that day or any after until now!” seeing the blank stares of her audience she continued.

“After dispatching a messenger to the eagle camp warning my father and the clan of the approaching danger, I picked up my child and ran with the others women and children, old and young alike the men of the clan had set out two days previous on a hunting expedition and where not expected back till dark. But I became separated from my people and found myself being chased through the forest by several riders, I knew I could not out run them and that as had become custom in such times I should have taken my sons life to free him from the evil that pursued, but I could not, love stayed my hand. Therefore, I hide him high in a tree, bade him to make no sound and then I drew our pursuers away from him. The last thing I remembered was a sharp pain to my side and then I never saw my son or the lands of my birth again!”

A silence ensued as both Surinen and Latah stared in horror and disbelief; finally, Surinen broke the uneasy silence. “It is said that the men of the wolf clan returned to find their women and children dead or missing and that only a hand full of elders and some children were found cowering in the forest. The wolf clan’s youngest son went mad with grief blaming the eagles accusing us of abandoning their women and children or so my father tells it,” Surinen told her.

Sorona dropped her head in thoughtful contemplating, why would they have blamed the eagles. She sent her cousin Freya back to the eagles to warn them, oh! She suddenly thought remembering, her own words.

“Freya, quickly return to the eagles and warn my father of the approaching danger,”
“Yes cousin your father will send help!”
“No Freya, they will not come in time, I will take the clan into the forest until the danger has past! Tell my father to move the clan and we will join them later!”

What if Halfr and his clan did not know of this message, But why would they not? Why would it have been kept from them? “Oh Halfr, what have you done!” she whispered sadly.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Surinen

Latah did not speak, but struggled within herself. Surely this Sorona had been through and seen a great deal more than she herself had, but if she loved her son as she said she did, how could she simply leave him to face his fate and then disappear only to return to the eagle clan without first finding if his name was still recited among the wolves. Her son must be close to Surinen’s age by now, if he were still alive and if the tale she told was true. Perhaps she was now a grandmother, and her wisdom needed by him. But Latah worried that even if Sorona truly was the eagle she presented herself to be, what was to say that she had not now been sent back to her native people for some low purpose. She found she did not trust her, and wished that Surinen would not speak so freely.

But Surinen was now thoughtful and silent, digesting what he had heard as he tilted his mug, washing his hand under the small stream of water. The name of Halfr had given him pause, for Dinsûl was not the only one to describe him in despairing terms, but Narayad also had spoken of him when lamenting the course his people had taken. For Narayad had been of the Wolf clan, though now his true name was not called out as a member of its ranks, and by choice he no longer assumed that shape which came naturally to him. He was as dead to them as Surinen’s own sister Mîrya was dead to the eagle clan, having turned his back, no matter how reluctantly on his kin.

“Yes, what has Halfr done!” Surinen sighed, thinking of his friend’s grievances. “Not only this”, he said looking into Sorona’s eyes to see her response to his words, “but he has taken his clan and made them a jewel in the midst of a dragons’ hoard. For his people long ago joined the maenwaith who huddle under the cold wings of Wyrms like hatchlings in need of protection.” And seeing that sadness overtook the bird he moderated his stance, adding that he could not understand why the clan had allowed themselves to be led this way, for they by all accounts were a clever and skilled people, undaunted by hardship.

At this Latah stood up suddenly, and gathering their plates excused herself, taking them outside to clean. Surinen watched as she closed the tent flap behind her, wishing he could follow so that she might unburden her mind to him. For he knew that this conversation touched on matters that she found troubling, especially in light of Narayad’s current standing in the eagle community, and through him, her own.

“Is she all right?” the bird whispered, following his glance.

“I hope that she will always be so,” Surinen confessed, still looking to the door. “It has been a trying time for all of us here. For you too, if it has been so long since you have been in these parts. You must have traveled a great distance to find again your desert home. But do not worry, we will be here tomorrow also, and the Haradrim will not carry you away again from this place.”

[Ealasaide]

As he made his way through the dark camp back in the direction of his tent, Fador's mind churned. So much had happened over the course of the last several days. There still remained so much to be done, to be seen to, with the passing of Ayar so near at hand. Wyrma’s assassin had done his job well, he thought grimly, coming and going unseen and unheard like a deadly breath of wind. At first Fador, like the others, had believed that the leader of the Eagles had merely taken ill. He had tried to take advantage of her illness with the fire, but now realized that the sabotage of the incense pot had been a mistake. Wyrma’s man had done his job with lethal effectiveness. All he had managed to do, himself, was focus suspicion upon the person of his own daughter, Latah, who was completely innocent. Her husband, Narayad, another innocent, had also fallen under the blanket of suspicion and was being sent away for it. His action had been a grave miscalculation.

“Foolishness,” he muttered. He should have left well enough alone. Not one to dwell upon failures, however, Fador turned his mind ahead to the group awaiting him in his tent. He had offered his hospitality to the two Gondorians, who had arrived in such an untimely fashion, not so much out of generosity as out of the desire to watch them, that he might best ascertain what their intentions were and how he might bend them to his own purposes... if he could bend them. That possibility still remained to be explored. While he had caught a distant glimpse of them earlier in the day and heard many wild rumors, he had yet to meet either of them face to face.

As he neared his tent, Fador saw Latah step through the open flap, carrying an armload of dirty dishes. Catching sight of him, Latah set the dishes down and smiled.

“You return at last!” she exclaimed. “We have kept dinner warm for you.”

Fador smiled back at her, nodding in the direction of their tent. “I hope you have been a good hostess to our guests. I should hate to give our Gondorian friends a bad impression of us.”

“Oh...” Latah glanced nervously over her shoulder. “Unfortunately, they are not here. We only learned at the last moment that they had made their dinner plans elsewhere. I have been a good hostess only to Surinen and one of our long lost kin, Sorona.”

Fador shot a sharp glance through the open flap of the tent. Sorona? He had heard talk among the other elders of the arrival of another supposed stranger, a female, trapped in the form of an eagle. Could it be the same Sorona who had once been one of them and married into the clan of the Wolves? If so, the timing of her return was intriguing. He had thought her dead, killed years ago in the Haradrim raids that had driven the Eagles deep into the south and created the rift between the two clans. Why had she returned? Why now? Catching sight of the stately form of the eagle, he frowned slightly. It was impossible to tell her identity for certain in her current form. The Sorona he had known had not even been capable of taking that form when he last saw her.

He nodded to Latah. “So I see. And where have the Gondorians gone?”

Latah colored slightly and shrugged. “I am afraid I don’t know, but I expect they shall return shortly.”

“Very well, then,” he said patiently, agreeing that he would have to wait to meet the northerners until their return later in the evening. Turning, Fador entered his tent, giving Surinen a courteous nod in passing, but focusing the majority of his attention upon the eagle.

“Greetings, Mistress Eagle,” he said pleasantly. “I am Fador. Welcome to my home. I trust my daughter has taken proper care of you?”

“She has been very kind,” answered the eagle. “I thank you both for your hospitality. I am Sorona.”

“Sorona,” echoed Fador, giving the eagle a long gaze. “I used to know someone by that name a very long time ago,” he said. “She married into another clan and I lost track of her, but that was many years ago.” He smiled. “Allow me to welcome you to our encampment. Do you plan to remain with us long?”

[Nerindel]

Korpúlfr

Kórpulfr sat close to the dying embers of the campfire his blanket pulled tightly about his shoulders to ward off the biting chill of the cold desert night, both his companions were now sleeping soundly their light breathing marked only by the steady rise and fall of their chest against the red glow of the fire light. Korpulfr stared through the flames at Tinar; several days alone in the desert seemed to have matured the young man considerably and calmed his impulsiveness. As he studied the peaceful features of his young friend, he wondered if this change was temporary or if as the elders of his clan believed, Tinar actually possessed the potential to someday take his mother place as head of the clans. Did this boy really possess something that the others of his clan did not?

Wolf blood? The thought came unbidden and in the soft firelight, Tinar’s sharp angular features suddenly bore a frightening resemblance to that of his father, the Raakaharn. Clenching his jaw defiantly, he rose from the fire pulling his blanket tighter as he turned and strode purposefully away from his sleeping companions, angrily he tried to dismiss the cold realisations that filled his mind. However, he could not if Tinar was blood kin to the Rakaaharn then it made sense that the elders would wish to see him as Wyrma’s successor and that their friendship was necessary to form a strong and influential alliance between the two clans.

Shaking his head he realised he was debating the advantages of a lie. Tinar is not wolf blood! He reminded himself. No, he could not believe his father would betray his mother’s memory in such a way, though he could not deny that his father’s behaviour of late was a concern, he took to locking himself in his study for hours on end, and when he did appear he was secretive and evasive. Kor looked back at the sleeping form of Hasrim wondering if his cousin knew any more than he did what was going on in his father mind.

No, he decided thoughtfully, if Hasrim knew anything, he would have told him already. I am being paranoid finding fault in what could only be stress brought on by Wyrma’s demands on my father; he concluded laughing at his own suspicions. “If I’m not careful I’ll begin to sound just like those fools who think that the Wyrm clan have some ulterior motive for uniting the clans!” he whispered shaking his head.

I have to find something to do, to prevent these foolish thought! He thought restlessly, and then looking out over the sandy horizon, he remembered the encampment that they had seen during their earlier scouting of the area. Several hours as the Raven flies! He thought contemplatively. Hasrim seemed to think the Gondorians would be stopping there for the night and although Kor did not doubt his cousin he thought to have a closer look, perhaps he could find something out, like who guided the Gondorians so will through the desert, carefully avoiding until now the other clans!

His mind made up he returned to the camp and gently roused his cousin, “Hmpf! What… What is it, what’s happened?” Hasrim asked sitting up and instinctively reaching for his sword.

“Calm cousin, nothing has happened,” Korpúlfr laughed, laying his hands assuringly on his cousin’s arm.

“Then what do you mean by rousing me before it is my turn for watch,” Hasrim scowled relaxing slightly as he looked up to note the moons position in the clear night sky.

“I am restless cousin, I wake you early that I may go take a closer look at the camp we espied earlier,” he grinned hoping to pacify his older companion.

“Are you sure that is wise?” Hasrim asked his scowl deepening into a concerned frown, “There is any number of clans who would not welcome unwanted guests in the night and we do not know if these are friend or foe!”

“Worry not cousin they won’t even know I am there, I will be back by morning!” he winked, then turning he shifted into his raven form and took to the air, his blanket falling to the ground beside his stunned cousin.

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

Hasrim

Hasrim stared at the fallen blanket for a long moment before rising, his dark, usually complacent eyes narrowing in cold and bitter unrestrained contempt, as he looked out in the direction his cousin had just flown. Angrily he picked up the blanket and violently tossed it aside, if only all things could be so easily cast aside he thought darkly. “Foolish boy!” he hissed through gritted teeth, He would ruin everything if he were captured or killed by a rival clan he chided bitterly, casting a cautionary glance to where Tinar lay, making sure the young Wyrmling was still sleeping.

His initial instinct was to follow Kor and make sure himself that the young wolf cub did not find any trouble, after all this was the task his uncle had assigned him to do. However, staring at Tinar through the orange glow of the fire he knew if something were to happen to him in his absence, his life would not be worth living, Wyrma would see to that! Frustrated he kicked the dry earth beneath his boot, watching it spit and hiss in the warm glow of the fire. He hated not being in control and having to trust that his younger cousin, who was pivotal to all his plans, would stay out of trouble grated him deeply.

He paced contemplating those plan, a play he had so carefully devised and set into motion with the death of his grandfather, he grinned wickedly as he remembered how easy it had been to slip the poison into the old mans drink. He did not die at once off course that would have drawn to much suspicion, especially since the old wolf was having his doubts about Wyrma’s grand plans, but rather he slowly but gradually became ill as if some mysterious sickness plagued him until at last his strength gave out and he finally passed away. Kórpulfr had been so upset he and his grandfather had been close, too close! He conceded bitterly. But he had insured that it was he who had been there to comfort and support his cousin and he who over the years had became his close friend and a trusted family member, Kor trusted him implicitly, even valuing his advise, just as he had planned! A twisted grin framed his dark features as he took satisfaction in his own cunning.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Rama & Miri

Ráma did not move her eyes from Mithadan's face even when Rôg dumped the tray on the ground and Miri scurried forward to retrieve the fruit. The Man from Gondor could be lying or confused, but Ráma did not think so. There was a calm assurance and honesty in both his tone and demeanor that convinced her he was speaking the truth. If he said Bird had mastered five shapes and that one was an Ent and another a dragon, then it must be so.

Ráma was less certain how others in her clan would respond to Mithadan's plea. However softly phrased, his description of Bird implicitly challenged some of the Elders' teachings. She was not sure whether the Man from Gondor even recognized this.

She had apparently been taught things that weren't true. Not all dragons were base and dishonorable. And there was at least one talking, sentient creature whose form had been taken on by a maenwaith . Quickly, her mind made another giant leap. It wasn't only the Ents. In the ancient tales, the wyrms could speak to each other and even with Men. Why had she never made this connection before and recognized that the limits about talking creatures had certain exceptions? She had always accepted what the Elders said about who she was and what she might and might not do. It was not that they had lied to her. They were good Men and Women who knew a great deal more than she did. But they did not know everything.

The Elders had constantly drummed a simple dictum into her head: only clan leaders could take on four shapes; all others, including herself, were restricted to three. The message had been clear: do not squander your forms, or you may find you have none left when it comes time to take your place among the adult Eagles of the clan. You will be one of the dispossessed who harbors an Eagle spirit, but with no physical form in which it may find its expression.

Perhaps, the Elders had been mistaken that day on the beach when they had scolded her. And her own mother had been right to urge her to look for help among the wyrms. Maybe the key to her past as well as the fate of her people lay in accepting the same hard lesson: although goodness never changes, ways of thinking and acting do, and we must master those changes with grace and an honorable heart, just as we master changes in our form.

Impulsively lurching to her knees in front of Mithadan, in full view of her astonished dinner guests, Ráma spoke loudly so all could hear: "Man of Gondor, you say more than you realize. But I believe you. I swear that I will not rest until I help you and Airefalas find this Bird. For your search and mine have become one. Perhaps this Bird was sent to us for reasons we cannot altogether know, perhaps even to lead us to her other Dragon kin who have not forsaken the old ways. Tomorrow, we will speak more on this and see where we will begin this search. For now, it is late, and I would ask you to return to your tents. Say nothing more of this to anyone until I have had a chance to speak with my sister." With that she turned and, beckoning Miri to her side, quickly left the tent.

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


Miri looked up hesitently at her older friend as Ráma took her by the hand and briskly whisked them out of the tent, preparing to take her home. The girl was not certain exactly what to say. So much had happened between her and Rôg, and now Ráma was acting in a way she could not understand.

They stopped for a moment by a large barrel that stood nearby to ladle out two small cups of water. After they had drunk, Ráma threw her head back, looked up at the stars, and began humming a song to herself. Miri could see that she was acting very strangely.

"My mother will be pleased!" Ráma confided. "I know she will be excited to hear about Bird." Perhaps, she mused silently to herself, Ayar will feel better after she's rested and I can speak with her in the morning. As they reached the end of the row and stood in front of the tent belonging to Miri's family, Ráma halted for a moment to speak with the girl, "I wanted to see if Rôg would be willing to help us recruit among the tribes to the south. But so much happened at the end that I never had time. I know you are close friends with him. Perhaps you can tell me. Do you think he would be willing to speak with his clan so that they could help us? Do you know what form his clan takes to defend itself?"

Miri hastily shook her head, looking uncomfortable. "You'll have to ask him. I don't know much about this. Anyways, I'm not sure if he can help. He's going to visit his family."

"The ones he mentioned earlier who are camped south of here."

Miri shook her head, "Not exactly. Some other relatives.....very old ones." She was feelng a bit uncomfortable and hoped Ráma would stop questioning her. "I think his whole clan is going for a visit. They live in some caves on the rim of the northern desert. Not too far from the Sea, I think. Anyways, ask him yourself. He'll only be gone a little while."

At that point Ráma's face blanched. "But that's not possible. There is no place like that in Harad."

Miri shrugged her shoulders, "Well, he never said it was Harad. Maybe it's someplace else."

"Miri, look at me!" Ráma commanded. "I want you to repeat exactly what Rôg said....."

[piosenniel]

Miri

‘I don’t remember exactly what he said,’ Miri said, screwing her mouth up in consternation. ‘I thought he said one thing earlier today and before, too. But then he lied tonight. When that man from up north was speaking; he just flat out lied.’ Miri’s little hands were on her hips as she spoke, her speech perplexed and angry at the same time.

‘Perhaps you misunderstood,’ began Rama, wondering if the girl would come round to answering her question.

‘No! I didn’t!’ Miri said shaking her head fiercely. ‘Because I asked him and he said he did . . . but not to me.’ She glanced up sharply at Rama wondering if she should tell her that the reason he lied was to keep Rama from telling him he was crazy and what he said just couldn’t be true, as her sister Narika had already done. Her child’s understanding of friendship clamped her lips tight on revealing anything Rôg had told her previously about changing shapes. Though he hadn’t asked her to do so, she didn’t want her friend made fun of or scolded for saying things that others disapproved of. In her child’s way she understood quite well how sometimes you had to keep things hidden away because the grownups just wouldn’t understand.

Miri narrowed her eyes, sliding them away from Rama. It was obvious that Rama was not going away until she had something from Miri. Well. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to tell her about his visit to his clan . . . she reasoned, knowing that he had shared the information freely with her and with the old fellow he traveled with.

‘Rôg arranged for his old friend to stay with our Clan,’ she began hesitantly, hoping Rama would not start questioning her on each point. ‘He’s going away for a week’s time, I think. He promised his mami and da that he would visit with them when he came south. And his Clan leader, he is supposed to talk to him about something, too.’ She looked up hopefully, making sure Rama was following along. ‘Anyways . . . his clan is down south at the end of our mountains right now. They make things, you know, and bring them round to the marketplaces . . . he told me his own family made the . . .’

An ahem! from Rama and the raising of one of her friend’s eyebrows reminded Miri to stay on track.

‘Anyways,’ she began again, ‘they don’t really live down at the end of the mountains. They’ve just been staying there for a while . . . until all the bad things were over. Now they’ll be going back to their real home . . . the desert, way up north, by the eastern sea where their Elders are waiting for them.’ Miri clapped her hands together and smiled. ‘Oh, I’ll bet those red mountains are so pretty! He told me they were. They’re right on the edge of the desert . . . and they have caves in them, Rama. That’s where their Elders have been staying . . .’ She saw the confused look on Rama’s face. ‘Well, not all of them. Some of them stay in the desert camp with the rest of the clan . . .’

Rama shook her head in disbelief. ‘Oh, Miri, it sounds as if your friend has woven you a tale of moonbeams on spider webs.’ She smiled down at her little friend. ‘He’s pulling your leg,’ she said gently, reaching out to put her arm round the girl’s shoulders. 'There's no desert up there and even if there were, there's no way Rôg could go and come back so quickly.' She smiled sympathetically at her little friend. 'You must have known he was jesting . . .'

Miri pulled away, indignant at being talked to as if she were a baby! ‘Hmmmph!’ she snorted . . . ‘Since you think it’s all stories, I won’t even bother you with the dropped melons and the dra . . .’

Their attentions were caught at that moment by a an out of breath voice calling out Rama’s name. The young woman and the girl turned to watch as one of the night guards from Ayar’s tent came running toward them. His face was pale, and grim, and his breathing was labored from his exertions. At first, it was difficult to understand him, and Rama laid a hand on his arm, asking him to slow down a bit and speak in a clearer manner. As he did so, her own face paled, and she clutched Miri’s hand so hard that the little girl cried out.

Others of the clan had drawn near; their voices saddened and fearful at the news the guard had brought. One of the women reached out for Miri, saying that she would see her to her parents’ tent. Another put her shawl about about Rama’s shoulders and pushed her in the direction of the messenger. ‘Go,’ she said to the young woman. ‘Your sister has summoned you.’

The small group watched as the guard and Rama hastened to Ayar’s tent. Then, the whispers began; the soft calling out to those still in their tents spread outward in rippling sighs, bringing the awaited but unwelcome news.

The meldakhar is dying . . . Ayar . . . it is Ayar . . . her light is fading . . .

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Night had fallen over the Havens of Umbar. The harbour area seemed deserted, save for the light and noise of raucous laughs and rowdy singing that came from the port’s most popular tavern. News had spread that a generous patron was providing free drinks, and though that was no longer the case, the men stayed on. Even the guards who normally patrolled the streets had joined the throng; there were no ships to guard, they thought, so there could be no harm in taking some time off. It was better than shivering in the cold desert night.

Thus no one observed the shadows that flitted through the darkness silently. Some carried large burdens on their backs, others had tied theirs to poles which they carried between them. They dared not use carts; even if the wheels had been well oiled, the uneven streets would have caused them to rumble discernably. They slipped into a small back street that seemingly ended at the city wall, but a gate swung open when they approached it. Outside, wagons waited to be loaded. One after another disappeared into the night.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

“The harbour is what?” Falasmir roared. He sat bolt upright in his luxurious bed, his blankets scattered in his rage at being awakened early in the morning.

“It has been razed,” a soldier repeated, cringing slightly at a distance he hoped was safe. “The stone buildings that were not destroyed by the fire have disappeared overnight.”

“How is this possible?” the ruler exclaimed.

“No one knows,” came the answer.

“I want to see it immediately,” Falasmir demanded.

Though it took some time, what with his servants bustling about with his robes and other necessary items of clothing, and the necessity of strengthening himself with food and drink, he was in his sedan chair sooner than could have been expected. The carriers, panting and sweating, went at a fast pace, and before long he was gazing incredibly at the remains of Umbar’s once powerful centre of naval strength.

Galandor, riding a tall, well-built black horse, bowed down deferentially to speak to him. “My lord, what do you wish us to do on your behalf?”

For once, the ruler of Umbar was speechless. Without the harbour, what was his city? No ships, no military prowess, no trade, no income, only a skeleton of its former glory.

“If I may offer a suggestion,” Galandor began, a bit too diffidently, though no one noticed, “I would say that we use the small port on the coast south of us for a time. It may be easier to enlarge it than to rebuild this one, at least for now. Later, when we have regained our strength, we shall avenge ourselves on Gondor for this affront.”

Falasmir was only too glad to blame his foe for everything, though it was hardly logical that the northern kingdom should have had anything to do with the night’s destruction. He nodded his approval weakly and waved his carriers to turn and bring him back to the palace.

[Nerindel]

Sorona

“It has been a trying time for us all here. For you too, if it has been so long since you have been in these parts. You must have travelled a great distance to find your desert home. But do not worry, we will be here tomorrow also, and the Haradrim will not carry you away again from this place.”

Sorona turned her gaze from the tent opening to study her young host, noting the thoughtfulness in his gaze, his words surprised her but she was grateful for them none the less. “Yes it has been long, too long I think and the distance great, more than mere measured distance has been crossed to bring me home to these lands. A cold dose of guilt and a premonition of danger are the whips that now drive my course,” she admitted with a wistful smile. “I thank you for your assurances, Surinen but I do not fear the Haradrim they are but tools, instruments to what ever master they follow, a discorded symphony. It is not the workers I fear but the task masters who hold their leash and if Wyrma has managed to grasp even but one of these leads then I think we all have something to fear!” Sorona warned sadly shaking her head.

“That the wolf clan are part of what ever goes on here grieves me terribly, you are right they were a clever and skilled people, but they were also wise and held much honour and integrity that I do not understand this course they have chosen.” she went on sullenly.

“But my place is here, with my clan, I see that now I am here and have heard what troubles our people. I will speak with Ayar’s Daughters and the elders of the clan as soon as it can be arranged!” She told Surinen with an added hint of urgency.

Surinen nodded but before he could speak, the flap to the tent opened and an older Maenwaith entered, Surinen rose respectfully and the man gave him a courteous nod in return, but his attention seemed focused on his guest. “Greetings, Mistress Eagle. I am Fador. Welcome to my home. I trust my daughter has taken proper care of you?” The older man greeted pleasantly.

Sorona started at the name it was Familiar to her, “She has been very kind,” she answered studying his face trying to pull from her clouded memory how she knew this maenwaith. “I thank you both for your hospitality. I am Sorona.” she ended hoping that if she knew him he might remember her.

“Sorona,” Fador Echoed, giving her a long gaze. “I used to know someone by that name a very long time ago,” he said pleasantly. “She married into another clan and I lost track of her, but that was many years ago.” He smiled.

Yes, that is I! Sorona wanted to cry out, but something deep within made her pause, a doubt that made Fador’s pleasant smile seem false and well rehearsed. Something about his losing track of her did not seem right nor match what Surinen had just told her.

“Allow me to welcome you to our encampment. Do you plan to remain with us long?” Fador continued, in that same pleasant voice that now made Sorona wary.

She nodded her head in thanks to Fador’s welcome, but now felt uncomfortable. There was something about him from her past that she could not place and she felt guilt at the distrust that rose from within her. She had just shared a meal in his home with his family and he welcomed her respectfully in to the clan, but she could not shift the feeling that they had known each other better than Fador was letting on.

“I am not sure how long I will be staying,” she answered noncommittally.

“Sorona was just requesting uncle that she be allowed to speak with Narika, and the elders of the clan, but now that you are here perhaps you would be better placed to present her request?” Surinen said joining in the conversation.

Sorona glanced at him briefly then turned her attention back to Fador, off course! Had not Surinen earlier told her that Latah’s father was an elder of this clan? But even remembering this did not settle her unrest?

“Indeed,” Fador smiled pleasantly. “But to what purpose do I say you request this council?” he asked.

“Tell them that I carry a warning that must be heard!” Sorona said simply after a moments pause.

“A meeting may not be possible at once the Meldakhar is dying and is not expected to last the night her daughters will be sore put to leave her side for any reason,” Fador replied shaking his head sadly. “Perhaps if you convey your message to me I can pass it on to Narika?” he suggested.

“No, this message I must deliver myself, I think this is why this task was appointed me!” she sighed resignedly, “I owe my people that much,” she muttered softly to herself. “Even if I must wait till morning,” she finished eyeing Fador to see if he would still object.

“Very well I will speak with Narika first thing in the morning, now come both of you speak with me while I eat.” Fador replied.

Sorona again nodded her thanks, “But if you will excuse me I think I will get some fresh air, I am not so accustom to the enclosed spaces of homes as I once was,” she smiled. Surinen rose and Sorona turned to him, “do not worry my young friend I have no intention of flying off until my warning is delivered, I am sure you and your uncle have much to discuss and the guards outside your door will ensure that I keep to my word,” she patiently reassured him.

The young man looked to his uncle who simply nodded that it was alright, then after bidding her a good night he sat back down. Sorona left knowing that she would have to return and that the uncomfortable feeling she felt around Fador would remain.

“Well gentlemen do you fancy a walk?” she smiled turning to the two guards who dutifully stood either side the tents entrance, they looked at each other but said nothing following behind her as she walked through the camp gathering her thoughts and wrestling with her fears.

With a heavy heart, she stopped and looked up at the night sky. “Oh Lanirsule I wish you were here I could use your wisdom and guidance just about now, my old friend.” she sighed heavily, staring up at the stars, smiling as the constellation Soron, after which she was named came into view. Aguila - the Eagle it as sometimes called in distant lands, she took comfort in its appearance, a sign that she was making the right decision!

“Ah Soron! You know it is said that the eagle guides and protects us, I like to think that this is true especially in such troubled times don’t you?” A soft voice whispered beside her. She turned to see a young woman a little older than Rama staring up at the stars, in her hands she held a small wooden bucket filled with fresh water close to her chest and the delicate aroma of assorted herbs surrounded her.

“Yes I believe the ancestors guide the stars to help us find our way,” Sorona smiled, watching as the young woman gazed thoughtfully at the stars.

“Yes,” the young woman whispered lowering her eyes and turning them towards a nearby tent. Seeing the young woman’s sadness, she guessed the tent was that of her Cousin and that this young woman must be one of her healers. “Then it is true, she is dying and there is no cure,” she whispered sadly.

“You know the Meldakhar,” the young woman asked sympathetically, turning back to face her.

“Yes,” she nodded. “We were once very close and I regret deeply not returning sooner!” she sighed wistfully.

The Young woman looked between Sorona, her guards and the tent of her leader biting her lip nervously as she debated some decision. “It will grieve you to know that the Meldakhar is close to casting off her mortal form,” the young woman whispered after only a moment’s pause. “She is no longer conscious and I do not know if she can hear, but I can take you to see her if you like?”

“Yes I should like that very much,” Sorona answered appreciatively “But I do not wish to bring you any trouble,” she added thoughtfully. The young woman merely smiled as if any doubt she had was now abated, then moving off she spoke with her guards. Sorona could see by the looks both guards cast her that they did not approve of the young woman’s decision, but after only a few moments they reluctantly conceded and the young woman returned gesturing for her to follow.

Reaching the entrance to her cousins tent Sorona paused and glanced back at her guards, “Are you sure you will not get into any trouble over this?” she asked still concerned.

“Any trouble that comes of this is my own making and I will deal with any consequence. You are a friend of the Meldakhar and if rumours are to be believed you have been away for some time, I know that if the Meldakhar was awake and able to speak she would not have turned a friend away. The others will see this with time!” the young woman said with a firm but gentle assurance, Sorona nodded then taking a deep breath followed the young woman inside.

In the soft flickering light of the tents, oil lamps Sorona saw the still form of her old friend; she was surprised to see that they were alone. Rama is speaking with our other guests and Nakira has left for a moment to speak with my brother Thorn the young woman whispered softly as she moved towards to her leader. She lifted the damp cloth from Ayar’s brow and soaking it in the fresh water she had brought; she rang it out and gently replaced it on her leader’s brow.

“Her fever seems to be breaking!” The young woman sighed as Sorona drew nearer.

“Is that not a good thing?” Sorona asked as she stared at the deathly pallor of her cousin.

“Normally I would say yes, but not this time!” She sighed sadly “That the fever is breaking can only mean that the body is giving up or losing the fight for life, her spirit will soon break free of it mortal bonds to fly free with those of our ancestors,” the young woman informed her sorrowfully. “She was a wise and well loved leader her passing will be a sore loss for our people.” The young woman whispered turning away that she could not see the tear that ran down her soft cheek.

“I will give you a few moments alone, my name is Yalisha, if you need anything or you notice any change call me at notice, I will just be outside.” Sorona thanked the young woman again, and then turned with regret and sorrow on her dear friend.

“I’m so sorry Cousin,” she whispered tearfully, “I should have returned sooner, when the dreams first began, perhaps I could have prevented this!” she lamented looking on the silent form of her cousin. “No I should have returned long before that, but I was a coward, I hid from my fears. Lanirsule told me I would regret my choice not to return!” she sighed.

Stretching out her wing she gently placed it upon her cousin’s hand, she could not feel the deathly chill upon them and as she stared at the feathers, she found herself wishing for the first time in nearly eighteen years that there were a hand there that she might take her friends hand and squeeze it in her own.

“So you did become Leader! Did I not say it would be so,” she laughed weakly “I finally managed to take the eagle form and you were right as always, it found me and when I was most in need.” she smiled remembering her impatience at not being able to take the form of their ancestors and Ayars patience and gentle reassurances .

“I think Cousin that it is my turn to tell you a tale, in fact I think it is long over due!” she smiled wanly moving a straying lock from her cousin’s pale but peaceful face.

The desert sands shifted lazily across the dunes the woman and children of the Wolf clan eagerly awaited the return of fathers, husbands and sons. The hunt had lasted three days and the hunters where expected home by nightfall. Children rein-acted the bravery of their bothers and fathers while the women prepared to welcome their men home with a hearty meal.

A dark and ominous cloud of whirling sand rose up on the horizon against mornings light, at first it was believed that the hunters had return home early, but the cloud was to thick and moving too fast to be that of Audulfr and his pack. A panic ran through the camp! I did my best to take control, sending Freya to warn my father and the eagles of the approaching danger, then I organised the wolf clan an bid them to make for the forest where I believed we could hide out these attackers.

But their numbers were great and they came fast splitting us up, killing those who dared to resist. I took up my little raven and ran for the safety of the woods, hoping that the others would find their way. But as I fled several riders pursued me, I could not hope to out run them so I took out my dagger to save my son from this horror. But when it came to it I could not free him from his mortal bond, I hid him in the high branches of a tree and drew of our attackers , I would have rather died myself that take my own child’s life!

Sorona paused recalling the young man in the desert and the sea captains recollection of his name, “And it worked Ayar, he still lives!” she smiled thankfully. But, sighed as she continued.

I took the form of the clan I married into and lead the Haradrim warriors away from my son, the last thing I remember was a sharp pain to my side, then I awoke on the back of a Haradrims wagon. But as soon as I awoke, I was hauled from the wagon and chained with others of our people, not only the wolf clan. Oh, Ayar they were mostly children!

We were marched not to Umbar but further north in to a dark and baron land filled with ash and fire, with creatures just too vile and unspeakable to mention. Then he came….Sorona closed her eyes and shook violently at the thought of the Dark Lord of Mordor. He had no form and took no recognisable shape but he and been in her head and her thoughts and even after he was vanquished by his foes a dark chill remained on her heart. He forced the young ones to take forms of his choosing, perverting them to his own design. As for myself and the others we given but one choice serve or die, I thought I could save them and escape our prison if I could just stay alive, so I worked the dark forges stealing what I could to help keep my people as I came to see them alive. Somehow, he discovered that I could take more forms than the others, something I thought only you and I knew I must not have been careful enough after that he wanted me to do other tasks.

He wanted me to spy on his enemies and this I did to keep my people alive, but it did not stop there one day he ordered me to kill one of the young captains of Gondor. I went but seeing the young man fiercely fighting the foul creatures of Mordor to protect and defend his people I could not do it I returned and defiantly refused to do his bidding any longer. I bracing myself for the blow of his wrath I was sure would come, but it did not instead I was pushed to my knees by unseen hands and my head held that I could only look forward. Oh, Cousin they brought out the youngest of our people and lined them before me, the smell of oil reached my nose before my eyes could make out the glistening fluid under their little feet, No! I cried out futile pleading with something that had no compassion or heart, The children’s eyes shone with fear, silently pleading for my help I struggled against my unseen captors as the oil was lit, Their screams, their was nothing I could do Their scream Cousin remain with me always no matter how much I try to forget.

After that I was his and did what ever he bid hating him and myself, longing for death! However, there were still others. I continued to smuggle them food, healing aids but I was broken, and lost all hope of escape, there was an elder with us a man. I no longer remember his name or his clan but he was kind and tried hard to give me hope or so I thought, He kept saying it would not be long, that they would all be free! One day he asked me to bring him a flower he said, it had healing properties and he said it would help them to escape this place; I was so deep in the depths of my despair I did not know what he meant. Nevertheless, I brought him his plant and several days later, I discovered what he had meant!

They were all dead, they would rather brake their mortal bonds than suffer anymore torment in their dark prison, they did what I could not! I fled in fear and disgust Saurons hound close at my heels it was then that this form found me at last allowing me to escape my dark prison. Wounded I made it to the mountains far in the north lands, were I was saved from the death that I longed to take me, by an ancient friendship and the old man who now walks among your clan. They nursed me back to health, but I could not return to the lands of my people with the knowledge of the horrors I had witnesses the grief was too painful so I locked it away and tried to forget. Sorona finished tears streaming down her feathered face.

“I am so glad you will not have to witness your peoples pain Cousin. I do not know why I was sent back, but I promise you cousin that I will not fail our people again and if I can help prevent this madness I will, this I swear to you!” she whispered tearfully, laying her feathered head on her cousins chest in a last gesture of goodbye.

The soft rhythmic thump of the woman’s heart slowed and Sorona bolted up in fear and panic, “Yalisha!” she called fearfully, the young woman rush into the tent, “help her!” Sorona cried knowing it was futile, Yalisha knelt beside the Meldkhar for and second then sullenly moved to the guards ordering them to find Ayars Daughters. Tears fell freely as she moved back out of the tent to allow the eagles to attend their dying leader, but she could not bring herself to leave completely so she stood frozen in her grief watching the silent shadows of movement through the tents opening. Presently the sound of approaching feet caused her to turn and with great sorrow and much sympathy, she watched as a young woman, much in likeness to Rama approached comforted and supported by a comely looking maenwaith man, who she could only assume was Yalisha’s brother. Rama joined them and together they slipped silently into the tent followed closely by two of the clan’s elders.

“So young they seem to bear such burdens,” she quietly murmured as the tents flap fell closed behind them. “Farewell cousin, may the spirits of our Ancestors guide you safely on this your final journey,” she whispered tearfully, then raising her eyes upwards it seemed to her that Soron twinkled that little bit brighter a fitting epitaph to a wise and dear friend. As a cool breeze blew around the tents ruffling, her feathers she stood alone a silent witness to the ending of her Cousins chapter in their clan’s history!

[piosenniel]

The Sandpiper/Star puts in to the coast at last . . . a way inland is found . . .

A fair span of hours passed as The Sandpiper pulled further out to sea. ‘Is this necessary,’ asked Pio watching the shoreline fade in the west. ‘It is, m’lady,’ rejoined Hamar as he gave an order to let out more sail. The breezes grew stronger as they turned away from the coast, a useful fact which he hoped would make less the additional time incurred for this necessary change in course. ‘There are far more vessels in the waters just off the Bay of Umbar than is usual. And many of them are bound south, it seems, along the coast. It be the case that some might be Falasmir’s ships, I’d prefer we not be pulled over and inquiries made.’

~*~

It was nearing first light as they tacked in toward the coastal waters once more. The small bay just south of Umbar was nearing, and it was there they were to meet Faragaer’s ship, The Scuppered Gull. ‘Take us back out, sir!’ cried Hamar to the Helmsman; the great wheel turned and they sailed westward again, then south once more. A great flock of Corsair ships lay at anchor in the confines of the small cove, bobbing on the sheltered waters - dark threats of warbirds ready to take wing. ‘What are they doing there?’ asked one of the crew who had come to bow. Pio glanced at him, and then to Hamar. ‘I can’t really say,’ the man answered, taking in both the Elf and the crew member who had asked the question. He put his spyglass to his eye and scanned the ships. ‘I will say, I can’t see The Gull’s pennant among them. He must have sailed further down the coastline.’

‘He and I had discussed that previously,’ Pio nodded, sending the crewman to her quarters to retrieve her map case. ‘The original captain of The Sandpiper had dealings far south of Umbar’s port,’ she said as the sailor handed the pack over to her. She pulled out the old ship’s log and thumbed through until she had found the map she wanted. ‘See here,’ she went on, her finger sliding past the drawing of the cove they’d just passed. ‘There is another small inlet here just south of where we were to meet, and still a third one further down. Not often used, so the Captain wrote – rocky shoals forbid a close approach to the shore. But there is enough leeway for longboats to maneuver in and out. And here,’ she tapped on the chart where some blobs of ink had been left. ‘These are part of the original rocky headland that lost its mooring to the coastline and now stand like tall, little island rockeries. Ships that moor to the south side of them cannot be seen from the north or the seaward side. We can find Faragaer there, it is what he and I had agreed on.’ That is unless he and his crew and ship have not been seized altogether and hauled in to Umbar’s docks! she thought grimly to herself.

~*~

The Sandpiper headed landward after a number of hours sailing south. The rockeries were there as the journal had said, great swarms of seabirds roosting on their barren caps and ledges. The ship headed further south than the islets as it headed in. Pio and Hamar stood at the ’Piper’s rail, their eyes straining to see the The Gull.

‘A ship lies moored there,’ cried Pio, pointing as they just cleared the protective screen of that blocked their view from the open waters. Hamar brought the spyglass to his eye and fiddled with the focus. ‘It’s The Gull, he said with a sigh of relief. I can see the welcome banner snapping in the breeze.’

~*~

Soon the two ships were at anchor near each other. Pio and Hamar rowed across the other ship speak with Faragaer. He had had no word, either, of why the Umbarian ships were docked outside the bay. ‘And no desire to sail in and ask either,’ he laughed. ‘As did you, we made our way further south, as far from prying eyes as we might.’

‘What of a passage way in for myself?’ Pio asked, eager to be on the trail of the missing men. ‘How shall we go about that?’

Faragaer laughed again, urging her to take a seat on one of the crates on deck, as he had. ‘I’ve already seen to that,’ he said, motioning for Hamar to be seated also. ‘We’ve been here a number of days already, good mistress. Haladan sent his man in as soon as we’d got here. There are always little trading parties crawling cross the hills here . . . like ants, especially this time of year. For a fee, a generous one, I might add, we persuaded a small group of basket and woven mat makers to take you with them. They’re heading east, over that small gap in the coastal hills. They’ll travel north, visiting the tribes they trade with. They have no news of any men from the north,’ he added, ‘but with luck you may find some hint of where the Captain and his First Mate are being held.’ Faragaer tapped his fingers on the edge of the crate, avoiding a look at the Elf’s face . . . holding back the thought he did not wish to share with her – that perhaps the trail would prove sorrowful at the end.

He was startled into looking at her as her hand crept over his and stilled the nervous tapping of his fingers. ‘He is not dead, yet, Faragaer. I do know this.’ Pio withdrew her grasp and rubbed the back of her neck. ‘Nor will he be if I can find him.’

‘Tonight, then,’ said Farager, a tense sort of relief evident in his voice. ‘The tribesmen will come down the strand and take you with them.’ ‘Myself and Baran,’ she corrected him. ‘I will pay for his passage, also.’

‘And I, also,’ said Hamar, cutting her off before she could object. ‘The King wishes it so, Mistress. He has given me certain funds for what is necessary. I am to represent him in this matter. He was quite firm about his orders to me. He will not be gainsaid in this, I was to tell you . . . should you object.’

Faragaer looked from one to the other. ‘Poor man,’ he thought. ‘I can already see the considering look she gives him. Best he stay on his toes if he means to keep up with her, I think.’ He called for a bottle of wine to defuse the situation.

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Hilde Bracegirdle's post

After the eagle left, Surinen sat down again. Initially confused that Sorona, who had stated her place to be with her clan, had then so soon after told Fador she did not know how long she would remain with them. Perhaps the old eagle did not wish to take their acceptance for granted. But these concerns were quickly crowded out of the outrider’s wandering mind by the sobering thought that the Meldakhar was leaving them. Though there had never been much hope for her recovery, he had not yet been able to grasp that there could ever be another to lead his clan. It had always been so, since he could remember, her quiet strength guiding the eagles through many years, and of course leagues upon leagues through the desert. But if she were to leave them then she must have good cause, and have also confidence that her clan possessed the fortitude to continue without her.

Surinen looked up to see Latah approaching, Fador’s meal in her hand. “Ah, daughter,” the older man was saying, as the outrider focused his attention on them. “Maybe you would sit with us and tell us of your day. Mine unfortunately, has been an active one and regret that I have neglected my responsibility as host, burdening you with our guests. Tell me what has transpired in my home since this morning when I left.” He rested his chin on steepled fingers, genuinely interested in what she might say. “Surely, there is much I can learn from your young and unprejudiced eye.”

But Latah, settling herself down at his bidding, simply replied “Please Father, have your food and tell us of yourself, for I have nothing to say other than what you have no doubt already heard.” She avoided Fador’s, opening the box of warmed bread and placing two folded pieces on her father’s plate. “What are the elders saying?”

Surinen could not believe his cousin’s remarks. Surely she had not forgotten all the excitement that had surrounded her father’s tent today…the guards… the dagger. “But what of Ráma’s knife?” Surinen ventured, looking questioningly at Latah before addressing her father. “I doubt that the elders have heard that the younger one…”

“The first mate,” Latah reminded her cousin, gently.

“Yes, the first mate,” the outrider continued turning to Fador. “For some reason he had Ráma’s knife, and we were trying to figure out why that might be,” he explained watching the elder with great expectation that Fador might find this observation significant.

“Really Suri, you are making too much of it. See here Father, I have the dagger now and will return it to Ráma once I meet her. This man Suri speaks of did not seem see in it any special significance, and nor I think should my cousin!” she said shaking her head.

“I suppose the one to answer your suspicions then would be Ráma herself,” Fador counseled the young man, quite unruffled by Surinen’s revelation. “But I would not trouble yourself, Suri, for if he had taken it from her, would he be so careless to openly leave it here? No, I think not. So then, putting the matter aside, have they behaved honorably? Or have I to entertain undesirable company?”

“Truly, I have heard no complaints, and have none myself,” Latah smiled, watching her father finish his meal. “I think that we are blessed with guests of good temperament.”

“Good then, I am glad to hear it. We shall make them feel at home, won’t we?” Fador encouraged his daughter.

“Still Uncle,” the young man interrupted. “I would feel better if Narayad would be here also. I do not like Latah to be alone with such men. Perhaps he might be allowed to act as guard?” Surinen suggested, his voice ending in a lilt of deference.

“Narayad, yes well, perhaps for a while we might convince him to stay with his wife,” the elder said passing his plate to his daughter, and standing to leave again. “But alas, Thorn has expressed other plans. I have spoken with him a little while ago, and he would sent Narayad on a journey, so he tells me, until the suspicion of him fades.” Surinen was stunned into silence. It did not make sense to him. Thorn had always supported Narayad’s decision to live among the eagles.

“He’s is sending him away?” Latah echoed, clutching the plate. “And my husband has agreed to this?”

“Yes daughter, he has, though I also do not understand it myself. But Thorn has mentioned that if his absence grows to be an extended one, he would have you sent also, so that you might be with your husband. Let us hope that this does not become the case, and that we can soon convince the people to have faith in Narayad once more.”

“But were will he go?” Surinen asked, troubled by this news. “Where could he possibly go?”

“I do not know, Suri,” Fador admitted thoughtfully. “We must find out from him if he has some idea where he might go, for Thorn has said that he has left that decision up to him. But now I must take leave of you both, to join the others at Ayar’s side.” Seeing the two in mute bewilderment, Fador hesitated, turning again to them before leaving. “Do not worry, I will speak with Narayad to see if he is sure of this, and will speak on his behalf with who ever I must. Perhaps we might yet sway this decision.” And with that he left the tent once more.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Word of Ayar’s illness sped swiftly about the camp. Already, a number of maenwaith had hurriedly set aside their dinner platters and mugs, running outside to gather near firepits whose earlier inviting flames had now burnt down to the ground, leaving piles of sullen ash. Some spoke in hushed tones, trying to offer comfort and hope. Several had walked over to the pavilion where Ayar and her daughters were staying, anxious to hear news about their leader. Yet this time, most deemed it unlikely that any remedy would be found to battle the poison in Ayar’s blood.

Inside the shadowed tent, all was quiet, except for the harsh rasping sound the woman made as she strained to draw each breath. Drifting in and out of consciousness, Ayar thrashed about amid her bedclothes, waves of pain mirrored in the taut grimace of her face. The Elders arrived last and stood near the rear of the chamber. They would remain there until Ayar’s keen spirit managed to break the bonds of her now useless body. Then, the oldest of the group would step through the door and proclaim that the Eagles would honor their fallen leader with four days of ritual and reflection.

Sometime tomorrow, the Circle of Elders would again meet to announce who would take over leadership of the clan. Thankfully, all seemed to be in agreement on this important point. In times like these, the clan could not afford to bicker or to delay the naming, even though the formal ceremonies and ritual joining, man to woman , and each to clan, would not take place until the Eagles had offered their final goodbyes to Ayar.

Yalisha stood near Ayar’s pillow, grimacing in frustration at her own inability to dampen the onslaught of searing pain. Narika sat stiffly beside the bed, her mother’s clenched fist cradled between her two hands. Ráma crouched on the floor near the foot of the pallet, her expression one of deep worry mingled with anger. Thorn stood close behind his wife-to-be.

One time, the sentry excused himself to go and check on those assembled outside. Curtly responding to a few nervous onlookers who stood nearest the door and who begged for some word , he cursed under his breath, “Not even a dog should die this way. The Eagles must make whoever did this pay!”

The hours inched by as a candle on the table burned low and then gutted. The first hint of dawn was visible in the distance: the sun embracing the earth as it rose, extending its soft radiance over the vast expanse of white sand that totally encircled the camp. Somewhere, a cock crowed to herald the beginning of a new day. Ayar’s body shuddered more violently than before but then came to rest. Her breath continued in slow, jagged peaks: one gasp, then another, and finally no more.

Yalisha placed a gentle hand on Ayar’s brow and gazed into the familiar face, which already looked different in death. Then she stood up and bowed, saying the traditional words to the Elders, “The end has come. Our beloved Ayar has put aside her human form. We must say our goodbyes, that she may fly to the craggy peaks, which gave birth to our clan…..”

Hearing this pronouncement, Ráma walked up beside her mother's still form and dropped to one knee to place a kiss on her cheek. Tomorrow, everything would be prescribed by ritual; tonight, each could honor the woman in a way of their own choosing. Narika came over and slipped an arm around her sister's waist. The two girls tipped their heads on each others' shoulders. Outside the keening of the tribe had begun.

[Nerindel]

Korpulfr circles the eagle camp

Kórpulfr’s dark feathery form glided silently on the cooling air currents of the desert night sky, his two beady eyes blinking sharply as the low burning camp fires of the desert camp came into view, banking right he noiselessly swept past the billowing tents to come into the encampment from behind were the fires were less. Getting closer he was surprised to see so many of the camps inhabitants still awake and about. Cautiously prompted by his mild curiosity he followed several of the clansmen to one of the many camp fires, making sure to keep to the shadows and out of the dying light of the glowing embers that would betray his presence. Both men and women, young and old stood together in small groups comforting and consoling each other, Someone has died or is dying, someone important, he thought realising that the whole camp seemed to be gathered. A gentle softness and sympathy for these people cross his hard dark eyes as he remembered the time of grieving for his mother and the others of his clan who died or went missing after the Haradim raids, he was only young but the pain and grief was the same for everyone and for a moment he thought of leaving them to their sorrow.

But as he circled again he caught the tall forms of his Quarry standing before one of the tents a little way from the gathering mourners, their young guide was not with them instead the hunched form of a wizened old man and a little desert man stood quietly beside them as all four seemed to be watching the events transpiring within this camp with sadness and a measure of apprehension. More strangers ! Korpulfr thought as he silently landed atop a nearby tent, his eyes narrowing in contemplation as he studied the old man, who was this stranger and how is it he comes to be in the this camp at the same time as his Gondorian friends? Suspicion echoed in his mind, He watched as Mithadan turned and spoke with the old man, he could not heard what they said but could see clearly by the sea captains stance and the slight gesturing movements of his head that the old man was someone he respected, the two men then shook hands and Mithadan and Airefalas moved away from the tent.

It was only then that Korpulfr noticed that the men had not been alone, two armed desert men stepped out of the shadows of the tent and followed. “So they have evaded one guard only to find another!” he mused ironically wondering what they had done or who they had offended to warrant such display of distrust. Or perhaps they are but the misfortunate victims of unhappy coincidence and bad timing? he thought looking back towards the people gathered around the camp fires. As he looked back things that he had not noticed before began to stand out in his mind markings and designs on certain tents, even faces lighted by the soft glow of the dying fires, brought strange feelings of familiarity that he could not explain. like a distant memory too old and faded to recall.

This familiarity brought with it a strange sense of foreboding, an unwelcome feeling that the events of the past few day had transpired to bring him here and at this particular time, the flight of the Gondorians, Tinar’s disappearance, the strange eagle, and now this camp all seemed too coincidental. This skin crawled and his feathers ruffled he felt like the intruder that he was and he did not like it, a cock crowed and as dawn slowly approached Korpulfr leaped into the air and left the camp behind.


~*~*~*~*~

Hasrim was still waiting for him as he returned to camp, taking his mannish form he sat down heavily beside his cousin. “Well!” Hasrim prompted when his cousin remained silent. Kor was still dwelling on his strange sense of familiarity and did not hear his cousins words until he felt his a concerned hand on his shoulder.

“Are you all right, is something wrong cousin?” Hasrim was asking him with a concerned frown.

“Uh… no I am alright, it just..” he began hesitantly.

“Just what?” Hasrim pressed concernedly. “Were the Gondorian’s not there!”

“Yes they were there, and another stranger is with them an old man,” he answered absently.

“Then what is it cousin, what is it that troubles you?” Harsim went on.

“That camp, somehow seemed familiar to me,” he confided in his cousin going on to tell him in detail the marking that incited this familiarity and describing the faces that stood out in the crowd. “Someone was dying in that camp someone important if my eyes did not deceive me and it all seemed somehow wrong!” he finished with a heavy sigh.

His cousin rose shaking his head, “This is bad Kor, we must leave!” he said sullenly after a few moments. Korpulfr frowned not understanding.

“We have stumbled into a hornets nest and must leave before they swarm!” his cousin went on to caution.

“What are you talking about !” Korpulfr yelled in frustration waking the sleeping form of Tinar.

“We have found The Eagle clan’s encampment, it is too dangerous for us to stay here we will not be welcomed!” Hasrim explained moving to his horse to make preparations to leave.

“My mothers clan?” Kor mouthed wordlessly, as Tinar stared wide eyed trying to figure out what was going on.

“If this is your mothers clan then why would you not be welcomed?” Tinar asked breaking the sullen silence.

“Yes why would I not be welcomed!” Korpulfr added staring at the broad shoulders of his cousin.

“You know why!” Hasrim answered turning back to his cousin, “Remind me!” he replied broodily.

“They abandoned us, turned their back on all but their own clan, isolating themselves, refusing to accept the friendship and protection a united clan offered.” But even as Hasrim spoke Korpulfr was reminded of the last time he had seen his mothers Cousin. It was a gathering of the clans, she had secretly come to his fathers tent he remembered over hearing her beg him to reconsider, but what he was to reconsider he did not know. His father had refused and a heated argument had ensued ending with his father threatening the Eagles leader telling her that she would regret taking up her uncles treacherous beliefs.

A frightening thought flash though his mind and he stood up levelling his gaze with his cousin, “Hasrim tell me that my fathers hand has no part in what is going on down there.” Hasrim frowned as if truly puzzled by his cousins words, “What are you asking?” he asked uncertainly.

“Hasrim tell me that my father has not acted on old grudges and is not responsible for who ever is dying down there!” he pressed impatiently.

“No!” Hasrim lied smoothly, “Your father would never…” Kor sighed visibly with relief, “I’m sorry Hasrim, I just had a terrible thought, foolish I know, there is no way my father can even know this camps location.” he said shaking his head.

“Then what are we going to do now?” Tinar asked attempting to break the silent tension that followed.

“Hasrim is right,” Kor said after a moments thought. “We will not be welcomed, you even less so this clan is openly opposed to your mothers plans.”

“Then I can change my name, they needn’t know I am from any clan!” Tinar protested.

“You forget the Gondorian’s my friend, they already have our names. On hindsight a foolish mistake on my part, but unavoidable on yours, I do not doubt that this clan will know all the children of the woman they perceive an enemy. You are less safe here than we are!” Kor patiently counselled the young wyrmling.

Tinar reluctantly nodded conceding his friends misgivings, “Then what are we to do?” he sighed.

“The Gondorians are escorted everywhere by armed sentries, and with a death in the clan it will be several days before their fates are decided, they’re not going anywhere soon. Once I have rested we will return to Wyrma and report what we have discovered, it has been almost a week she will be worried about you,” he smiled thoughtfully.

“But someone should remain in case the Gondorians escape these captors as well!” Hasrim said coming up beside them. Kor looked out in the direction of the camp and nodded. “Yes perhaps you are right I can’t help feeling that these strangers are dangerous, I will stay and keep an eye on them.” he contemplatively answered.

“No!” Hasrim protested. Bemused by his cousins sudden protest Kor turned to face him.

“All I mean is that I should stay, I am not needed elsewhere.” He was quick to explained.

“No, cousin I need you look after Tinar and let my father know what is going on.” He smiled sympathetically believing his cousin to be concerned with his well being.

“But you can do these things!” Hasrim protested, “It makes more sense for me to stay.”

“I can’t explain this cousin, but I don’t trust these Gondorians and I intend to find out what they are up to.” he said levelling his eyes with his cousin‘s, Hasrim studied him thoughtfully then nodded reluctantly.

“I need to rest, both of you eat and make ready to leave, by evening you both will return to Wyrma and inform her of what we have found!" Korpulfr said then returning to his un-slept in bedroll he lay down and drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

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

Hasrim


Hasrim’s outward expression remained the usual unreadable blank canvas that betrayed nothing, As he watched his cousin lay down to rest. But inside he was reeling! It seemed his young cousin was developing a conscious, or at least a doubt, that he had failed to prepare for and now the young man was determined to stay out here letting that doubt feaster and infect him and the fact that Kor had also questioned him openly in front of Tinar grated at him. He could ill afford to loss his cousins trust not now, not when they were so close…But that Kor still did not trust the Gondorians was the only consolation in this unfortunate turn of events.

As he rolled up his bedding and securely strapped it to his horse he silently contemplated how he could turn these events to his advantage. The slight vestiges of a sly grin escaped his lips as he remembered his uncle telling him that not all of the eagles were their enemies, there was one he said who was sympathetic to their cause and would help if he thought it to his advantage! And even as Hasrim sat down to eat the cold breakfast young Tinar had prepared his thoughts cunningly turned to how he could use this information to his advantage and how he could slip away to speak with this friend amongst traitors, without rousing the suspicions of his cousin or the young wyrmling!

[piosenniel]

Piosenniel

I had forgotten how the heat lingers even after the sun has fallen . . .

Pio wrung out the plain cotton handkerchief she’d dipped in the pitcher of water on her nightstand and hung it loosely round the back of her neck. The cabin window was swung wide open and the breeze that riffled through her short locks was hot off the southern mountains, bringing no relief. She was in the midst of packing for the trip inland when a soft knock pulled her from the latest study of the last few piles she had heaped on her bed.

‘Come,’ she called out, not turning from her sorting. She planned to travel as lightly as she could. Much of her things she had brought with her would be stowed away in the trunk that stood at the foot of her bed. Loose, light clothes in the style of the desert peoples were her choice for the journey – breeches, tunics, her old, soft boots; a woven aba robe, plain colored to keep off the heat. Her blade in its plain leather sheath, of course, her knives, and pushed into the inner pocket of the robe, a thin, wire garrote. A number of coins, all of Umbarian mintage, she’d gotten from Faragaer were secreted about her clothing, and a small pouch for show would hang at her belt. Last came her worn leather shoulder pack; its pockets and compartments already haphazardly packed with all manner of necessary items.

‘You’re not taking this are you?’ Hamar had come up beside her, in his hands a large tome he’d stumbled over as he entered. ‘An Elvish doorstop of some sort,’ he asked with a grin, placing the thick, purple leather covered book on a nearby chair. ‘And an expensive one,’ he went on, his finger running over the gilt edging of the pages. ‘What’s the title?’ he asked pointing at the Elvish script embossed in gold on the front cover.

‘It is a book from the library at Rivendell. An Elvish copy of one an old friend of mine penned. It is taking me a while to read and digest it.’ She picked it up and spoke the title for him:

~*~ Frodo - Callo var Alasaila ~*~

‘It is only a rough translation from the Westron she wrote it in originally. She had a certain way with words. Not all of them translated directly, much to the chagrin of the Elven scholars who worked on it.

‘I recognize the name,' he ventured. ‘Frodo’, of course . . . it is the Frodo . . . yes? But what does the rest of it mean?’

Pio shook her head, smiling as she wrapped the book in a scarf and placed it in the wooden chest. ‘Well, “Callo var” is “Hero or” and I am afraid “Alasaila” was one of those make-do translations.’

‘Make do for what?’

‘ “Chump” .’

The lid of the wooden chest closed with a thunk; the brass bolt teeth of the inset lock finding their way into the tumblers. Pio sat down with a satisfied sigh on the chest top. ‘Best we leave the discussion of literature for a later time.’ She surveyed the clothes Hamar had on with a critical eye. ‘Are you packed and ready to move,’ she asked. ‘We will be leaving within the hour, or so Faragaer assures me. I am going now to see that Baran has gotten together what he will need. What say we meet on deck in a short while? A last glass of wine with the Captain and we should be off.’

Pio shouldered her pack and herded the man out the door. With a last look round the room, she stepped out into the passageway, shutting the door firmly behind her.

[piosenniel]

Rôg

There had been no rest for the clan that night. Rôg had risen before first light, wanting to make his way to the small rise of sandstone rock that stood to the east of the camp. Miri had showed him this place earlier in his stay; it was where the little lizards she liked crawled in and out of the crevices and chased after the dark beetles that skittered away at their approach.

His guard had risen from his place before the tent door when he’d first peeked his head out. The man’s eyes were bloodshot, rimmed in red from his rubbing of them, and the tracks of tears on his dusty cheeks were still evident despite his attempts to hold them back. Rôg knelt down, his hand on the younger man’s forearm.

‘Do not trouble yourself about me today, little brother. There will be no thought of escape or any ill-doing by me.’ He cocked his head at the low keening from one of the nearby tents. ‘This is the day the water is set at the tent’s door. And there will be need of hands to make the bier. Your family will want you with them when the meldakhar is placed for her final resting.’ The man looked up at him, duty and want warring on his features. ‘Go to your family, my friend. There will be no trouble from this tent.’ He smiled gently at the young man and stood up, offering him a hand as he did so. ‘I cannot go with you,’ he said again softly. ‘That would not seem proper. Take your leave for the day and come back late this night to check on me, if you wish. Face the west as the flames reach up and wish her spirit to soar up on them. I will remain close by camp and out of the way – over on those rocks just to the east.’

Saying good-bye in my own way . . . he added silently to himself, as the weary man nodded gratefully at him and made his way to his family’s tent.

[Ealasaide]

Fador

As dawn broke over the Eagle camp, Fador left his tent to join the other Elders in the tent of Mumtaz, who was second only to Fador himself in the hierarchy of leadership amongst the elders. Ordinarily, Fador would have insisted that such an important gathering be held in his own tent, but the presence of his guests, the two Gondorian men, rendered it impossible to meet there. Tribal matters should never be discussed before the eyes and ears of strangers, particularly not at such a critical time. A muscle twitched below Fador’s left eye as he moved silently through the waking camp. Accompanied by the persistent keening and wailing of the official mourners, he had spent most of the night moving from the tent of one elder to the next, talking to each one, making the final arrangements for the smooth transition of power from Ayar to the new chosen two. Now he was tired, and, in his exhaustion, the bitterness that had festered within him for years at being passed over for leadership of the clan in favor of Ayar threatened to boil over into open resentment. He took a deep breath and glanced up at the morning light that was beginning to stretch its silver tendrils across the eastern sky toward the shadows of the grieving camp. He must keep his anger hidden.

"Children!" he muttered in spite of himself. With so much at stake, they were handing the leadership of the clan over to what seemed to him a pair of children, untested and untried children. It was sheer folly. The Eagles needed an elder to lead them, someone with the wisdom and experience that could come only with time. Angrily, he clinched his jaw. He felt almost as though history was repeating itself and he was being snubbed again, but Fador could say nothing about it, show no opposition. After all, had not the Eagles always chosen their leaders from the ranks of the young? As an elder, he knew that he must swallow his pride and uphold ancient tradition, but it rankled greatly. His time would come, he reminded himself. For the moment, however, his resentment would just have to roil unseen in the pit of his stomach.

Passing a young woman who nodded to him with tears in her eyes, Fador nodded back, concealing his thoughts masterfully behind a mask of compassion.

"Is it true, uncle?" the girl asked in disbelief, using the title uncle merely as a term of respect . "I can't believe the Meldakher has really gone."

Fador nodded. "Yes, Salihah," he answered, careful to call her by name. Though he did not know her well, he believed her to be a friend of his daughter, and the granddaughter of one the other elders, though he could not remember for certain which one. "Ayar has indeed departed her human form. It is now time to grieve her and say your good-byes. She will soon be ready to begin her final flight."

"Yes, uncle," Salihah murmured, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.

Fador watched as she turned and slipped away between the shadows of the tents, thinking to himself, yes, Ayar is indeed gone. And may she stay that way, he added on bitter afterthought.

Arriving at Mumtaz’s tent, Fador opened the flap to find that he had timed his entrance perfectly. The others had already assembled and sat in a loose circle around a low brass table that bore a pot of tea, a collection of small clay cups, and an unlit incense pot. A place had been left open for him at the top of the circle, with the supplies laid out at his right hand that he might light the incense and bring the meeting to order. Mumtaz, the owner of the tent, sat to his right, while the place to his left was occupied by Barakah, a tiny, sparrow-like woman. By far the eldest of their number in terms of years, she had a mane of thick white hair that flowed down her back like water and bright, nearly black eyes that missed very little. Beside her sat Hadya, Mumtaz’s sister and the youngest of the assembled elders. It would be her job to pour the tea once the incense pot had been lit and the meeting was under way. Placing his palms together, Fador gave a shallow bow of respect first to Mumtaz and then to Barakah and Hadya. When they had responded in kind, he took his place between them at the top of the circle, his eyes moving evenly from face to face around the rest of the small assembly. Once his eyes had completed the circuit, he nodded to the dozen or so of them as a group. When they had nodded in response, acknowledging his position of leadership, Fador turned and lit the incense pot. Hadya rose and began to pour the tea.

Accepting the first mug of tea from Hadya, Fador began to speak. "It is with great sadness that we meet on this gray dawn. As we all well know, the Meldakher, our beloved Ayar, was taken from us in the night. Her spirit will soon take to the sky for flight into the west." He paused, watching as Hadya continued to place the traditional cups of tea into the hands of the other elders. "It is our task now to decide who shall succeed her as leader of the Eagle Clan."

A soft murmur of voices rippled through the assembly. Fador waited until it had died down, then continued, "It was Ayar's wish that she be followed in leadership by her daughter Narika and Thorn, Narika's husband-to-be."

At this, Barakah spoke up in a voice that was soft yet clear as a bell. "If this is Ayar's wish, then I believe we should honor her choice. She has led us well these many years. I trust in her judgment."

Across from Barakah, Dakarai, a dour old fellow with a full white beard, nodded his agreement. "Yes," he said firmly. "I, too, believe that we should honor Ayar's wishes. I know these young people. They are level-headed and strong. They will lead us well in these difficult times."

"They should be married first..." muttered an unidentifed voice.

"Yes," Fador interjected. "The marriage will take place immediately following the conclusion of Ayar's rite of passage. If we agree to pass the mantle of leadership to them, as Ayar suggested, it shall be to them as husband and wife."

Hadya, who had finished serving the tea and returned to her seat beside Barakah, cleared her throat. "If we... if we don't follow Ayar's last wishes," she said nervously. "We could choose a leader from amongst ourselves, perhaps, an elder... someone we know will have the wisdom to carry us through these rough times. To... to... to lead us into the future with certainty." As she concluded, she cast a significant glance at Fador. He smiled inwardly, though his outward expression remained impassive. Hadya had harbored a fondness for him ever since she was a small child. Truth be known, she had secretly been his mistress for years, both before and after the death of her own husband. She could always be counted upon to be his most staunch ally and supporter, but now he sensed she was in danger of revealing too much of his ambition. He recognized the fact that he had been careless to express his innermost thoughts to her, telling himself that he must be more prudent henceforth. It was far too dangerous at this stage for his ideas to become the topic of open debate.

"Our tradition has always been to choose our leaders from amongst the young," he answered blandly, side-stepping her implications.

"Perhaps it is time to break with tradition," said Harith, another elder, in a quavering treble. Once an accomplished trader, he had interacted much with the outside world over the years and even spent some time in his youth working in the markets of Umbar. Now bent and nearly toothless, he spent most of his time on a mat in front of his tent, playing dice and other games of chance with whomever would be so foolish as to take him on. He cheated like a bandit. "Perhaps it is time that we bid farewell to our isolation, as well. I hear talk of a great maenwaith city the Dragons are building not too far distant. Would it be such a bad thing to trade with this city? To embrace its existence?"

Barakah shook her white head. "I have a feeling that that would be very dangerous, dear Harith."

Again following Barakah's lead, Dakarai agreed. "Tradition is what defines us, Harith. It makes us who we are." He sunk his chin deep into his beard. "To reject tradition would be to embrace our destruction. I vote that we do as Ayar wished and install Thorn and Narika at once. I have spoken with them at great length over time. They understand what is required to protect our people from the evils of the outside world."

Mumtaz, who, by some trick of nature, was exceedingly fat, shifted his bulk and gave Dakarai a thorny look. "We could learn much and greatly expand our base of trade if we do not reject contact with the outside world. Consider these men from Gondor, for example. Think what we could accomplish if we were to have friends in such a place as Minas Tirith! Our new leader must have the foresight to recognize opportunity when it presents itself. And the strength to pursue it for our clan's greater good."

Dakarai answered hotly. "Is your memory so short, Mumtaz, that you forget what the outside world has meant to us in the past? We have learned naught but death and destruction from those who inhabit the world beyond our desert. I, for one, have not forgotten the raids that tore so many maenwaith children from the very arms of their parents." He crossed his arms across his chest with an air of finality. "I will never forget. Our survival hinges upon our continued isolation."

Beside him, Harith ticked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "The cities, my friend," he quavered. "The cities hold the key to the future."

"Hush," snapped Dakarai. "You are an idiot."

Smiling serenely, Barakah raised a frail, dark hand into the air. "And what have these issues to do with whether or not we choose Thorn and Narika to lead us?" she asked quietly. "These are not matters for this assembly to decide, isolation or contact. We meet here today not to determine our place in the world. We meet to select our new leader." She turned toward Fador. "Is this not so?"

"It is," he answered calmly. "Let us stop our petty bickering. But, Mistress Barakah," he added with a polite incline of his head toward Mumtaz and Dakarai. "It is also true that whoever we choose as our leaders will ultimately determine our place in the world. Is that not so?"

Barakah leaned back on her cushion, her bright, dark eyes looking deeply into Fador's out of her sharp-featured little raisin of a face. "Yes, you speak truth as well," she answered. "But I have yet to hear any genuine objection - " Hadya colored slightly " - to the selection of Thorn and Narika as our leaders. Is that not our purpose here? Have they not been taught and trained by Ayar for the very purpose of leading their people through fair and treacherous times alike? That is the question that should concern us today, nothing else."

Fador nodded, feeling as though Barakah's deepset brown eyes could see through his carefully cultivated objectivity, as though through a glass, to the roiling anger within. Just a tiny sparrow of a creature, the old crone, as he preferred to think of her, was deceptively powerful within the clan and would bear watching over the days and weeks to come. Perhaps a drop of poison in her tea would not be misplaced. She was old. Few would suspect any evil. With her gone, Dakarai could easily be brought around to a more reasonable way of thinking, and Fador's words of counsel to Thorn and Narika could arrive nearly without contradiction from the ranks of the remaining elders. His influence would be substantial. He turned a solemn gaze toward Barakah.

"Nor have I," he said gravely. He let his eyes wander from face to face around the circle of seated elders. "Is it then the decision of this assembly that we pass the burden of leadership that Ayar carried so gracefully and so well for lo these many years on to her daughter, Narika, and to Narika's husband, Thorn, to be carried equally between them?"

"It is," said Barakah firmly.

"Yes," agreed Hadya, dropping her eyes.

Fador listened as each of the elders, one by one, agreed to the installation of Narika and Thorn as the new leaders of the clan. "Then so it shall be," he said as the last voice fell silent. "The ceremony shall take place three days hence, immediately following the wedding. In the days between now and that time, our people know well that this counsel may be looked to for guidance if we are needed. My tent flaps shall be closed to no one." He then reached out and upended what was left of his tea into the incense pot, dousing the fire and bringing the formal meeting to a close.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Thorn

It had been a long night, and tiring. Ráma had, as tradition dictated, set a vessel of water, at the door of the tent, so Ayar could find water should she require it on her last journey. And Thorn now sat, his back to a tent pole watching Narika and his mother as they quietly went through bags and boxes, gathering the things needed for the funeral rites. He was aware of numbness, a unexpected feeling, as if the foundation under him had bee suddenly whisked away and he now stood upon uneven ground. Even the encampment seemed slightly different to him now, leaderless. It was an unsettlingly familiar perception, one that had not descended on him since the head of his own family had died.

Yalisha, noticing him awake, came over to her brother and crouching down, looked into his face. “Thorn, try to sleep,” she counseled. “You have much you will have to do today, and need to find rest now, before the others arrive, and the elders share their decision.”

Her face was sincere, and Thorn wished he could follow her advice, but he could not. Sleep had eluded him. He glanced aside to the body of Ayar, the color gone from her flesh. She was so still now, so unlike herself. “I can not sleep peacefully.” He said turning back to his sister. “And neither can I ignore what has happened to the very heart of our people, in our own encampment. It was not her choosing to leave us, sister, but she has been ushered out of our presence at the orders of woman who would call herself the leader of us all.”

You are right, brother. But still, though it has come to this point too soon, Ayar had confidence in us. Do not forget that. In her wisdom, she was not alarmed by this sudden departure, for her daughters are grown now and her people also mature. Had she not taken great pains to teach us to rely on ourselves? We are strong, Thorn. Do not be troubled, we will to resist the Wyrm, and will not be cowed into submission to her will.”

Thorn smiled weakly at his sister, “Yes, we are strong, Yalisha, but it is not enough. But just as this poison entered the Ayar’s body at one small point and overcome her strength, so I’m am worried that there is a poison at work among us. When I was in Umbar and learned that some plot was planned against us I flew to warn our people, only to find that I had arrived too late. No assassin could have come across our encampment so fast. Even if it had been one of the maenwaith, he could not have found us, a small people in this vast country.” He averted his eyes. “At first I thought perhaps one of the newcomers may have something to do with this, but now I have come to feel one of our own people has betrayed us.”

“Narayad?” Yalisha whispered softly, studying her brother’s face..

“Yes, he would seem be the likely one, and as an outrider, could easily pass information. But he would not do this, and has no love for the Wyrma or her ways. But still I have asked that he leave, for his own good as well as the clan’s. We will see what happens after that. But we must be vigilant. Wyrma has struck us a blow, and we do not know if she might have other plans underway against us.”

“She has struck a heavy blow, but she has not crippled us. Do not be downcast, Thorn, you are tired. If there is a poison among us, it need not be lethal. We can overcome it. But now rest, so that you might have strength to help both Narika and your people.”

“I will be strong for Narika and the people, sister,” Thorn said rising from the dark corner. “But do not ask me to sleep.” Walking away from her and toward the tent opening, he stopped at his mother’s side. “I am going to see to the brier,” he told her. “Send for me if you see that Narika or Ráma are dispirited, and I will return immediately.” Shooting a quick glance at Yalisha, he lifted the tent flap and was gone.

[Nerindel]

Sorona

As the silvery threads of dawn stretched out across the eastern horizon of the desert sands Sorona’s rose her dark bloodshot eyes to greet it’s gentle light, as had become her custom since escaping the darkness of Barad-dur. “With dawn comes the light and hope to chase away the shadowy darkness of even our darkest night!” The gentle whisper of an old friends words echoed through her mind, giving her what little comfort it could. But as she lowered her gaze the flap to her cousins tent parted and Rama stepped forth, her honeyed complexion streaked with silvery tears. She watched as the young woman knelt, setting down a small ornate pot she carefully held in her trembling hands. A vessel of water with which to quench the thirst of death before journeying unto the west, She thought, vaguely recalling the rituals of her people. Rama rose and for a brief moment the two eagle women’s eyes meet each betraying the depth of their grief and that same sense of empty loss that came with the parting of a loved one. Sorona lowered her head respectfully, then Rama slowly turned and quietly slipped back inside.

With seemingly inconsolable sorrow Sorona closed her eyes, but no peace was there in even this simple act, instead the vision that haunted her dreams returned, more vivid and no less violent than before. The death of Ayar and the rumours and suspicions surrounding Wyrma and her people now gave credence to that which in her heart she had hoped was only a nightmare, a punishment for her boldness and over curiosity! “What is it you what me to do?” She whispered to the light west winds, but there was no reply only the fading horrors of the dream and a renewed sense of urgency! Suddenly she knew what she must do, turning sharply she hurried to the tent of her hosts. No matter what doubt she felt towards Fador he was an elder and it was to the elders that she now must speak if the portent of her dream was to be averted!

Reaching Fador’s tent, her guard startled out of his own grief by her sudden departure and struggling to keep up with her nearly walked right into her as she stopped suddenly. Latah, Fadors daughter sat at the entrance, the soft keening and gentle shaking of her lithe frame betraying her grieving. Pity more than sympathy stopped Sorona as she watched the young woman mourn the passing of their leader, how many more times would the eagles mourn the loss of loved ones before this new chapter in their history passed unto memory? She thought with a deep and sorrowful sigh, then turning to her guard and looking him over she gestured to a red handkerchief protruding from his pocket. Shaking it out he handed it to her. Nodding her thanks she took it gently in her beak and hopped over to where the young woman sat.


With a gentle nudge of her head she offered the young woman the handkerchief, Latah looked up and slowly took the offered handkerchief with a slight nod of thanks. “The spirits of our ancestors will look after Ayar now and guide her unto the west were she will know eternal peace!” Sorona whispered, absently turning her gaze west as a small part of her heart secretly envied her cousin that rest.

“Latah, I must speak with your father! Is he inside?” she asked as gently as possible but making no attempt to hide the underlying urgency in her voice as she turned back to face the young woman.

“No,” the young woman sniffed, “He takes Counsel with the other Elders and will not be disturbed.”

“Where?” Sorona pressed. Latah paused staring at the eagle reluctant to say more, Sorona’s eyes softened as her gaze levelled with the young woman. “It is important that I speak with your father and the elders of this clan, even more so now this sorrow has befallen. What I have to say may be important not only to this clan but to all Maenwaith!” she gently pressed. Latah paused for a moment longer then told Sorona where her father could be found. Thanking the young woman Sorona turned and headed for the tent Latah had described, her guard following close behind.

Reaching the tent Latah had informed her belonged to the elder Mumtaz, she was stopped at the entrance by another young woman who suddenly stepped in front of her, “You can not go in there the Elders are gathered!” she said staring down at the eagle with a slightly bemused frown.

“Yes, I know and I must be permitted to speak with them” Sorona pressed attempting to move round the young woman, only to be stopped by the firm hand of her guard. “You do not understand outsiders are not permitted while the Elders take counsel, you may speak with them after!” he said in a firm voice, giving the young woman an apologetic nod.

“No! it is you who do not understand, an outsider I may be, but eagle Maenwaith I am and with the Elders I must now speak!” she said gently nipping her guard hand and with wings gently flapping she pushed past the young woman careful not to do her injury.

Inside the heads of the Elders turned to set eyes on the eagle that disturbed the end of their meeting, “I’m sorry, I tried to tell …her” A shaken Salihah apologised.

“Sorona!” Fador frowned as he rose from the head of the table. Hushed whisperings past through the assembly as she stepped forward, her gaze steadily studying the faces of each Elder in turn as she looked around the gathered assembly. Several faces stood out in her fractured memory but none more so than the old frail looking woman who sat to Fador’s left side, her dark eyes studied her intently. A flame of memory lit her eyes as the scrutinizing look of the woman seemed all to familiar and as she held the woman’s gaze she remembered long debates by firelight regarding Sorona’s views of the outside world and the stern warnings the Elder would press upon her but she believed that despite their differences they were once friends, but that would not help her now for what she was to say would not hold well with any of the elders, if even they believed her.

“Forgive me this rude intrusion,” she said turning back to Fador and bowing low in respect, “But I must have the counsel of the Elders!” she added lifting her head.

“Counsel is always given to those of our people who ask!” Barakah answered keeping her voice even and her gaze level, “but you come to us a stranger and un-revealed!” she added gesturing the form Sorona held too.

“How are we to know you are not some spy of the Wyrm clan sent to make sure her evil has come to pass!” another added pressing his palms firmly upon the table. He was of medium height and build and of hard-faced countenance, suspicion burning in his dark eyes and his lips thinning within the white beard that framed his aged face as he steadily met her gaze.

“My name is Sorona, Daughter of Thoronda, cousin to Ayar and my first loyalty is to the clan of my birth. Yea it is also true that by Marriage I too owe loyalty to the clan of the wolf and some of you will ask why it is that I come here and not to the place of my husband and son and more still will ask where it is I have been these many years and why it has taken so long for me to return hither to the place of my birth. All these questions and more I will answer, but first I implore you to hear what I have to say ” she beseeched them.

Fador again took his seat looking at Sorona contemplatively as another ripple of mutterings swept through the assembly. The flap to the tent again opened stilling the elders once more into silence as Nakira and Thorn entered, “We came as soon as we were told!” Thorn said warily eyeing the eagle that had disturbed the counsel of their Elders.

Fador nodded and gestured for the others to make room for Nakira and Thorn, “Sorona has something she wishes to share with us, “ he informed them, “And I must admit that she did express to me before her desire to be permitted to speak with the elders and the leaders of our clan. I told her that it would take time to arrange, but it seems that what she has to say can not wait,” he finished gesturing for Sorona to speak.

Sorona nodded her head in thanks and began to speak. “For some time now a vision of great foreboding has troubled my dreams. I admit at first I did not see it’s import and thought it only a punishment. For I once sought to look upon something that I had been afore warned was not permitted. I angered the great spirits of the world who set air and water against me too thrust me back from looking to far into the west, leaving only this dream as a reminder of my folly. But the more I tried to dismiss the content of my dream the more vivid it became until it finally brought me here and I believe to this exact time.”

Sorona pause for a moment looking in turn at each face wondering how they would take what she was about to say, stopping last with Nakira. The young Daughter of Ayar , sat patiently waiting for her to continue, the light of wisdom shone in her eyes like her mother before her and Sorona smiled wanly suddenly seeing why they would choose this child to lead them and hoping that she indeed had the wisdom and hidden strengths of her mother, then taking a deep breath she continued.

“In this vision a great city raises from the very sands of the desert floor and before its gates a fierce and horrifying battle ensues. At first the combatants of this battle were not clear to me but since returning to the lands of my kin and hearing of their troubles the vision has become more and more clear in my mind. I see now that it is men who battle amongst themselves! but not any men it is Maenwaith and over all a dark shadow looms that it fills my heart with such dread, but what or who this shadow is not shown to me. I fear for all our people and now I offer what I can to help in what ever course of action you pose to avert this travesty from ever occurring.” Then finishing she again bowed respectfully and awaited the deliberations of her kinsmen.

[piosenniel]

Piosenniel

The southern skies proved cooperative that night. Low lying clouds, threatening storm, scudded thickly over the water. Thin bands of moonlight shone weakly on the waters of the shallow cove, passing eerily over the longboat with its five occupants. It was still hot, closely hot, as if the clouds pushed down the heat against the water and the land for spite. The prow of the boat scraped up on the narrow shingle of sand strewn along this small section of the foothills. Hamar and the two sailors from the ship, who had come to take the boat back, jumped into the midcalf surf and hauled the craft securely onto the sand. Pio and Baran joined them on the little beach, packs in hand.

Pio handed Hamar’s pack to him and nodded with her chin up to a darkened cleft some ways up the nearest rise. ‘There’s our signal,’ she whispered, motioning for the sailor nearest the prow to blink the shuttered lantern there back in response. The return signal, two blinks of the boat’s light, was answered in turn, then the lantern above went dark. A short time later two well armed men came warily forth from the dark piling of boulders that marked where the sand met the earth of the foothills. Their boots skittered slightly on the loose dry sand and small pebbles as they came to a halt, waiting for one of the party to approach. Hamar stepped forward, halted almost before his advancing foot hit the ground, by a firm grip on his forearm from the Elf. A few short sharp words were exchanged before he stepped back, allowing her to make contact with the men.

~*~

Several hours later found them at the crest of the foothills. The clouds had cleared a little and they could see in the distance the small drop to a narrow valley and across it the steep climb once again to a way through the mountains. Their two guides asked if they might want to take a brief rest, their eyes gauging the fitness of the three strangers. ‘No rest. We have urgent business beyond the craggy peaks. Those who wait for us require that we move forward with all speed.’

The two guides bowed slightly, acknowledging her words, then took up their positions before and behind the three. Taking a quick look about on the moonlit scree, the man in front motioned the three to keep close. A small caution to watch their footing followed . . . then silence, punctuated only by the clatter of small pebbles as they made their way to the valley floor . . .

[Mithadan]

A brisk breeze carried particles of sand and grit through the air. To Baran, it seemed that most of the dust lodged itself in his beard and hair. He scratched at his chin and growled an oath under his breath. The night air had been soothing at first, but as the heat rose, he became increasingly uncomfortable. "How can men live in places such as this?" he muttered under his breath. As they moved away from the sea, the land grew increasingly barren and had an unsavory look, at least to the Beorning. But at least they were no longer at sea.

The trip down the river Anduin demonstrated quickly that Baran possessed not seafaring skills of any sort. After several abortive attempts to assist the sailors with the rigging and the sails, baran had been relegated to lesser duties, such as mopping the deck (the crew had insisted upon calling it "swabbing") and moving the heavy stones in the cargo holds to adjust the ballast. But soon even these simple duties were beyond him. For they emerged from the mouths of the Anduin and took to the seas in their journey south.

The sea! He recalled the Elves of Rivendell singing songs about the sea. It had sounded exciting and romantic to the Beorning. But once they had taken to the waves, Baran began to feel strange. It was as if his eyes could not focus properly and his feet would not stay steady beneath him. He felt as if there was constant motion, challanging his sense of balance... and soon his balance lost. Worse yet, his balance was soon followed by his lunch... and his dinner... and the next morning's breakfast.

"Fix your eyes on a set point on the horizon," advised one of the sailors as Baran had staggered by on his way to the rail. "Breathe steadily and deeply. It will pass." But it did not. Baran spent days on end doing little but leaning on (or over) the rail or lying in his darkened cabin with his forearm over his eyes. He had little to drink but water and less to eat. Piosenniel became concerned that he would be little more than a weakling and a burden when they reached land. She did not have to worry long.

One evening, he staggered down the hall outside the kitchen (they insisted on calling it the "galley") when a sailor had stopped him with a cup of beer in his hand. "No sea legs, eh?" the sailor cackled. "Well make sure you steer clear of my cabin. Wouldn't want you to have to clean more than you already have to." Baran had stopped in his tracks and growled beep in his throat, his eyes fixing on the sailor. "Whew," his tormentor continued with a wave of his hand. "Stay clear of me as well. You smell worse than the harbor at low tide..." Faragaer had happened by at just that moment, to the sailor's good fortune, for Baran had grasped him by his collar and lifted him into the air.

"Please," laughed Faragaer. "If you don't like my crewman, please don't harm him. We may have need of him someday if only for shark's bait." He glared at the flailing crewman as Baran dropped him none too gently to the deck. "Come!" Faragaer continued. "I will try and help." He escorted Baran into the galley and sat him at a table. The crewmen nearby slid away, seeing the color of the Beorning's face. But Faragaer tore off a crust of bread and handed it to Baran. "Bread only," he warned. "No butter or honey and no meats, at least for now. Chew slowly and thoroughly and wash it down with water." Baran looked dubious, but nibbled at the bread. "That's right," said Faragaer. "Now look at my face as you eat. Look at nothing else." The Beorning chewed and swallowed. For a moment, he seemed to turn green, but then he took another bite and chewed grimly.

The remainder of the trip had not been as bad, but Baran stayed below decks most of the time, shunning the sight of the constantly moving waves. When they reached their anchorage and the skiffs were lowered, he was the first aboard. He had crawled up onto the shore and laid down on the ground with his arms spread wide. "Thank the Valar..." he said and many other blessings besides. That night he had eaten like.... well, like a bear, until Piosenniel warned him not to empty their packs on his first night ashore. "Ashore," he liked the sound of that word....

[piosenniel]

Rôg

From his seat on the rocky rise, Rôg looked back toward the Eagle camp and imagined the smoke rising from the fire that would be lit near Ayar’s bier. He had only witnessed the death rituals for one of his own clan leaders, and this is how it had been for him. He could see the bier being built. Precious scraps of wood were stacked one upon the other, pieces criss-crossing one another to form a high, rectangular structure. At home, he recalled the children had been sent out with one or two adult members of the clan . . . to gather the dried sweetgrass and sage in baskets. They had stuffed it into the hollow places between the layers of wood to make the smoke from the fire thicker and more fragrant. He wondered if that were a custom among the Eagles or was it something once again peculiar to his own clan.

‘Hey!’ came the familiar voice, piping up from beneath the lip of the outcropping. ‘I’m coming up, too. Move over and make room for me.’ Miri’s little face peeked up over the rocky edge. Her hands and fingers found purchase on the uneven surface, and with a minimum of effort she hove her torso up onto the surface followed quickly by her legs. Rôg looked at her expectantly, wondering aloud why she was not with her family. ‘I’ve come to look at the lizards,’ was all she would say, a set look on her face.

‘Lizards it is then,’ said Rôg, scooting over and patting the now vacant space beside him.

~*~

They both sat quietly for a long time, their backs resting comfortably against the sun warmed rock. The lizards sensing no movement from the still forms crawled over their legs and poked in and out of pockets and sleeves and folds. It was Miri who moved first, scattering the skittish lizards off her legs. They raced away from the two, disappearing over the side of the rock, as Miri snuggled in closer to Rôg.

‘It’s very sad, isn’t it?’ Rôg’s quiet words were more a comment than a question that required an answer. He could feel Miri rocking a little beside him, and saw the slight nod of her head.

‘Where will she go when they light the fire?’ she asked, picking up a number of the small pebbles that dotted the rocky surface. She skipped them off the rock’s top as she waited for his answer.

‘I don’t know,’ he said, drawing his knees up near his chest and putting his arms around them for support. ‘What do you think?’

Miri chewed on the side of her lip for a moment, sliding her eyes up to Rôg’s face to gauge if he were really listening or if he might laugh at her answer. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘I think she really does fly up . . . on the smoke.’ She scuffed her foot back and forth on the sandstone surface as she thought further on it. ‘That’s what eagles do. They fly up on the winds. That’s what Ayar would do.’

‘That sounds as if it could be true, little one. I cannot say it isn’t so.’

‘There is something, though,’ she said in a whisper. Rôg waited for her to go on. ‘The bad things can’t follow her there, can they? They’ve gone away, right? They won’t come to get us next, will they?’ Rôg said ‘no’, that everything would be alright. The new clan leader and the elders would see to it. No bad things would follow Ayar or come to bother the rest of Miri’s clan.

Miri, her mind now somewhat resolved on this issue, turned the conversation to other topics. Her Mami was making something special for supper; would he come and eat with them. He declined, saying that he needed to make the evening meal for Aiwendil. Well, then, she asked would he come to the gathering tonight. They would be singing for Ayar when the sun goes down, her mother had said.

Rôg smiled at her wheedling, then shook his head ‘no’. ‘Remember I told you I would be leaving . . . to see my own family?’

‘Not already,’ she complained screwing up her face in a frown. ‘Tonight? Not tonight!’

‘Yes, tonight,’ he said, laughing at her grumbling. ‘I promised the young man who’s guarding me I would be in my tent when he came to check on me. And I intend to be. Then I’ll send him to the clan gathering and the singing. Once he’s gone, I’m leaving as I said.’

‘Oh, all right!’ she gave in, with a mildly dramatic sigh. Her chin was cupped in the palms of her hands, elbows resting on her knees as she sat cross-legged. ‘But remember, you promised to come back . . .’

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil had made his way to the funeral bier to pay his respects to Ayar. Already, members of the Eagle clan were congregating in large numbers, some talking with family and friends while others quietly wept.

Those maenwaith coming to mourn passed by Aiwendil with barely a nod. He seemed to be no more than an old man leaning heavily on his stick, an outsider whose presence was tolerated by Narika only because of his skill with herbs. Now that Ayar had died and the clan was certain to go to war, he would surely be encouraged to leave. Nor did these meenwaith suspect how close the istar had become with Ayar in recent days, how the old man treasured those brief conversations, or the influence she still held over his mind even in death.

Aiwendil was sure that Ayar would find peace. She was a good and decent woman who had tried to do the right thing all her life. He would miss her, but it was her task now to journey down another road, one where he could not travel. The plight of the Eagles worried him more, that and the fact he had made a sacred promise to a dying woman that could not be ignored. Only a short while before, he had heard the news about Sorona. She had rushed into the Elders’ meeting eager to relate her vision: a dream of death and warfare, of maenwaith battling maenwaith under a darkly shadowed sky. He felt deeply ashamed and humbled. Sorona had first come to him pleading for assistance with her dream, but he had turned her away, even though he had instinctively understood that her strange vision had surely been a signal sent from the distant West.

Just moments afterwards, he had declined to share with Rama what he actually knew of the Great Eagles. Uncomfortable and reluctant to stir up memories that carried bitter lessons, he had parried her questions with a polite reserve and flatly refused to help her in the search. Was this how he honored his pledge to Ayar? And what of his promise to Manwe that he had put off for so long?

Unable to sit quietly in one spot any longer, the istar stood up and rushed out of camp, moving more swiftly than he’d done in years. Aiwendil sprinted across the stark, flat sands until he had left the encampment entirely behind him. Suddenly, he dropped his staff, and stared upward at the clouds. His arms flailed at his side until he was airborne on great lofty wings: an Eagle of the sky, but one vastly larger than any that had been seen by the maenwaith for many, many years. All caution thrown aside, he spun around and veered back towards the camp, bellowing out a challenge to the stars that lay hidden behind the veil of day. He solemnly circled the funeral bier two times to salute the passing of a gracious lady. Drumming through his head was a single refrain: I will honor my promise, Ayar. And, perhaps too, the words I spoke in the gardens of Yavanna so many years ago.

Exhausted and spent by his efforts, the Eagle ascended once more and then plummetted towards the earth, collapsing in a heap upon the sandy ridge some ways out from the camp. If anyone had chanced by in the hours that followed, they would have glimpsed only a frail old man who was asleep; he still clutched his staff close to his body, his head tucked within the folds of his cloak. But inside everything had changed.

[piosenniel]

Piosenniel

The moonlight did not hold. Clouds off shore were pulled in over the foothills by the rising temperatures as night inched toward day. Their guides called a halt when they were almost to the valley floor. ‘They way is too difficult without light; too many places where loose stone waits to throw the reckless walker from the unmarked path. We can rest here for a few hours,’ he went on, lighting the small candle lantern he’d pulled from his pack. The five travelers settled in on the small rocky ledge they’d been traversing, pulling their cloaks about them in the chilly breezes. One of the guides passed round a small skin of water. Hamar pulled a packet of thin, hard waybread from his pack and handed it about.

~*~

The time just before sunrise was quiet, with only the skitter of pebbles down the face of the hill as the travelers shifted, seeking comfort, on their rocky resting place. Baran had stayed awake during this enforced pause in their descent as had Pio. He was a massive presence beside her, impatient she thought to be on his way. She could hear him sniffing the air appreciatively, sorting out she supposed any familiar scents in the area and taking in those new to him. She smiled at the image his great presence conjured up and could almost imagine his inquisitive bear ears swiveling about to capture the night’s then faint sounds.

Just before first light, when the darkness seemed to her a little paler, a single voice slashed through the sky, echoing across the valley from the mountains. A series of sharp, insistent screams (http://www.eagles.org/cry28.ra ) rang in the higher air, and others took up the call. Both guides had now been roused from their doze, and peered into the lightening sky. ‘Eagles,’ one of them said in response to the Elf’s question about the sound. ‘They are claiming their home and the sky that surrounds it. Every morning they do this, though none that I know would dare dispute them. Look there!’

Across the valley a small dark speck flew high in the air. It rode the rising thermals in lazy looking glides, head cocked to watch the land below. Its flight was purposed, though, as they discovered, watching it glide closer and closer to where their little group now stood. Its gaze soon fixed on them, gauging their intent it seemed. ‘Sit down,’ their guides urged in whispering tones. ‘Sit down. She will see we mean no harm.’ Hamar crouched down, his eyes on the nearing bird. ‘How do you know that bird is female?’ he asked. ‘Because she is so large,’ came the guide’s hasty reply. ‘A male would be somewhat smaller.’ There was an irritated tsk! as the Elf stood back up, her attention now fixed on the eagle.

Pio ignored the pulls at her robe and the pleas that she sit back down. There was something odd about that bird, something oddly familiar, as she had reached out gently to assure it they meant no harm. It was no ordinary bird’s mind with its quick darting thoughts and concerns. There was a high level of awareness and a stream of conscious thought that told her the bird was speaking to herself, considering on different levels who these intruders might be. The Elf sensed a question from the bird, who now hovered near the group as she glided in a small spiral. Pio shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. She could not understand what the bird wanted to know. Narrowing her eyes, she reached into her memory for something Cami had once told her, or something she had read in her old friend’s diary.

There it is! she thought to herself. The eagle turned abruptly at the far end of its glide. The whump of its wings against the air grew louder as it moved nearer. Old words of greeting were sent out, ones that Bird had gifted to Cami long ago, spoken silently now by the Elf. ‘If you ever meet another skinchanger, speak this in greeting. It will let them know you are a friend.’

The eagle screeched loudly, extending its talons forward as it swooped toward the group on the ledge, wings beating hard to guide its rapid descent. Pio stood still as the bird drew near. From behind her she could hear the gibbering of the two guides, huddled now beneath their cloaks and a few choice imprecations directed her way from Hamar . . .

[piosenniel]

Hilde Bracegirdle's post - Thorn

The place picked for Ayar's bier lay in a shallow depression within sight of camp. It was a quiet spot, protected from the wind by a small rise, yet one that afforded a full view to the westering sun. Already a large pile of dry and weathered poles stood ready, and many men were scattered between the camp and this collection, carrying yet more. No one had asked them to bring these things; they simply brought them of their own accord. Whatever they found they could spare, they set there, to be used in the construction.

Thorn was upon the growing structure; working with two others who had volunteered to lash together the last resting place of the Meldakhar among her people, when he saw that an armed man ran from the camp toward them. Shouting in a rapid tongue, the man dodged past those who bore heavy burdens, and the children who gathered dry grass and branches, as he told of a strange eagle forcing its way past the guard outside Mumtaz's tent, intent upon speaking to the gathering of elders there.

Swinging down off the bier to meet the guard, and after a brief exchange, Thorn found that all was well, and that this eagle had something of great import that she felt a need to share immediately. And he found that Narika was already there, when he rushed back the camp to see what this might be. She stood speaking with one of the guards posted, for she too had been called to the tent of Mumtaz, the elder. Without a word he drew back the tent flap, so that they might enter the assembly together. The tent was orderly, and the body of elders grew quiet as they came in. All was as it should be, but there standing poised before the group, a large bird stood, silhouetted against a shaft of light that slanted down from the roof vents, falling brightly onto the table of brass all were gathered around. The fragrance of incense still hung heavily in the air. "We came as soon as we were told," Thorn said eying the eagle warily, as he moved to the spot where, at Fador direction, a place was made for them within the ring of elders.

When they were well seated upon the floor, opposite the table from him, Fador proceeded, explaining that they were just ready to hear what this eagle, Sorona, was eager to relate. Noting the name, Thorn glanced briefly to Barakah, who patiently awaiting the message. And Amalik, a thin and quiet member of the group with an equally thin beard, seeing that the younger man’s eyes searched the faces around him, leaned over, so that his lips were near Thorn’s ear. "This is the lost daughter of Thoronda, who has come seeking the counsel of the elders," he heard the man whisper. Nodding his understanding, Thorn too turned his attention to her, wondering that she should choose to present herself before them in this aspect. But soon he was taken up by her words, and found her vision both strange and troubling.

Sorona ended with a deep bow of respect, extending an offer of help. A murmur arose as the elders spoke to one another discussing what she had told them. Thorn took the opportunity to question Amalik, speaking behind the back of his hand. “Is this truly the same Sorona who was given into the wolf clan? Or could it be that this woman only claims her name, as Dakarai suggests, and is actually a spy or perhaps comes to draw us more peacefully within Wyrma’s grasp.”

“She possesses the same turn of phase, and despite her form, her manner speaks much of the young woman she was, as well as of her father. I do not doubt that it is Sorona, though she has changed greatly. But having said this, she is no longer one of us, but of the wolf clan, and that gives me pause.” Thorn nodded again, looking down at the floor as he listened.

“We have heard rumor of this new city,” Mumtaz spoke, his deep voice rising above the others. “But it does not mean it is the city of your vision. Perhaps it was Umbar you saw, for that town is known to be dangerous.”

“It was not before the gates of the port, that this battle took place, but those of another walled city, and with a great loss of life,” Sorona said. “Can you not see that this is a warning to us all? Surely we must do what we can to stem this and without delay!”

Fador then spoke, “We do not interfere in the business of those of us who have chosen to leave our traditional ways.”

“And we prefer they not interfere with us, but if they would wage war among themselves, whose side are we to be on?” Hadya added, looking around to all the elders. “How could we hope to stop what we cannot understand?”

“Perhaps there is no need to take sides, indeed our odds would be better if we did not,” Harith interjected. “This is what you mean, if I am not mistaken?” he said addressing Sorona, who nodded to him in return.

“But what if in trying to avert this thing we are the ones to bring it about?” Thorn mused. “We are not much loved by that city’s founder.”

Barakah also gazed at the eagle thoughtfully. “Though it may appear so, Sorona,” she finally said, “we have not abandoned our fellow maenwaith. But it is our belief that to hold any in this unnatural cage Wyrma is building, will led to death. It is inevitable, though by what means it arrives I cannot say. And yet some clans will still choose to live within those confines, thinking they will prosper. We have tried to dissuade some of those who would go, and with some success. This has always been our strategy, but of greater concern to me is the shadow you speak of.”

[piosenniel]

Ealasaide's post - Fador & the Elders

Maintaining his silence, Fador watched as Mumtaz shook his head. "While we have always put great trust in guidance that comes to us from the Dreamtime," said Mumtaz, choosing his words carefully as he addressed the assembly. "How do we know that this is even a real city that Sorona speaks of? For all we know, this city and the shadow alike could be merely symbolic. Or memory intertwined with fear."

The eagle shook her head. A touch of frustration, almost desperation, crept into her voice as she replied: "It is not memory or fear. It is a warning. I beg that you heed it."

Barakah nodded sagely. "A warning from the Dreamtime should never be taken lightly, Mumtaz. If Sorona says that it is a warning, then I am inclined to believe her.” The white-haired woman glanced around the troubled faces of the assembly, her gaze finally settling on Narika’s fair countenance. “We have seen the signs of approaching evil already in the slaying of our beloved Ayar. While I have no proof, I believe Wyrma and her city somehow to be behind it. We must flee into the deep desert to save ourselves and all that we hold dear.” Her gaze slid smoothly over to catch the eyes of Thorn, who nodded his understanding, though he did not speak either in support of her or against her.

“And leave the other clans to fall subject to Wyrma’s machinations?” asked Fador. “We saw what happened to the Wolf clan when we did not go to their assistance at the time of the Haradrim raids. Shall we flee again and leave the others to their fates?”

Across from him, the eagle’s feathers ruffled tensely.

Dakarai frowned through his beard. “You know that is not what Barakah proposes. I think she means that all of those who oppose Wyrma’s city should move quickly out of her reach.”

“Her reach is very long,” said Fador. “She has already demonstrated that much, if she is indeed behind the slaying of Ayar. If that is the case, then how far should we flee? And for how long? If she is truly behind this evil, she will hunt us. We cannot hide forever.”

“Yet we should not rush into war,” said Barakah. “Nor should we embrace a city that would be nothing more than a prison to us. No, what I propose is that we flee deeper into the desert for the moment, only until we can determine what is really happening and who our allies are. When we know these things, only then can we take the proper action to avoid the horrors of Sorona‘s vision.”

“How do we determine who our allies even are?” demanded Mumtaz.

“Perhaps we should not flee,” said Harith. “Perhaps we should stay and send outriders to the other clans, see what they think of this city, if any of their people have had visions. If this thing is really so evil, why should a vision come only to Sorona? Surely the Guardians of the Dreamtime would warn more than just one.”

Fador nodded. “Elder Harith speaks wisely. What I propose is this: We concentrate now on bidding farewell to our dead and seeing that the marriage of Thorn and Narika takes place as planned.” He looked from face to face.

“Each of us,” he said, “Goes from this place to think and mull over Sorona’s warnings separately. We will see what the Guardians of the Dreamtime have to tell us separately, if anything. Then, in three day’s time, when we meet again to pass the mantle of leadership from Ayar to Narika and Thorn, we will decide what action to take. We will decide then how to determine our allies and whether we stay or flee. Agreed?”

A general murmur of agreement rippled through the tent as the elders, the two young leaders, and Sorona all stirred to depart. Spreading her wings, Sorona hopped to where Fador stood.

“Do not take these warnings lightly. I beg you,” she said softly. “The danger is dire and it is growing.”

Fador gave her a considering stare, then smiled gravely. “I take nothing lightly,” he reassured her. While he lent his voice a comforting tone, Fador’s thoughts were anything but comfortable. He indeed took nothing lightly, the eagle’s warning least lightly of all, but not for the reasons he would have the others believe. Already his mind whirled, trying to determine how he might turn the eagle’s dream and the accompanying fear to his own advantage. It was not something he had planned on having to deal with, but surely he could find some angle, some advantage hidden therein.

The eagle hesitated for a brief instant, then folded her wings. “It is all I can ask,” she said with something almost akin to resignation.

Fador nodded and watched as she moved away, wondering if she knew something more or if she had shared with them all that there was to share. Only time would tell.

[piosenniel]

Rog

Rôg spent the whole of the day at the rocky outcropping a ways from the perimeter of the camp. Now the sun was dropping and soon people would be eating their evening meal. Miri had gone back to her family, they would have a quick meal, she had told him then gather about Ayar’s bier and sing to her. She tried one more time to entice him to come with her. He had only smiled gently at her saying he could not.

Aiwendil would soon be coming back to the tent, he thought, if he were not already there. Dinner should be seen to . . . by me, of course, he grinned. As he walked back into camp and toward the tent, he chuckled at a sudden image of the old fellow. Aiwendil, his nose caught in the leaves of some old book, or better yet gazing out at the great ‘V’ of honking swans that passed overhead in the evening above the fens of Swanfleet . . . his right hand held a long wooden spoon with which he pointed out the various birds . . . and behind him, over the small cooking fire, dinner was charring without notice in the pan.

He had just reached the tent when his young guard came puffing up, hastily put on scabbard flapping against his leg as he ran. ‘Still here,’ said Rôg, reaching into the tent and pulling out the bucket of water and its ladle. ‘And no trouble for you to take care of,’ he went on, handing the man a drink. ‘You know – I’m just going to make the evening meal for Aiwendil and myself. You’re more than welcome to stay.’ He crouched down by the small pile of wood to the side of the tent‘s entryway and picked up enough for a small little cooking fire. In the midst of stacking the dried grasses and wood, Rôg looked over at the guard who had crouched down across the small pit and was using the flint to help get the fire started. ‘I had heard there would be the singing for Ayar tonight.’ Rôg said, not looking up from the little fire as he fanned it. He heard the guard shift across from him. ‘I will not be going, but there is no reason you should not. There will be no problem from me tonight.’ He placed the cooking pot on the rocks round the low burning fire and poured a little oil into the bottom. ‘You should go to your family’s tent,’ he said, stirring the chunks of onion and the few pieces of goat he’d been given by one of the families that day. He heard the young man stand up, and he nodded at him without looking up from his cooking. ‘Go on, then.’

In the space of an hour the little pot of stew was done. Rôg set it to the side of the fire to keep warm, while he baked a few pieces of flatbread to go with it. Those he wrapped in cloth and set them atop the flat lid of the stewpot. He sat back on the mat just outside his tent, waiting for Aiwendil to come. As the sun dropped lower, and the old man had not yet appeared, Rôg grew restless. He banked the fire, pushing the little dinner close up to the coals. From his pack inside the tent he pulled out his small notebook, his ink, and quill.

~*~

Have left dinner for you, warming by the fire.
Take your warm cloak with you tonight to the singing.
The night, I think, will prove chilly.

Have gone to be with my family and clan.
My little traveling bag is stowed at the back of the tent for now.

Miri has agreed to look in you and fetch whatever you may need.
There are some sweets you can dole out to her (and yourself, of course!)
in the side pocket of my pack.

Take care, my friend!

-- Rôg

~*~

The note he placed on Aiwendil’s sleeping mat, tucked halfway beneath a corner of the old man’s cloak he had folded and put there as a gentle reminder. Rôg stepped to the center of the tent and leapt up . . . out the opened entryway flew a small brown bat, heading south . . .

[piosenniel]

Child's post

Aiwendil awoke with a start and sat upright, staring off into the shadows. The glare of the mid-day sun had vanished, replaced by a sky that was dusky grey with the first stars of evening visible overhead. For a single instant, the old man forgot why he was sitting here and what had happened earlier in the day. Then he glanced down and spied a lone grayish brown feather of considerable length half buried in the sand. The istar bent down to retrieve it and tucked the plume well under his belt as a silent reminder of the pledge he had made that afternoon.

Aiwendil turned and trotted towards the lights of camp, anxious to hurry back and talk to Rôg. Cutting through the tangle of tents and maenwaith , he overheard snatches of conversation between friends and family who were gathered near the funeral bier. People spoke of Ayar’s warmth and kindness and how much she was already missed. They also railed against the villain who had done this thing and exchanged puzzled whispers about Sorona’s dream and what it might mean to the clan.

Several onlookers mentioned a rumor that a Great Eagle had been spotted at mid-day, tracing majestic circles high over the camp at a time when most maenwaith were inside eating their noon meal or resting from the heat of the day. Only a few had actually seen the great bird, and many who had not argued that these others were wholly mistaken: it was nothing more than an illusion brought on by grief or an over lengthy stay in the sun. Yet some disagreed and said that the Eagle was a positive portent for the struggle yet to come.

Aiwendil cringed a bit when he heard this part of the discussion. Lengthening his strides, he soon arrived at the tent, which was set back a ways from the main bustle of the camp. He pushed aside the flap and walked inside. Inviting odors coming from a small stewpot on the coals greeted him, but his companion Rôg was nowhere nearby. Nor did he see the guard who usually stayed somewhere in the vicinity of the tent. Aiwendil bent down to retrieve his heavy cloak that had somehow come to be sitting on a mat in the middle of the floor. To his surprise, a piece of parchment fluttered out of its folds, revealing a short note written in a scholar’s neat script. He picked it up and read.

Some minutes later, the istar set down the note and sighed. He had known for some time that Rôg planned to leave. Despite the young man’s reticence to speak too openly, he could clearly read it in his restless eyes. Something was bothering Rôg, and it was not something that Aiwendil knew how to fix. The istar hoped that his friend would be able to find his answer by returning back to his family and clan.

Still, he knew he would miss him even more than he cared to admit. Aiwendil had managed on his own many times before and had usually sought solace by seeking out the companionship of birds and beasts. This time, though, his thoughts were quite different. His fingers strayed to the grey and brown feather hidden underneath his belt. The istar let his mind drift out over the camp and tried to pinpoint the one person he most needed to see. He glimpsed her standing off by herself perched on a rock and peering up at the stars. Aiwendil buried the last of the smoldering coals under a handful of sand and then hastily sprang to his feet. His cloak lay tossed on the floor, his dinner untouched and forgotten, as he left the tent and went off in search of Ráma.

[piosenniel]

Piosenniel and Ayka, the old Eagle

All she’d really wanted to do was have a look at those interesting specks creeping along the ledge across the valley. It was not often men came in from the sea that way. Some great need must drive them, she thought . . . that, or blessed ignorance of all the carefully planted tales whispered among the merchants that ill fortune struck those who ventured across the little valley. She chuckled, remembering a merchant and his sons some time ago, who’d wandered into the northern tip of the vale. Beneath the dark olive tones of their skin, she’d seen them blanch a whitish hue. They had fallen on their knees heads tucked under their cloaks, babbling how they meant no harm; they were lost; if only they would be allowed to live they would come here no more. She chuckled again recalling how they’d collapsed from fear when she spoke to them. All she had wanted was some news from beyond the crags and the little valley, but they were beyond reason at his point and had run in panic back to where they’d entered the valley. ‘May as well give them the full treatment,’ she had concluded, as she flew after them screeching high in the air then diving down to rake their bare heads slightly with her talons.

Now here had come some travelers into her home once again. And again there was gibbering and the coverings of heads as she drew near. Save for that tall slender figure who’d stepped forward to the rock’s edge. Ayka hovered in midair as the person reached out to soothe her with her thoughts. Digging deep in her long memory, she recalled having heard of this. A scrap of an old story from the beginning times came to her. The Shining Ones, they had been able to do this. Ayka dared a question in her own tongue, but the figure on the ledge seemed perplexed for a moment, not understanding the words used. The person’s next thoughts nearly sent the eagle tumbling from her flight. Formally phrased and from an old tongue once common to her people. Curiosity won out over her wariness as the eagle dove toward the ledge.

~*~

‘Oh stop your blubbering, you brainless sandbug!’

Ayka sidled over to one of the guides, Haleel, after she’d landed. Unfolding a wing, she thumped him hard on his back. A fearful eye peeked out from beneath his cloak as the man strove to keep his whimpering under control. He squeaked as her yellow eye peered steadily at him and she clacked her beak in disgust. ‘What sort of men does the desert produce now? Get out here, O brave son of the sands. This one here,’ she said cocking her head at the Elf, ‘doesn’t understand what I’m saying. Can you translate?’ She tapped one foot on the rock. ‘Or are you as thick headed as she?’ she muttered.

A few incoherent phrases escaped the Haleel’s trembling lips. Pio knelt down by him and spoke quietly. ‘I think she will see us safely to the other side if you will help me speak with her.’ The man only whimpered in response to her, his eyes large with fear. The other fellow, Gadi, crept over to where the Elf knelt. ‘She is using the southern trader’s tongue.’ He dared an apprehensive look at the eagle, whose eye was now fixed on him. Gadi’s gaze swung back to Pio. ‘This was the fastest route back from where your ship had anchored, Mistress. We intended to cross the valley at its northern most point avoiding their section of the mountains altogether.’ He nodded toward Ayka. ‘I am only explaining this to you, Mistress,’ he went on in his most supplicating manner, ‘because my brother and I were not expecting to be set upon by the eagles.’ He paused, choosing his words carefully. ‘It is an extra task we are now undertaking. Would you not say so, Mistress?’

‘Ah, Gadi, I see your reasoning.’ Pio suppressed a smile. She pulled out her pouch of coins and fished in it, picking out two gold coins. ‘This should more than cover your assistance in helping me speak to the eagle.’ He held the coins in the palm of his hand, considering if he could make the case for a little more. A glance at the Elf’s set features, and at the eagle who had followed the exchange, decided him that he should not push the case further.

Names were exchanged first. And Pio, dredging her memory for how Ayka had referred to her in a following question, said ‘yes’, she was one of the Shining Ones. It was mostly the eagle who asked the questions – where have you come from; why are you here; where are you bound, and, most curiously, how is it that you come to know those old words?

Ayka listened intently to the Elf’s answers, surprised that one of the maenwaith had chosen to travel so widely outside her clan. She asked what clan did Bird belong to, but Pio only shook her head, saying her friend did not know any of her background; that she had come south to seek answers, and had lost touch with her friends in the north. Talk turned then to the search for Mithadan and Airefalas. Ayka approved the Elf’s desire to see to her mate’s safety and did not think it odd that a female should be set on this pursuit. Eagles she told Pio mate for life; both male and female will fight with beak and talon for the wellbeing of their own. Unfortunately she went on, not a great deal of news from outside the valley came to them. So, she had heard no news of northern men traveling in the south or of their captivity.

Pio, for her part, was apologetic that she had no news of happenings west of the mountain range. ‘I know only of the increased hostilities the King in Umbar has shown to the representatives sent to open trade with him from the King in the North.’ She mulled over all she had heard from the crew who had brought back The Star. ‘And not a word did I hear of skinchangers, or rather maenwaith as you term them.’

At this point, Gadi plucked at the Elf’s sleeve. ‘Mistress! My brother and I and our family trade up and down the length of those hills, on the desert side, all the way to the Corsair city sometimes. The clans sometime come to the little trading fairs where we lay out our wares. We have heard things.’ He looked expectantly at Pio before offering any details.

‘Two gold coins is enough, Master Trader!’ came the Elf’s reply. ‘And aside from that, it is Ayka who request the information. You will need to treat with her for payment.’ Gadi sneaked a look toward the eagle, then sighed. He was sure he would not come out ahead should he seek to barter his information.

‘Now, I don’t know much,’ he began. ‘The clans are tight mouthed around us outside traders.’ He paused translating for Pio what he was saying. He went on saying that during this past trading season, it seemed that certain of the clans had kept away even more than usual from the little trading fairs. ‘We saw none of the Bush Lizards, or the Gemsbok.’ He stopped to speak to his brother. ‘Only once did we trade with the Jackals and the Eagles not at all.’ Ayka looked hard at him, rasping out specific questions concerning that last clan. ‘As I said,’ he went on, ‘we did not see the Eagles. We asked, too, as they favor our basketry, and we had brought many in the designs they seem to like. There were hints they were withdrawing to places of safety, though we got no details why.’ Ayka ruffled her feathers in irritation.

From beneath his cape, Gadi’s brother spoke up, his voice still edged with great apprehension. ‘We heard other, darker rumours brother. Tell her of the great market place in the Havens.’ Gadi sat back for a moment, thinking how best to present those little half-heard bits and pieces of information one hears when others are blind to your presence.

Again, he said, many of the desert clans did not come to last great fair. And most of those clans who did come in for trade were the ones who live in the city. Ayka snorted at the mention of ‘city’. What did he mean by this – that they live in the city? The Havens, Gadi went on, a number of clans cluster within it, he explained, and more on the fringes of it. No, not the Eagle clan, as far as he knew, he said. Nor those others he had mentioned. His next words set her feathers on edge.

‘The clans in the city seem more casual around us traders. There are hints of big plans in the wind. Smug talk how those who are not in favor of whatever these grand designs are will be “taken care of” . . . Nothing specific . . . their lips are as tight as any if they catch us listening.’ His brother whispered something else to him. ‘Sometimes we hear things, too, from the Corsairs who come to trade with us. Little hints of how the Haradrim are forming new alliances. The Northmen will not have them long under their boot heels, things like that. We usually just ignore them, brave talk from the conquered and nothing else. But there was a certain energy about the last marketplace we attended there.’ He bowed his head a little as he finished speaking. ‘That is all we know . . . nothing solid really . . . just feelings we have picked up.’

‘Taken care of!’ the eagle muttered, shifting uneasily on the rocky ledge. She wanted to ask what action the clan leaders were taking, but she knew the traders would have no knowledge of this. And where was the Eagle Clan in all of this, she wondered. Who had allowed all this to happen?

The two brothers were silent now. Gadi had finished explaining to Pio what he had told Ayka. The Elf sat back on her haunches wondering, herself, at the variety of forces that seemed to have come together in an uneasy, and most likely, volatile mix. There were unknown factors that would bear upon her recovery of Mithadan and Airefalas. And now she began to wonder how Bird might factor, if at all, into this situation.

[Ealasaide]

Airefalas

Having spent most of the day cooped up with Mithadan in the stuffy tent of the Elder that neither of them had yet had the opportunity to meet, by evening Airefalas was feeling restless and out of sorts. He was tired of being under suspicion, under guard, and generally tired of being a prisoner, even if it was for his own good, as he was constantly being reminded that it was. As night fell and the wailing and keening of the night before was replaced by singing, presumably around the funeral bier of the Eagles' fallen leader, Airefalas found himself edging ever closer to the open tent flaps, watching to see what their guards were up to, listening... listening for what? He was not sure, perhaps for anything that would break up the boredom of confinement. All he heard, however, was the occasional low murmur of conversation in the mostly unintelligible tribal dialect. While he could pick up a few stray words here and there that he remembered from the trading dialect that was used up and down the coast, it was not enough to allow him to follow anything with any degree of comprehension.

Finally, as he edged a little too close to the open flaps, Mithadan looked over at him. "I hope you are not planning to go anywhere," he said mildly.

Airefalas shook his head. "Not really. After all, where is there to go?" he answered. A moment later, he added dryly, "...although I might consider drowning myself if there was any water around. This sitting about is interminable."

"Patience, my friend," said Mithadan. "I have a feeling we will be moving soon."

"I hope so. I'm getting to the point where I almost miss my camel."

Remembering the younger man's battles with his recalcitrant camel on the journey there, Mithadan laughed quietly and went back to sharpening his sword, which he had been doing not so much because it needed sharpening, but more as a way to pass the time. "Serious things are afoot," the captain said after a moment. "And our fate may already be more deeply entangled with the fate of these people than we know. I would suggest that you enjoy the rest while you can get it and use the time to learn all you can about what is happening. It may benefit us later."

"Well, I would," answered Airefalas crossly. "If I could make out a bloody word that they're saying. In the meantime, it would do me no end of good just to get out of this confounded tent for a few minutes, at least for a stretch of my legs."

"Why don't you ask the guards if they would mind a little walk around? They are probably as bored as you are. In fact, I might go with you. I should like another word with Aiwendil, if we can locate him." Sheathing his newly honed sword, Mithadan rose to his feet and joined Airefalas at the mouth of the tent. Raising a hand, Airefalas called out to the guards.

As Mithadan had predicted they seemed just as eager for a bit of exercise as the Gondorians were and, within seconds, the group of them had embarked on a leisurely stroll through the darkness between the tents. Since Mithadan had communicated to the guards his desire to find Aiwendil once more, they moved in the general direction of the elderly istar's tent. Arriving, they found the tent empty. Looking around and seeing no indication of where the old fellow or his companion might have gone, the guards walked casually in the direction of a pair of women cooking over a small fire nearby. Airefalas listened idly as a lively conversation ensued between the guards and the women in the tribal dialect, presumably over the whereabouts of the missing guests. Unable to understand more than a word or two, Airefalas turned away, letting his eyes and mind wander, until his gaze fell upon the slight figure of a girl, about twenty paces distant, carrying a pair of full water skins that dangled heavily from a stick across her shoulders. Watching her slow progress, it suddenly occurred to Airefalas that he knew her. It was the same young woman who had been keeping house for them in Fador's tent since their arrival, the one with whom he had had the misunderstanding over the cheese.

Without thinking, Airefalas turned and walked toward her, intending to give her some assistance with the skins. He caught up with her just as she rounded the corner of a large tent, placing them both out of sight of Mithadan and the two guards. Reaching out, he touched her shoulder.

"Hello," he said quietly. Startled, she turned quickly, dropping both the stick and the two skins, sloshing a few ounces of precious water on to the sandy earth. Her dark eyes widened with a combination of alarm and recognition. Stepping back a pace, Airefalas raised his hands, palms outward, to show her that he meant her no harm. Recognizing the gesture, her initial fear evaporated quickly and she smiled, though a bit nervously. To his surprise, she spoke to him in halting and heavily accented Westron.

"You! How you..." she hesitated. "Where..." At a loss for the word she sought, the girl made a comical pantomime of the two armed guards who had been stationed outside of the tent all day. Airefalas grinned.

"Guards? Where are the guards?" he suggested. When she nodded, he gestured behind himself with a quick motion of his head. "Not far. In fact, I thought at least one of them would be right behind me.

"I thought you didn't speak Westron," he added a second later, recalling their earlier communication problems.

She smiled. "Only little bit," she answered carefully, with a matching gesture of her thumb and forefinger. "My father teach. But you..." She took his wrist and tried to push him back in the direction of the guards. "You go back. Very danger here for you. Gourds very anger."

Picturing a pair of angry gourds close on his heels, Airefalas laughed softly. "Guards," he corrected her amiably. "Yes, I imagine they would be angry if they thought I escaped, but it isn't as though I snuck away. I think they know where I am." He pointed to the two water skins she had been attempting to carry. "I was hoping to help you with those."

Stubbornly, she shook her head. "No! You go back. I carry. Guards very anger you gone."

Seeing that she was genuinely concerned, Airefalas gave her a good-natured shrug. "Okay, I go back. But at least tell me your name that I might know what to call you in the future."

At a puzzled look from her, he repeated, "Name?" He tapped his chest. "My name Airefalas. Your name?"

Her face lit up suddenly with understanding. "Latah. My name Latah." She was just going to say something else, when a shout when up from behind Airefalas in the direction of Aiwendil's empty tent, where he had left Mithadan and the two guards. Instantly, Latah's small hand closed again around the Northerner's wrist as she left her water skins and pulled him with her around the corner of the tent and back into the view of the now truly angry guards. Calling out to them in a high, clear voice, she spoke rapidly to them for a moment in her own dialect. Airefalas thought he heard her say something about water. Then one of the guards laughed and shook his head. The other guard sheathed his drawn sword. Smiling, Latah curtsied to Mithadan and, with another quick word to the guards, went back in the direction of her deserted water skins. Just as she was about to turn the corner of the tent, she glanced back. Though it was dark, Airefalas could have sworn there was a mirthful twinkle in her eyes.

"What was that all about?" asked Mithadan as she disappeared from view.

Airefalas shook his head. "Sorry - I thought the everyone saw me go. I was going to help her with some heavy water skins." He changed the subject. "Any word of your friend?"

Mithadan shook his head no, as the four men began the trek back toward their host's tent. "I guess I will have to have my word with him later."

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil hurried to the edge of camp and then pushed on across the desert towards a hilly ridge located a short distance away where the sentries sometimes maintained a watch. This night the hill was still and empty except for one lone presence he could feel tugging at the fringes of his mind. Yet even this far from the settlment, he could still hear the mournful voices of the Eagles who had massed about the funeral bier to carry out the traditional rituals. Heavily weighed down with grief and longing, their songs echoed through the cool night air, adding a note of sadness to an already somber scene.

Coming to the base of the ridge, Aiwendil glimpsed Ráma about half-way up the slope, half hidden by a massive outcrop of jagged brown boulders; she was staring off vacantly towards the horizon. As Aiwendil began the climb upward, she turned a scowling face in his direction, making it clear that she had neither expected or wanted visitors. The old man ignored the warning and kept climbing until he reached the ledge. Walking closer, he could see that the woman's eyes were rimmed in red but that her face remained distant and blank, a pallid mask giving little hint of the feelings underneath.

"They have sent you to bring me back?" she asked in some surprise.

He turned and shook his head. "No one has sent me. I have come to speak with you on my own." The istar hesitated for a moment gathering his wits, wishing that he had Gandalf's gift with words.

"Old man, you are good at finding people. I had thought to have found a quiet spot where no one could disturb me. I spent all day in camp tending my mother's body while my sister and Thorn went off to speak with the Elders. After Naraika's return, when the shadows lengthened, I went off on my own to think."

"But they will be missing you?" he queried.

"I do not think so. The songs of the first night are always led by the new clan leaders. It is their part to push back the shadows and make certain that my mother departs on her journey."

Aiwendil glanced shyly at Ráma. "It must be hard, standing and waiting, while your sister takes on her new duties."

"I begrudge her nothing....nothing," the young woman responded. There was a quiet certainty in Ráma's voice that did not sound feigned. "It is not even my mother's death that weighs on my head. She is free now. But I made promises to her as she lay dying, and it is my duty to find a way to do what she asked."

For a moment, Ráma hesitated and stared off in the distance. Then she looked back at Aiwendil, "I do not know why, but she said you might help me. Old man, today while I tended the bier and most of the others were inside for their mid-day meal, I saw something in the sky. Something, I had never seen before. There was a great Eagle, larger than any I have seen in these parts. It flew in circles above my mother's body as if wishing her goodbye and then suddenly departed. Do you know anything of this bird, or where he comes from? I must speak with him."

Aiwendil stared down stubbornly at the ground and did not reply.

"Please," Ráma pleaded. "I can tell you do not wish to speak of this, but my request is for my people. Many have suffered at Wyrma's hands, and more will surely die unless we do something to stop it. My mother said these mighty creatures had dealings with our clan in the past and promised to aid us should we ever find ourselves in great peril. She urged me to travel south to the dwelling of an old wisewoman and collect a tallisman of power that I should then present to the Eagle Lord. But even this wisewoman may not know where to find these mighty birds. If you could just take me to this creature, I could ask him for help."

"I cannot." Aiwendil shook his head. "For that was no true Eagle: only an old fellow with some mastery of shapes who wished to honor your mother's memory and bid her farewell. Ráma, you know I have some skill in shifting. That was only me."

The young woman's eyes widened in surprise. "Can you do such things? You must wield great power to be able to take on such form." She glanced at him increduously. "Perhaps you are one of these creatures yourself?"

He said with embarassment, "No, I am sorry. I have some skills in shifting, but it comes and goes. What I did this afternoon, I have not done in years. And whether I would do it again, I am not sure."

"You will not help me then?"

"I did not say that. Only that it will do you no good to track down that bird. But I have thought carefully on what you said earlier today. If you would like my help to retrieve this talisman and journey to the Eagles, I will give it to you. I am still not sure if this is wise. The Eagle Lord and those whom the Eagles serve may have little wish to see me or to listen to anything I say. But I am through with sitting and doing nothing. If my staff or arm can be of any use, you may have them to help you to fill these promises that you made to your mother."

"And now," he added, gathering up his staff and preparing to leave, "I believe I have bothered you enough for one evening. You will want to think more on this. There is one more thing. I believe the Eagle Sorona may have some part to play in all this. I have caught glimpses of her on the edge of my dreams. She has no reason to speak with me kindly after what I said today. Still, she might take more kindly to a request from Ayar's daughter. You may want to ask her to join us. That is, if you would like the two of us to go together." After offering to help, Aiwendil turned and disappeared into the night, leaving Ráma to sit on the slope and mull over the words that had just passed between them.

[Ealasaide]

Nerindel's Post: Korpulfr

It was quite late in the afternoon when Korpulfr finally awoke. Slowly opening his eyes he rose a dusty hand to shield against the glare of the westerning sun. Turning his head he saw the lean form of Tinar tending the dusty gelding he and Hasrim had conscientiously thought to bring for the young wyrmling, two more horses, packed and saddled stood nearby under the cool shade of the rocky overhang. The first a sand coloured gelding was his own mount and the other was the tan steed that Hasrim rode, looking around he suddenly became aware that his cousin was nowhere to be seen. Brushing the fine layer of sand that covered him from head to toe, he rose and headed towards his young friend.

“Any to spare for a parched friend?” he asked jovially seeing that the young Meanwaith was watering the horses.

Tinar’s head turned to greet him with a broad smile, “So you’ve finally decided to join us, I was beginning to think you would sleep the whole day away,” the young man laughed handing him the half filled water skin.

He drank deeply wetting his dry cracked lips, “Where’s Hasrim, you haven’t talked him to death have you?” he grinned handing the skin back to his young companion.

“Talk! I don‘t think he would have heard me even if I did?” Tinar said cocking a bemused eyebrow, “he spent most of the morning deep in thought, muttering to himself as he packed his own and your mount, then a few hours ago he said he was going out to look for fresh water and to scout out the desert movement, movement! I ask you for days I’ve see nothing out here but the sea of sand.” he continued shaking his head.

Kor laughed clapping Tinar on the shoulder, “Ha my friend that’s my cousins way, always thinking ahead and if he was here I am sure he would now be giving you a quick lecture on the unseen dangers of the desert.”

“Then I am glad he is not here,” the young man laughed jovially.

As they waited Hasrim’s return the two men finished making preparations to leave and enjoyed a cold supper of flat bread and salted pork, the conversation remained light and cheery like two young friends simply enjoying each others company with no political or outside influence at work, but as the sun began to sink below the western horizon the talk turned again to the matters at hand and the barely perceivable guardedness of each man returned.

“You must make sure your mother hears of the death of the eagle leader and the arrival of the northerners to their camp, it may all be coincidental but let her know that I will remain to make sure!” Kor said turning to look the young man squarely in the eyes. Tinar paused for a moment then nodded and as Kor turned away the young man asked him if he had any message for his father.

“Just let him know that I am fine and know what I am doing.” he answered after a moments contemplation. Tinar frowned not understanding and Kor shook his head and explained, “He has his grievances with the eagle clan, he still holds them someway responsible for my mothers death and won’t be please to heard that I am here!” he sighed wearily.

“And you?” Tinar asked cautiously, “Do you too think they are at fault?”

“hmm I don’t know… maybe they could have helped or maybe not I really don’t know it all happened so fast… I… only re…..” with a shake of his head Korpulfr stopped talking and got up and began to walk away.

“Where is that cousin of mine it is time we where away from here before we are discovered by outriders!” he said decisively changing the subject and looking out into the distant darkening horizon. But he could not hide from the memory that haunted him, clinging to the branches and safety of the trees as his mother was hauled off dying by the crimson warriors, he swore to himself not long after that day that never again would he hide from those who would attack his people, he would be strong, but still he felt like he had not upheld that promise, hiding in the city of his enemy at the insistence of the very people he wished to protect. With a heavy sigh he walked up to the sandy gelding and lightly scratching the animals ear he re-checked the straps adjusting his pack and the saddle baskets that carried the goods for trade, while he waited for his cousins return.

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

Ealasaide's Post: Fador

As the sun set deep into the western horizon and the singing began around the bier of Ayar, Fador took his place amongst the other elders. Though he carried a small hand drum with him, he neither drummed nor sang along, but sat quietly, listening as the various singers raised their voices in praise of the fallen leader, framing stories from her life and the lives she had touched during the tenure of her leadership in graceful song. Finally, as evening began to edge toward night, he rose from his place and slipped silently away into the darkness. He had not slept in over thirty-six hours and the lack of sleep was beginning to wear at him. He needed to be alone, to collect his thoughts. To plan what to do next. So much had happened between Ayar’s passing, the arrival of the foreigners, and the strangely timed return of the eagle, Sorona, that he hardly knew what to make of it all. He had spent so much of the last night and day in moving back and forth amongst the other elders, smoothing the way for the transfer of power from Ayar to the young people who were to take her place, that he had scarcely had a moment to himself. Now, with nearly everyone occupied by the bier, he finally felt as though he could take a breath of air for himself.

Wrapping his long robe tightly around him, Fador walked swiftly to edge of the camp, where he hesitated, gazing up at the darkening sky. How easy it would be to take to the sky now, to beat his wide wings and leap into the night wind in the shape of a golden eagle. To fly... A grim smile touched his weathered features. It had been too long since he had taken that shape and flown amongst the clouds, caressing the wind with his very fingertips. Why had he let so much time pass? Why had he preferred his other shapes to the one most treasured by the people of his clan? He wondered if it were not guilt at his own anger toward his clan, or failing that, merely stubborn pique. Either way, he suddenly understood that he had let too many days pass. Glancing back in the direction of the bier, he knew that now was not the time to make up for lost time either. Early in the afternoon of that day, around noon, a strange, great eagle had sailed gracefully around the bier twice, calling out a challenge to the winds. He had watched with the same air of awe and curiosity as his maenwaith kin, but had felt no urge to answer the challenge, at least not yet. To take to the air now could perhaps go unnoticed. On the other hand, if it were to be seen as an answer to the great eagle’s challenge - if that’s what it was - that would not do.

He turned and, on conscious impulse, began to walk in the direction the great eagle had flown in its departure. He needed to think, to find an answer to the questions that plagued him of what to do next, how to approach the foreigners, how to use them. Perhaps an answer lay out there among the swaying savannah grasses, perhaps not, but if he could at least find a bit of clarity, it would help. He quickened his step, moving swiftly and deliberately away from the encampment, his mind buried deeply within his own thoughts.

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

Nerindel's Post: Hasrim

The quiet sound of leathery wings flapping against the cool evening air echoed in small furry ears as a small heart drummed with each exuberant beat, the ears twitched as the sound of raised voices whispered on the light winds of the Haradwaith desert, murmuring of sadness and of loss. But as the small desert bat drew closer, the sadness melted away to joy and praise bringing a dark and menacing scowl to the creatures dark features. Small beady eyes that should see very little, infact carefully scanned the horizon as the lightly billowing tents of the Eagle encampment drew steadily closer, carefully flying between the many tents avoiding the gaze of the sullen but vigilant outriders and guards the small bat looked for a familiar face.

The actual camp was strangely still, with nearly all the clan gathered at the brier of their fallen leader only the stragglers and those chosen to keep guard still remained, so he flew on following the voices cringing as they praised the wisdom and kindness of their fallen leader. Wisdom! Too live in the past and remain victims of the power and greed of others pfft…. But off course the eagles were never victims, they ran and hid while others died and suffered at the hands of the Haradrim and their dark master! feelings of great hatred and bitterness suddenly filled the small creatures mind and it struggled to hold on to the image at the forefront of it’s mind the one that kept him in the air unrecognised and unnoticed, he perched in a nearby tree and took a deep steadying breath, pulling the image forward once more, reminding himself of the purpose of this visit. Looking out from between the leaves he saw a familiar figure rise and move away from the others. With a wry grin the small bat again leaped into the air following discreetly the dark robed figure.

He stopping to watch as the robed figure hesitated at the edge of the camp, silently witnessing the older mans grim smile as he gazed up at the darkening sky in contemplative thought, but the small bat was forced to move quickly as the robed figure briefly glanced back towards the funeral brier of the woman he had helped to murder! Irony twisted the bats lips into a sly and cruel grin as he wondered if old fool was having doubts or regrets, for he knew it was already too late for the old eagle! for if it was discovered that he was in any way responsible for the death of his leader he would most certainly be cast out if not worse! But to betray Wyrma or her allies would be an even greater folly he had now witnessed how easily and deadly the old Wyrm could strike! As the figure walked on he followed, then when the camp was firmly out of sight he choose to speak.

“The wind whispers of ill tidings a great eagle has fallen and it’s clan stands leaderless!” He squeaked coming close to the Elders ear .

The figure stopped but did not turn, “The winds do indeed speak the truth, but not for long do the eagles remain flightless and without leadership!”

Flying around to come before the older man the bat let go of it’s current form to reveal the middle aged Wolf clan warrior. “Greetings to you Fador, wolf friend!” he said with the customary hand to forehead gesture of his clan his eyes firmly fixed on the older man revealing neither true hostility nor friendship, this man may have his uncles trust but he would reserve that judgement for himself.

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

Ealasaide's Post: Fador

A look of annoyance flitted across Fador's face as he raised his hand to his forehead, returning the greeting of the man of the Wolf Clan who suddenly appeared before him, casting off the shape of a bat. "Greetings, wolf," Fador said coolly, studying the man‘s face. He noticed the way the other man's eyes betrayed nothing, neither hostility nor friendship, nor even the respect due to an elder of any clan. What he saw was cool appraisal and icy reserve, as though the man were sizing him up. Judging him. Fador’s dark eyes narrowed. Arrogance.

“It is with surprise that I recognize you, Hasrim,” he said, recovering his composure. “I remember you from your uncle’s house. I hope that my friend, your uncle, is well. But what brings you here to the Eagles at such a time as this? I am not fool enough to think that is mere coincidence.”

A dry flicker of amusement showed behind Hasrim’s eyes for an instant before he answered. “You are very wise indeed,” he said, with the faintest hint of sarcasm touching his voice. “I came on the trail of the northerners, whom I believe you are harboring in your camp. In fact, I know you hold them there.”

“You followed them from Umbar?”

“I did.”

“Then I take it Wyrma has an interest in these men,” said Fador. The annoyance that had spiked up in his heart at the sight of Hasrim began to subside as an idea began to take shape in Fador’s mind. He had left the ceremony at Ayar’s bier in order to seize a few moments to himself, to try to clear his mind of clutter and address the many problems and issues that had confronted him since Ayar’s death. He had been angry when Hasrim had destroyed his solitude, but now Fador felt a new clarity, one that came with decision. If Wyrma wants these men...

One of the matters that had been troubling Fador most had been how to redeem his position in Wyrma’s eyes if it ever came to her attention the way he had nearly botched her assassin’s flawless work by setting fire to Ayar’s tent as the Eagle leader lay dying. If it had not been for that bit of foolishness, Ayar’s death might have been passed off as the result of illness or an unfortunate insect bite. The fire had raised suspicions and thrown the entire Eagle clan into a state of heightened awareness and anger. If only communications with Umbar had been more regular! He might have known that Ayar’s illness had been the work of an assassin and not interfered, but the information had come too late. And, even then, it had not come from Umbar. Perhaps now, the lack of communication with Umbar could work in his favor. Fador knew that he had made a horrible, horrible mistake in setting the fire, which he knew that Wyrma would not let pass unnoticed or unpunished. He also knew that if he wished to maintain favor with the great Wyrm, he would have to do something quickly to eclipse his mistake, something that ordinarily would have won him great favor. If word of his good deed arrived to Wyrma before, or even simultaneously, with word of his mistake, all would not be lost. In fact, Fador had a feeling that not only his ambitions, but his life depended on it.

“Yes, Wyrma does have an interest in these men,” Hasrim was saying. “A great interest. As you well know, her ambitions do not stop at the borders of Umbar.”

“Then tell her,” said Fador, giving the other man a calculated smile which did not reach his eyes. “I will make a gift of them. They will be in her hands before the rising of the new moon.

“I will send them to the walled city, accompanied only by a guide and a few handpicked men. My men will know what to do. If you wish to follow, as apparently are your instructions, I will send word as to the hour of their departure.”

Hasrim delivered a short, leisurely bow. “You are too kind. I shall send word to Wyrma of your gift at once that she may prepare a welcome for them. When do you plan to see them on their way?”

“Perhaps as early as tomorrow night. Or the morning following at the latest. I will see that you are alerted, if you will tell me how to contact you.”

Hasrim gave Fador a long, considering look, as though deciding whether or not this was some sort of treachery or a trap. Finally, coming to a decision, he nodded. “Come to this spot as the sun sets tomorrow. I will be waiting.”

Fador nodded. “It will be done.” He began to make his departure, but stopped as something else occurred to him. There had been other strangers in the Eagle camp in the past few days besides the Gondorians. Was Hasrim aware of them as well? Had he seen, for instance, the two strange maenwaith who had arrived as Ayar lay dying? He suspected them of removing the broken incense pot, which had later turned up in poor Narayad's pack, from the smoking ruin of Ayar's tent. In Fador's opinion, they had been the only ones who could have done such a thing. But how had they known to plant the pot with Narayad? Fador himself could not have chosen a better patsy. Coincidence, perhaps, but upon deeper reflection, it hinted to him of a deeper knowledge of the workings of the Eagle clan than Fador was comfortable with. Who had sent them? And why? Why, indeed... there was also the return of Sorona with all of her dark talk of dreams and visions, death and destruction, which had excited the council of elders so. Why had her arrival coincided so closely with the arrival of the others? Were they working together? Fador paused and looked back at Hasrim.

“There is one more thing I should mention," he said, as though on a casual afterthought. "One of our clan who had married into yours years ago before the Haradrim raids has returned from exile. She is trapped in the shape of an eagle, but seems to have only a sketchy memory of her past.” He paused, watching Hasrim for a reaction. “Her name is Sorona. She arrived as Ayar lay dying and has been filling the ears of whomever will listen with warnings of death to any who embrace the stone city. It seems she has had visions from the Dreamtime.” For the moment, he decided, he would keep the presence of the other two strange maenwaith to himself.

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

Nerindel's Post: Hasrim

Hasrim’s eyes studied the eagle elder with mild curiosity as the older man paused in his departure, hesitant as though something more had just come to mind. He waited patiently for Fador to speak, believing with smug satisfaction that he was about to tell him of the strange old man Korpúlfr had seen walking about the eagles camp, but what Fador revelled to him soon wiped that grin from his broad face as shock and utter disbelief filled his mind! Before even Fador had uttered the eagles name he knew of whom he spoke for there had only ever been one union that he knew of between their clans…But how could this be she perished with the others, Korpulfr saw her die…or did he? he thought as he struggled to understand how this could be so. Only once had Korpulfr spoke to him of his mothers death and all that he would say was that he had seen the Haradrim kill her!

“Are you certain that it is really her and not some impostor taking her name, an enemy perhaps wishing to exploit your clans tragic situation!” He asked regaining his composer.

“No I am certain it is her she may be trapped in avian form but her manner is unmistakably that of the daughter of Thoronda” Fador replied “That same annoying ability to hold others with her words !” he thought bitterly as he reassured him that it was indeed her.

Suspicion soon over took Hasrim’s initial surprise, Why here? Why now? And where had she been all these years? His eyes narrowed as he thought on these questions and more . “It is not entirely known to us what became of the Meanwaith that were taken by the Haradrim and until now it was widely believe that they had all perished.” he carefully informed Fador. “But it was rumoured that those captured had been taken not to the city of the corsairs but further north to the dark mountains!” Hasrim did not have to say any more for Fador to realise of the place he spoke and of the dark shadow that had once consumed that land.

“You do not think she is to be trusted?” Fador mused as he too contemplated the timing of her arrival.

“who can say?” Hasrim shrugged, “It maybe that she is indeed having visions from the dreamtime…. But who is to say that there is not some external factor at work, even if she was in the dark land and managed to survive, was it not the northerners and their allies who overthrew it’s dark master….” pausing for a moment he let these thoughts settle in the elders mind before continuing.

“I will inform Wyrma of the eagles return, but I suggest that until you hear otherwise you should keep a close eye on this eagle and discourage any idea’s that she may have about travelling to the city, her presence with all her talk of dreamtime could be unsettling for our allies as well as our enemies. It should be discredited were possible… perhaps finding out where she has been all these years may be of help!” he suggested slyly. “Tomorrow then” Fador grudgingly nodded before finally taking his leave.

Hasrim remained a moment longer the news of Sorona’s return was more troubling that he had let on to Fador, should Korpulfr so much as hear rumour that she was alive he would most certainly look for her, this he could not allow all her talk of danger and doom would ruin everything! No as far as Korpulfr was aware she was dead and that is how it would remain and if she tried to interfere he would just have to deal with her as he did his grandfather! With a last contemptuous look in the direction of the eagle camp he turned, assuming again the form of the small bat and started back towards his own camp to tell his cousin of his advantageous encounter.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

On the second day the dawn revealed a quiet encampment, the few animals still remaining in the care of the people overseen by handful of bleary-eyed shepherds. But the outriders and guards remained vigilant, keeping close watch on both boundaries and guests after the disappearance of the maenwaith Rôg. The fire that was maintained by the bier, burning so brightly as the Meldakhar’s body had been ceremonially brought out and placed beside it, burned much lower now, but it continued to send plumes of curling smoke upward, joining the sky with the earth, the slumbering life hidden in dead wood and brush escaping to gain the freedom of the air.

Narayad who had sat talking with Surinen throughout the night, watched in silence as the sun climbed into the sky over the tents behind Ayar’s high resting place, with westerly breeze pulling at the light veil covering the leader’s face, and carrying the smoke back toward the encampment. It was the first time he had experienced the death of a leader since living among the Eagles, and he was touched by what had witnessed. From the youngest to the oldest, the people of Narayad’s adopted clan had stayed awake long into the night, taking it in turns to encourage Ayar along her way with impromptu and heartfelt song, until their eyes grew too heavy and they slowly melted away in the night, or else slept where they lay.

But now the sunlight found the maenwaith back among the tents, worn from the outpouring of the night before. As the morning grew brighter, out of necessity the activity also increased, for though it was sorely incongruous to have the sorrow of Ayar’s departure so mingled with the preparation in anticipation of Narika and Thorn’s Union, there was much to do that could not wait until their grief waned.

By the late morning, the twice-burnt remnants of Ayar’s possessions were buried, so that she might not be tempted to linger, weighed down by them, but in the heart of the huddled dwellings, happier tasks were underway. Metal goods where brought out and polished, clothes and camel saddles mended, and the felted cloth of mixed wool, that had been so hurriedly made to replace the tent of the Meldakhar, now was rushed to completion for the new couple. And as the steady thump of turmeric being crushed for the marriage preparations, resounded though out the camp, old Dinsûl was to be found rummaging around among boxes and bins looking to find an old drum, hidden there. He had not been among those to play during the evening, feeling his hands no longer as nimble as in his youth, and indeed himself unworthy. But of the wedding revelry he would surely take part, rejoicing with Surinen at Thorn’s happiness, with no fear that his poor playing would be heard over those more dexterous than he.

*****

That afternoon as Dinsûl repaired the broken drum, Surinen tried to sleep in the shade of his father’s tent, after the end of his watch. But he heard the voice of a child speaking outside, and opening his eyes he saw through the opening young Miri sitting beside his father and pulling at the spiraling grey locks that rest on the back of old man’s neck as he sat bent over the drum. She was busily asking questions as he worked, questions about Ayar, and if the other maenwaith could see the smoke from the fire, and how far away they might be. “Hush little Miri!” Surinen growled from the tent. “Such a sweet voiced cricket you are. There are always maenwaith hidden in the desert, and it is said the owl clan is not far distant. But let me sleep in peace! Go and chirp else where, little one.” Reaching back, Dinsûl patted the air to signal his son to silence; and without looking unfastened the tent flap, letting it fall to, blocking Surinen’s view.

*****

At the Eagle’s outpost, where their sprawling herds ranged among sparse bush in the late afternoon sun, the animals grazed in peace. But as the herdsmen looked to the southeast, facing their backs to the way they had traveled their clan they saw a dark smudge growing larger on the horizon and grew concerned, discussing it among themselves.

*****

When at last Narayad returned from his place by the bier, and had a chance to speak alone with Latah, and on finding from his wife that the first mate of the Gondorian vessel had tried to make himself useful, he took a little more interest in the strangers. Perhaps a foreigner could also do what is right in his own heart, rather than what was expected of him, just as he himself had. And with Fador’s approval, he had arranged that Airefalas be allowed to join them at the fireside in the evening, so that he might find out more about this northerner, who shared his family’s tent. It was not told to either first mate or captain what they had planned.

As the sun slid into the west, Surinen showed up just as Latah finished her work. The outriders withdrew together into a corner of the tent, drinking their coffee while in deep conversation, while Latah attended to the guests. Surinen frowned, looking occasionally to where Airefalas and Mithadan sat, but after a time he smiled shaking his head and clapping the larger maenwaith on this back. Then together Latah, Narayad and Surinen approached the men, who stood up in response. Smiling politely, Latah said taking Airefalas hand, “Please follow,” and seeing that Mithadan was not willing to have him led away, Latah struggled to explain the invitation, the mariners struggled equally hard, to follow just what it was she said. But at a nod from his captain, the man allowed Narayad and his wife to quickly usher him out into the night air. And as Narayad had requested, Surinen stayed back a moment, trying to reassure the captain. “We will be returning this man. Do not worry he will be all right. I, Surinen, and will take very good care of him.” And bowing, he walked backward out of the door, speaking to the guard quickly before running to join the others, already well ahead.

The encampment had grown empty and still, as the eagles gathered slowly by the bier for this second night. The fire was now roaring again, as the people settled around it. Slowly, first one and then the other gave voice to traditional songs they had learned by rote, songs that told of their ancestors. Even the very young told of heroic deeds and tragic tales, recounting the history of their people, to uplift and encourage their clan. Shouts and cheering broke out as each one told of how time and again they had overcome adversity, and laughter too accompanied some tales as they remembered those who had outwitted their enemies. Though it all Surinen tried to translate as best he could so that Airefalas might know of the people that surrounded him. But he often became caught up in the stories, giving incomplete accounts, and their guest turned to Latah to try and find the ending. Narayad smiled his approval, seeing the evident interest this stranger had in their history, and through Surinen, he asked Airefalas of his own people, and of their struggles, nodding as the northerner spoke of the Great War in the northwest when men of different nations had fought along side each other, and how his own leader had been proclaimed king. Narayad explained that the preparation for that conflict also had been much felt in the desert.

As he sat with them, Dinsûl, on hearing Narayad’s remark, began his own song in a thin uneven voice. He sang of the leader Thoronda who had guided them during those times, before the mantle of leadership was passed to Ayar, and Narayad grew noticeably sullen, at the tale. As the old man mentioned again the wolf clan, the outrider asked that his friend not translate this story to the guest and stood up with an apology, saying that it was time to go, for the songs of history were nearing their end and, he had promised Fador, Airefalas should not stay once they were over. All eyes around the campfire turned to them as Narayad led the guest away. And seeing the outrider leave, Dinsûl also grew silent, wondering why Narayad would have gone so soon.

But out of the silence another melody arose as the eagle Sorona, raised her voice, to be the first to assure her cousin Ayar, that they would find their way without her presence, thus beginning the second portion of the ritual for that evening. And with that, the others too turned to singing their farewells to the leader, the elder’s making sure to mention their confidence in Ayar’s choice of Narika and Thorn, and the two of them in turn expressing their faith in the elders.

As the people began to feel the flow of the history that continued on though the Meldakhar had left them, they dispersed into the darkness much earlier than they had the night before.

[piosenniel]

Piosenniel

The ledge on which the little group sat faced west. It was shaded at this time of day, the sun’s light blocked by the foothills behind them. The heat reflected up from the rocky slope as it angled down to the valley was already growing increasingly uncomfortable. Gadi and Haleel both urged the Elf and her companions to make haste. ‘We must reach the valley floor and make for the cover of that small copse of trees there in the narrowing. Some source of water must be there, and there will be shade beneath the thick leaved branches.’

Ayka, too, urged the group to the shelter of the trees, saying she would seek the coolness of her own aerie in the higher reaches of the western range. With a mighty swish of her wings, she leapt into the air from the ledge, beating upwards and across the valley.

Pio glanced up often as they made their final descent to the valley floor, watching the speck grow smaller against the bright blue sky. And losing it altogether as she and her companions entered the dense shade beneath the trees. Baran, grown thirsty in the increasing heat of the day, picked up his pace and was soon motioning for the group to follow. His nose was raised in the heavy, unmoving air of this little forest. ‘Water!’ he rumbled in a deep voice, making his way through the underbrush . . .

~*~

Once the sun had dropped below the jagged rim of the mountains to the west, the companions ventured out from beneath the forest canopy. Their two guides held a whispered conference. And, after much shaking of heads between the two and the pointing of fingers one way and the other, a choice for ascent was reached.

‘This way Mistress,’ said Gadi, taking the lead toward a narrow, and seldom used, it would appear, track up the slope. ‘Watch your step; some of the path has crumbled away. You will need to be quick to jump or scramble across the gap.

Pio followed along behind Gadi, Baran’s footsteps close behind her own. She could not help but chuckle at his occasional commentary on their surroundings. ‘Goats!’ had been his latest word, spoken as Hamar muttered a few well chosen words at the pile of droppings he’d stepped in. ‘Made this track, I’d wager,’ the Skinchanger continued, pausing for a moment to turn and look at the man. ‘Left a calling card for you, I see,’ he went on, his lips twitching with a suppressed laugh. Hamar waved him on in an irritated manner.

Haleel brought up the rear of the single line. His eyes swept often from the track upwards to the clear sky. His lips moved soundlessly in an offering of thanks when his gaze did not encounter the approaching flight of any eagles.

~*~

The companions had nearly made it to the ridgeline that ran along summit of the mountain. The trees and brush had thinned out and there lay a narrow band of bare, rocky formations which signaled the top of their ascent. The climb had been long and slow as they picked their way across the now trackless face of the crest. From their vantage point they surveyed the western descent; it would be slow-going again as they picked their way down to the scrubby grassland abutting the mountains’ foot.

‘We can make camp for the night down here,’ Gadi said, pointing to a small, shallow natural bowl which dipped down from the eastern ridge. Its craggy side was higher on the eastern edge, he went on, and would protect them from the winds drawn in from the sea. Haleel had been busy along the way, gathering wood for the night’s fire. The companions settled in as best they could on the rough, pebbly ground, drawing their cloaks about them in an effort to ward off the cold. The two guides soon had a small cook fire going. Water was boiled for tea, as the cold rations were meted out for supper.

The moon shone bright over the little hollow as the companions settled in to talk for a while and then sleep. Hamar had elected to take the first watch. Pio, her mind too full of thoughts to sleep, had crept up beside him. ‘Once we are down ther,’ Hamar asked, nodding to the desert below, ‘how are we to find Captain Mithadan and Airefalas.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘It looks like a vast ocean itself, this land of sand. So easy for two men to be lost in.’ Pio hunched her shoulders, bringing her cloak more tightly about her. She rocked back and forth a bit on her haunches, her own eyes locked on the moonlit scene below. ‘Mithadan puts great store in the grace of the Valar,’ she murmured aloud, at a loss herself at how this task of finding the two men might be accomplished. ‘Perhaps he has made a plea to them and perhaps they will answer . . .’ Hamar eyed her for a moment then turned back to his own thoughts.

A great sound of wings rushing down through the air broke the quiet of the watch. They beat in a slow forceful way as two large birds descended, talons first to the rim of the hollow. One of them hopped down from the rocky outcropping it had landed on, and walked slowly, toward the two seated figures. Pio was about to stand, when the advancing bird called out to her. It was Ayka, they could now see. The eagle turned her head toward where Gadi lay rolled in his cloak, asleep and Pio went quickly to him, waking him as quietly as she could.

Ayka, too, had given thought to how two small creatures could be found. She had no desire to leave her mountains, she told them, but she had found a younger male, an adventurous sort, whose flights often took him a fair way inland as well as north and south along the foothills of this range. ‘He has agreed to be your eyes from the air,’ Ayka told them. ‘I can’t say whether he will see your mate and his companion, but perhaps he will lead you to someone who has knowledge of them. He has promised to stay with you until you dismiss him.’ Ayka clacked her beak and made a series of twittering noises. The male eagle hopped down from his perch and approached the three companions in a wary manner. He was very different from Ayka. His head, chest, and underbelly were white, his back and wing feathers a darkish grey. His legs were featherless, ending in large, sharp talons.

‘Azar,’ he rasped out to Gadi, giving the man his name. He made a small bobbing motion of his head toward Pio, which she took as a sign of greeting. And she, in turn, bowed toward him from her seated position. A short, sharp series of clacks and twitters ensued between the older eagle and the younger. ‘He will begin to tomorrow, as soon as you reach the flatlands,’ Ayka explained. ‘Look for him to fly ahead of you as he scouts the area to the north. I assume you are going north . . . toward the . . . city?’ the last word she spat out in an irritated manner. ‘He will not go into the city with you, should that be the course you choose. Too many men, no game to be hunted. He’ll land as needed to let you know of any thing of interest he has seen.’ Azar ruffled his wings and spoke once more to Ayka. ‘Should you need to speak with him,’ she went on, ‘wave your sword in the air. He will see it and come to you.’

Pio thanked the older eagle for her help, asking if there were anything she might do for her in return. ‘Send word to me,’ Ayka instructed her, ‘of what is happening beyond the mountains. Tell Azar all you see and hear. He will bring it back to me. Most important to me is any news of the clans . . . the Eagles in particular . . .’ The Elf agreed, saying she would ferret out what she could and send it back with the young eagle. ‘I wish you well, shining one,’ Ayka called out as she launched herself into the black night. ‘May the winds uphold you and you find your mate quickly.’ The two eagles flew off to their places of rest, leaving the companions to ponder what the new day would bring.

At long last, all of the little group settled in for what sleep they could. Except, that is, for Haleel, who lay whimpering quietly to himself beneath his cloak; the word ‘eagle’ escaping his trembling lips now and then . . .

[piosenniel]

Rôg . . . at home

Safe in the arms of my family . . . protected by my clan . . .

The thought slid through his mind again and again, yet it brought him no comfort. There at the cooking fire, their heads bent together, his sister and mother were just putting the final touches on the evening’s meal, laughing at some small joke that one had told the other. Their faces, shiny with sweat from the nearness of the cook-fire, looked up at him and smiled, drawing him into their little circle. A moment later and the circle enlarged. His father had quit his axe making for the day and come to their tent. In a familiar gesture from his youth, Abâr had ruffled his son’s hair as he passed him, calling out to his daughter Daira his timeworn jest. ‘Smells good today!’ he said grinning. ‘Not a trace of smoke and cinders!’

How often had this small ritual occurred, he wondered to himself, and how long would it be given the grace to continue?

His thoughts flew back to the Eagle encampment, to Ayar’s tent. The family and clan’s sorrow as their leader lay ill, dying. Their grief at her death. Aiwendil’s description of what was taking place among the maenwaith came back to him, as did the whispered fears of little Miri. How many others had been killed, would be killed, so that the Wyrm Clan’s schemes might go forward? And when would that Wyrm’s eyes widen their view, seeking the last remnants of resistance? Some of his clan might fall to the hired slayers before the alarm could be raised.

At his earlier meeting with his clan-leader he had broached the subject of what was happening in the north. Îbal had listened patiently, nodding as he took in the information. Silence followed the telling as the clan leader considered his reply. ‘I’m sorry it has come to this for our cousins,’ he began. ‘But the safety of our own clan comes first for me, as it should for you.’ Rôg opened his mouth to speak further, but Îbal cut him off with a gesture. ‘You have told me that the few of our clan you were able to seek out have been given the word to return to our homeland. Even now they will be traveling to the desert and steppes of the northeast with their families. The Old Ones will be there to welcome them, but we should soon hasten there ourselves. The Shadow has lifted. There is no longer need for us to hide here. We are Zadan n’Yo, The House of the Gift. That we are together and will soon be free to follow our own ways is enough.’ His clan leader had made his final judgment on the matter, and Rôg kept silent, though his thoughts protested what had been said. He had bowed, his expression neutral, and taken his leave.

~*~

Supper was done, the dishes and pots washed and stowed away until called into service again. Rôg hung the cloth he had used to dry them on one of the tent’s ropes and hunkered down beside his sister to enjoy a mug of tea. Daira poured one for herself and then for him. Knowing his sweet-tooth, she pushed the pot of honey near him. For a space of time, only the clink of his spoon against the sides of the mug filled the space between them. His sister spoke quietly, leaning her shoulder against his, asking what it was that troubled him.

Rôg watched the steam rise from his mug as he collected his thoughts. ‘I’ve only shared this with the clan leader,’ he began. Daira’s brow furrowed at this beginning, wondering what was so secret that he had not shared it with them first. ‘The clan in the north that I stayed with for a few days – great trouble is looming over them.’ Daira nodded slowly as if she understood. ‘Men!’ she spat out. ‘They are after them for something aren’t they?’ she asked, her brown eyes wide. ‘They should get far away from that mannish place. No good ever came from trying to fit in or treat with such creatures.’

‘It’s not Men they have to be afraid of, sister mine. It is the others of their own kind, our kind, who hunt them down and seek to kill them.’ Daira’s brow puckered further and she shook her head violently. ‘It’s true. I have seen it with my own eyes and heard it from their lips,’ he went on, sitting his untouched mug down by his knee.

Daira listened as he told the story of the clan leader and the suspicions of who had poisoned her. He spoke of the things Aiwendil and the Eagle clansmen had told him of the Wyrms and their plans for a city; how many of their cousins in the north believed it better to comply rather than be killed.

‘Killed?’ Daira’s face had paled at his words; she could barely comprehend what he spoke of.

‘Many believe she will hunt with a vengeance those who resist, and eliminate them all. She is a greedy one, or so I’ve come to think of her from what I’ve heard.’ He raised his head and looked about at the families gathered round their little fires. ‘Who can say when she will turn her cold eyes toward our little clan, and pursue us.’ Daira shivered and drew up against him, laying her cheek against his.

‘The Old Ones should hear of this. You must go to them for counsel.’ Rôg nodded his head, saying that once the clan had returned to its home, he would seek them out. His sister, in turn, shook her head ‘no’ at this.

‘No. Much as I want you to stay with us, I think you should go sooner than that. Tonight, in fact. Take advantage of the cover of darkness.’ ‘I’ll tell some story to mother and father . . .’ she said, already considering how she might put it to them that Rôg would be gone for a few days . . .

[Nerindel]

Halfr- slipping from reality!

Walking briskly along the streets of the new city, past a myriad of half built buildings and billowing canvas tents Halfr shook his head. The work was progressing far too slowly they needed more workers already he had been forced to dispatch a whole unit of his guards to aid in the construction of Wyrma’s main headquarters. hmm palace more like he thought with another shake of his head. He pictured the ambitious woman’s reaction when her son informed her of the slow progress, with still no word of Tinar and the northerners that escaped Umbar her patience was growing thin. He too was anxious for news of his own son and the others that travelled with him, more than a week had passed and still there was no word from any of them, he considered more than once dispatching a party to look for them but the city was at a tenuous stage and every warrior was needed to insure it survived its infancy undiscovered.

As he reached the steps to Wyrma’s temporary headquarters he had again assured himself the that blood of the wolf clan was strong among them, both Korpulfr and Hasrim were able warriors and could look after themselves, even young Tinar had proven himself more than once to be quite capable with a sword if need be. A look of self satisfaction curled his lips as he walked down the long corridor to the temporary counsel chambers in Wyrma’s quarters, he had trained them all well and they would return when they had something to return with!

Pushing open the doors to the counsel chambers he confidently stepped inside. The room was almost circular in shape with a wide dais to the far side of the room upon which Wyrma sat with her husband to the left of her and her sons either side, around the room sat the leaders of each clan and those chosen by Wyrma to make up her personal counsel, to which he was part and now walked up to take his place among them. Once he was seated Wyrma rose to call the counsel to attention, he listened idly as the various leaders and counsel members made their reports to their leader. A goblet of dark red wine was poured for him and he rolled the goblet in his hands as idly as he listened, sipping slowly at the spicy fruity red until Wyrma addressed him directly.

“Halfr! What news do your scouts report?”

carefully setting down the goblet he rose to his feet, clearing his throat before he began. “Scouts have reported increased activity coming to and from the corsairs city, as expected after the northerners destruction of the docks” he began stolidly. “Our people within the city have also reported increased security at both the docks and around the city in general, It looks like Lord Falasmir maybe expecting hostility from the north!” he finished with a grin of irony.

“Yes and the traders in the city have also informed us of an increase in taxes to cover the expenses of repairs to the docks and there is rumour also that he plans to use the peoples taxes to fund the building of several new ships and the training of more soldiers to his army!” Wyrma’s eldest son Walat put in raising to his feet. Wyrma nodded but did not look at her son she still held her powerful gaze locked with him and he knew what answers she would be looking for next.

“No word has yet been heard of your son and his companions, but I assure you he is in the best of company, I have no doubt that they are only being over thorough in their task and will return soon with news of the northerners,” he answered confidently saving the astute leader from having to ask. She nodded and as he took his seat she moved on to the next issue, the meeting went on for several hours with the wyrm leaders patience growing increasingly thin as expected. Halfr’s goblet was filled twice more before he suddenly began to feel drowsy, he shook his head trying to clear his thoughts as images from his past flashed before his eyes, horrific scenes of battle and death, the mutilated bodies of women and young children decaying in the desert sands. He closed his eyes tight to block out the harrowing memories, but a firm hand on his shoulder made him jump and as he opened his eyes he realise the meeting had finished and everyone had already left.

“Is something wrong ?” Wyrma asked, but Halfr heard not the gravely voice of the Wyrm leader instead he heard a soft warm voice that he had not heard in such a long time, slowly raising his head he looked into the eyes of his leader, but again he saw not the aged face of Wyrma, but the youthful and gentle smile of his eagle wife. Slowly he reached out a hand to touch her face but stopped, firmly shaking his head and struggling to his feet knocking over the goblet of red wine, not noticing the powdery substance that laced the bottom.

“This is not real!” he muttered raising his hand to his forehead, “It’s just the illness, not real, she’s dead the Haradrim killed her!” he went on stumbling to get away from the image he believed was just in his head, seeing the door he turn desperate to get to his room and take the medication Asrim had assured him would stave this madness.

“I’m not dead my love I am here!” the voice called gently after him. He paused for a moment wanting it to be true, “No you died!” he said firmly shaking his head to stave of the madness threatening to consume him.

“Did you find my body my love? I am alive and I miss you so!” the soft voice replied as he again made for the door. He paused again, No they never did find her body, oh spirits preserve could it really be true? he could feel the warmth of her breath on his neck as she came up behind him slowly turning he finally gave into his madness and dropped to his knees sobbing, “I tried to find you…but Korpulfr and the others I had to keep them s….”

“Shh It’s alright, everything will be alright now, we will keep them all safe!” the voice whispered softly as he felt gentle arms wrap around him.

On a small ledge below the high windows of the counsel room a horrified weaver spider sat watching events unfolding below. The Raakaharn, the strong and stolid leader of the wolf clan reduced to that of a sniffling child before the great Wyrm, sudden terror wrecked the small weaver and it scuttled quickly through a small crack in the woodwork, then once outside it leaped into the air changing into the form of a red kite and hurried as fast as his wings could carry him towards Umbar and his brother to tell him what he had just witnessed.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Wyrma felt a rush of elation. Though she had hoped to gain some advantage by using the drug that countered Hasrim’s medication, she had not thought that it would work so quickly. How fortunate that his madness caused him to see his deceased wife in her, and that at a time when they were alone together! Her thoughts worked feverishly to find a message that she could implant in his crazed mind before she sent him back to his quarters. She must not go too far, or he would break down completely.

“You must help me to fulfil my dream, my dear spouse,” she said softly. “Bring all the Maenwaith together and protect them. Those who resist do not know of their danger and must be made to come against their will, of need be. Hurry, for there may be another attack sooner than you think. But now you need rest – come to your rooms with me.”

He allowed himself to be led by her to a guest room; she called one of his men to bring his personal servant to care for him, then turned and walked briskly to her own room. As so often when she thought and made plans, she paced the floor restlessly. Flying away as she longed to do was out of the question at the moment. She had to make use of Halfr’s situation while he was susceptible to her influence. Yet she no longer wished to wait for messages from scouts as to the whereabouts of her youngest son. Decisively, she rang the bell on her desk and informed Elsta that she wished to see Kumat immediately.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

Tinar gazed at the southern horizon; he had stopped counting the times he had looked, hoping to see some movement that would signal a change. But both sky and desert remained empty, and he sighed impatiently. How long would they sit on this tiny island of dusty green inmidst the barren brown wasteland? He no longer asked Kor and Hasrim for explanations; he could tell that they knew more than they were willing to tell him.

One of them was with him constantly; when he asked if he could not fly to the Eagle encampment with them, thy had curtly replied that it was much too dangerous. “But can we not then ride back north to our home?” he had pleaded. He had hoped for adventure, but there was little to be had here, at least for him, and anything seemed better than just sitting and waiting.

“Not yet,” Kor had answered, looking at him sharply, then admonishing, “and don’t even think of flying away by yourself again. Have you any idea what your mother would do to us if we let you come to harm?”

Crestfallen, he nodded submissively. He had heard enough whisperings to know that Wyrma was merciless with those who made mistakes. As her youngest, he was treated with a little more leniency than others, but he did not wish to test her patience, whether for himself or for his friends.

And so he waited, pacing the oasis to pass the hours and to keep his body strong and supple. He no longer needed to heed his surroundings; by now he knew every stone, every half-parched blade of wild grass, and the exact position of the shade of each scraggly tree at every time of the day. For much of the time, he was lost in thought, reflecting on the happenings of the past weeks and months. He pondered the irreconcilable positions of his mother’s politics and the rebellious actions of tribes like the Eagles. He remembered how cooped up he had felt in the Umbarian city and the exhilaration of flying free over the desert. He recalled the open, friendly faces of the Northerners, comparing them to the closed, wary expressions of many of his own people. With a new-found feeling of responsibility, he wondered what he would do if he were to lead them.

Finally another long day was over; the darkness fell, and though they sat at the fire for awhile, there was little talk. It seemed they had exhausted their store of conversation, and they did not care to talk only for the sake of hearing their own voices. Tinar was thankful for the weariness that soon enabled him to fall into the deep sleep of youth.

[piosenniel]

Rôg . . . in the place where the Elders live

That night and all the following day found him far to the east, over the sea, following the coastline in the distance. North he flew, above the scudding clouds when he could, avoiding the eyes of men. Only one small boy, out fishing in the early light of day with his grandfather in their longboat, spied him as he passed. Rôg could see the child’s wide-opened eyes and the grin of surprise when he dipped his head to him as he slipped into the cover of a cloud bank.

The range of tall, jagged peaks to the west signaled he had reached his destination, and with a glad heart he turned toward them. Beyond them, he knew, would lay the older range, now standing here and there like broken rows of ragged teeth. Red in color, their slopes caught the westering sun and flamed up for a brief space of time each day with its living light. Great cliffs honeycombed with caves stood high above the stretches of sandy dunes; themselves giving way to the broad stony plains that ran between the arms of the rocky mountains and the foothills. He circled once taking it in . . . the scatterings of low-growing grasses – needlegrass and bridlegrass, thick about the rims of the salty ponds. The randomly strewn scrubby brush in shades of greys – sages and saltworts. Here and there he could see where the prankish winds picked up the sandy dust of the plains and set it dancing in little whirling cones.

Save for its dryness it was vastly different from the southern deserts. Stories passed down through the years spoke of it as once being an inland sea. Then changes had come, the lands broke and shifted; the waters of the sea had dried up. Life had adapted to the foods available and the sparse sources of moisture – small springs in the lower regions of the craggy mountains, snow in the higher elevations during the winter season . . . buzzards and eagles and smaller birds; fox, desert-bear, snow leopards, and lynx; red deer and mountain sheep; wild donkeys, wild horses. And even small things prospered in their own way . . . lizards, and desert mice, and butterflies.

Rôg dropped down in a lazy, tightening circle to a place he recalled from his younger years. A small gravelly pond still gathered beneath a rocky ledge, fed by a trickling freshet from the mountains. He could refresh himself, then set off to find the Elders. Or just let them find me . . . he thought to himself as his feet touched the ground. ‘They’ve probably already seen me, anyway,’ he chuckled to himself, his eyes sweeping the darkened openings to the caves that riddled the cliffs . . .

[Ealasaide]

Hilde Bracegirdle's Post - Latah & Narayad

As they walked together through the encampment, Latah tried once more to learn of her husband’s errand. He had proven reticent to discuss Thorn’s directive with her, though she looked carefully for a chink in the barrier between them. But as he prepared to leave, Narayad had grown suddenly wistful and she hoped he might share at least how far he might be traveling. “Will you not tell me anything of your journey, so that I might ask the Father of the Wind for your protection,” she pleaded, as they threaded their way through the many tents.

“Do not bother yourself unnecessarily over me, for trouble seems to haunt this camp of late, and that I take as a good omen that I will return to you also,” he said with grim smile. “But I will enter this camp again only when I know that you will no longer suffer by calling me your husband.”

Latah’s gaze dropped, her eyes fixed on the metal disk with its black cord that now adorned her husband’s neck. Thorn’s, she recalled briefly. She found her heart filled suddenly with dread. Why would Thorn choose to give him such a thing? Although Latah had hoped that her husband might speak openly to her, now that he hinted at what he intended, she began to feel a greater distance from him. She felt she had failed him, and it was a familiar track she did not wish to follow. “Do no speak so,” she said.

“It was a mistake,” Narayad continued, as they walked together, “to be tempted by your father’s offer, to hope that through marriage I might find a place in your heart and acceptance in the clan. I see now, the vision that had given me great happiness has brought only hurt to you.” He stopped as the sentiments that had until now been left unspoken were now brought to the surface. Responding, Latah too became still for a moment as he spoke on. She did not want to hear what was coming; she did not want to admit the defeat she felt too near her. “Foolishly, I had not considered that I might jeopardize your standing in the eyes of the people. What has it availed us? I am accepted less now, than when I first arrived.”

“I knew what it was my father asked of me, Narayad, when he urged me to accept you. And you have given me no cause to regret his decision. I have only wanted the best for you, to help you. Nothing has changed.” Latah took his arm gently and began walking again, refusing to ponder her own heart. “Things are difficult now, that is all. But perhaps Thorn is right, it might be good to forget the rumors that surround you here, but only until this upheaval has passed. But where should you go? Do you have some place that you know of?”

The outrider hesitated. “Thorn had mentioned the wolf clan…” he began. Latah stopped short at Narayad’s whisper, Fador’s dwelling now looming before them.

“The wolf clan!” Latah repeated in disbelief. “Thorn suggested that? He knows you well enough to know you would never return there.” Her brow furrowed as she tried to understand. “Surely, you are not thinking of it! If your detractors were to hear of it…” she shook her head. “I do not believe you would do such a thing, no matter what happens or who suggests it.” Latah reached out to touch Thorn’s necklace with the tips of her fingers. “Would Thorn really give you such a token only to send you back to your people, as though you have won the favor among the Eagles?”

“I have won some friends here if not the favor of the clan.” Narayad said, gravely. “Can you not see? Who would not wish to be among the people that have known him since childhood? Those who might accept him yet if he were to return in humility? Who would not desire to return to where he had once known affection?” Latah lowered her head at this. “It is convincing, is it not?” he continued in a lighter tone, seeing that he had struck a chord in her. “Something that might be believed by those who have not taken the time learn anymore of wolves, but would cut them off without a thought! Thorn knows that the people might whisper among themselves that this is where I have gone.”

As she lifted her face again Narayad saw that Latah’s soft cheek glistened with a trailing tear. “I have tried to help you…” she said.

“Shhh,” Narayad silenced her gently. He looked now away from his wife and toward the west. “Do not finish. Know that I hold you to be my truest friend and it is I who am sorry. You are right, I cannot go back, and desire only to show my faithfulness to the eagles. I go prompted by my heart to seek proof that Wyrma has ordered the destruction of Ayar, for I think it would do much good to expose what creature she has chosen to become, not only for the sake of the eagle clan, but the wolf clan also. Then maybe this rift between the two might finally be overcome.”

“Then you might travel to Umbar?” She guessed. “Might I not also go with you?” she asked her eyes filled with a little hope. “I would also look for peace between the our clans, and may be of some aid to you.”

“No,” Narayad replied quickly. “It is best that you remain safely here with your father.” And reaching into his pocket he brought out the blue bracelet. “Perhaps you would accept this, a small gift, that you might see it and remember me.”

“You keep it husband,” she said closing his fingers around it. “Keep it to remember me by and in hope that soon reunited, you might place it on my hand. Do not be long away.”

Narayad shook his head sadly at her remark. “I will keep it then if it is your will,” he said sliding it back into his pocket. And with that he departed from her.


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

Ealasaide's Post - Airefalas

As the third day of imprisonment in the Eagle encampment dragged on, Airefalas again found the hours weighing heavily on him. The outing to the fallen Eagle leader's bier the evening before in the company of Surinen, Narayad, and Latah had been a welcome break in the monotony. In fact, for a funeral, it had been almost fun. Now, back in the stuffy tent, he found himself searching for ways to occupy his time. His sword and dagger had been honed to a razor's edge, almost sharper than he preferred to keep them, and the blades oiled. Out of boredom, he had also combed out his curly brown hair that he had been wearing in a tail at the back of his neck and plaited it into the long queue down his back that was traditional among sailors. It was on the second attempt that he finally decided the braid was smooth enough and straight. Binding the end of it securely with a piece of cord, he cast his gaze around the tent in search of something else to do. With Mithadan either lost in his own thoughts or dozing - he had been so quiet for so long it was hard to tell which - Airefalas turned his attention to his pack, which had already been packed and re-packed several times over.

"I suppose I could do some mending," he sighed. Reaching into the bottom of his neatly organized belongings, Airefalas extracted the shirt that Ráma had shredded when she had changed into the cat back in Umbar. Laying it out on the low table in the center of the tent, he smoothed the fabric with his hands and surveyed the damage. There were several long tears in the cloth, as well as a few scattered drops of dried blood where Ráma-kitty's claws had raked his chest. "Hmm... not a total loss," he added aloud.

He was just pulling the edges of the longest tear together when Latah's voice was heard conversing with the guards outside. He turned as she entered and the two of them exchanged a friendly greeting. Following her usual routine, the young maenwaith woman then began a general tidying up, even though the tent was in near perfect order already. Airefalas returned to his shirt. Having folded the edges of the first tear into an even and narrow seam, he flattened it with his thumbnail, then repeated the process on the second tear. It was only when he was ready to begin sewing that he groaned and shook his head, realizing suddenly that he had no needle or thread. It was all back on the ship. Suddenly, he felt a soft touch on his arm and something pressed gently into his hand.

Turning, he found Latah standing at his elbow. She smiled. "You can use and give back."

Looking down, he saw that the item she had given him was a small roll of leather, tied with a thong. As he opened it, a slow grin spread across his face. She was lending him her sewing kit.

"Thank you," he said warmly, scarcely concealing his surprise at the way she had known so quickly what he needed and been able to supply it.

"You can use and give back," she repeated pleasantly, smiling as he chose a needle and threaded it with an arm's length of thread. She stayed to watch as he began to close the seam he had prepared with a series of tiny, precise stitches. "You do this very well," she added suddenly.

Airefalas smiled at her, strangely pleased that she approved. "Well," he answered, pausing with his needle halfway through the cloth. "When you have been at sea as long as I have, you get a lot of practice. I must have sewn miles of sails over the years."

At her blank look, he continued. "Sails... you know... to catch the wind. Every once in a while one gets carried away by the wind or a storm and we have to make new ones."

Latah looked at him suspiciously. "No one can catch wind," she said softly.

It was Airefalas' turn to give her a blank look, then he laughed. "No, I don't mean we capture the wind. It's more like we harness the wind's strength. The wind in the sails makes the ship go." He paused again as another idea occurred to him. "Have you never seen a sailing ship, Latah?"

When she shook her head no, he put his torn shirt aside and took her by the hand, leading her just outside the tent to a level patch of ground. Kneeling down with their heads together like two children, Latah watched as Airefalas smoothed the top layer of sand away with his hand. Then, he drew into the dirt a remarkable likeness of the Lonely Star, explaining as he went what each part of the vessel was called and what it was used for, paying especially close attention to the sails and rigging. It was only as he launched into an enthusiastic explanation of tacking and wearing that he happened to glance up at her only to find her watching his face, rather than his drawing, with an amused look in her dark brown eyes. Embarassed, he sat back on his heels. "What?"

"You miss your ships? You miss the sea?" she asked.

Airefalas gave his drawing a long, contemplative stare, then nodded. "It's what I know."

Nodding that she understood, Latah reached out and drew a tiny fish in one corner of the space next to the hull of the ship. "I like to see someday the sea," she said softly. Catching his eyes one last time, she rose to her feet. "Maybe someday I go with my husband."

Airefalas rose beside her. "Yes, maybe."

"Someday you bring your wife to the desert?"

Caught offguard, Airefalas gave a short bark of laughter. The image of Isabel, with her blonde hair and fair skin, wilting under the beating sunshine in her silk dress without the benefit of a fan or a sunshade, her thin slippers scorching in the sand, arose sharply in his mind. "No!" he said quickly. "No, I, um... " he trailed off helplessly, trying to imagine how he could possibly explain someone like Isabel to Latah. Finally, he shook his head.

"I'm not married."

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Latah

Wondering what Airefalas’ reaction might mean, Latah thought fleetingly that perhaps these men who would live on the surface of the sea were not permitted to take a wife. She thought sadly that such a life would be a cheerless one. Going up to him she touched his arm lightly, “I am sorry,” she said with a sincere expression, “I say something wrong.”

“No, you spoke perfectly well,” the sailor assured her, and turning away from her, he stooped down quickly wiping away the image he had drawn in the dust. “The question was unexpected, that is all.”

Hearing a light whistle behind her, Latah looked over her shoulder to the guard who stood watching them. The large maenwaith nodded in the direction of a small boy slowly crossing the encampment. As she watched the boy stopped, pausing to talk to an old woman several tents away, before disappearing into her tent.

Latah twisted the long wavy hair that had crept forward over her shoulder into a knot at her neck, looking at her guest just as he rose to his feet. He stood brushing the dust off his hands. She needed to get back inside to get things ready. “The sun is hot,” she said. “We go inside.”

As the foreigner moved Latah noticed that though the sketch of the sailing ship had now vanished, Airefalas had left the fish untouched. It looked quite stranded and out of place in the dirt. “Ah, but this must go too!” And lifting the hem of her skirt slightly she swept the image away with a warm hued foot. “Fish do not like desert, not happy here,” she explained with a smile, as she walked back to the tent.

Once inside, her guest picked up the shirt that lay half mended on the cushion, and sitting down he returned to work on it. Latah withdrew to a dark corner, where she had kept the what she had used in the service of Ayar. Soon, the boy who had come earlier looking for her, would be asking for the rest of these things. Latah had avoided thinking about this moment until now. She had not wholly given up hope that she would return to her work. But the hollow feeling weighed on her as she looked about her. The tray that had once held the rows of incense pots in ready, now stood empty. It looked battered and worn, for the carefully polished pots had been quickly removed from her care after the fire. With a sigh Latah began heaping the tray with pungent bags and small wooden boxes she kept stored in a metal casket. Carrying the tray over to the door she set it down and went to bring also the gunny bag of charcoal used to burn the incense.

As she reached the door, she heard a gruff command as the guard pulled back the tent’s opening further and a small silhouette appeared in the doorway. “Latah?” a thin and airy voice called.

“I am here,” she replied softly, and then pointing to the motionless form of the sea captain, she brought her index finger to her lips. “We must be quiet.”

“But I have been told to collect the incense things from you,” the young eagle said in a loud whisper.

“I think that maybe it was your older brother that was asked, and he convinced you to run this errand! For I was expecting him.” The young boy hung his head shyly. “Never mind. But see, it is heavy,” Latah warned, picking up the tray to show him. The child looked uncomfortably at it. “I will help you,” she said smiling. And resting the tray on her hip, she chose a small bundle, giving it to him. “Here, you can carry this one for me.” With a look of relief the boy took the bag of incense, and held it to his nose, breathing deeply.

Reaching for the charcoal, Latah grabbed the sack just above the twine that held it closed, and worked to straighten herself. From the corner of her eye, she saw that Airefalas who watched them sprang to his feet. Offering his help he reached down and relieved her of the burden. Happy to be unencumbered, Latah nodded her thanks, but the boy looked warily at the stranger, as if weighing whether or not he might be eaten. Truly the boy looked a mere slip next to the Gondorian. And as the northerner easily swung the bag onto his shoulder, Latah noticed again how tall he was; much more imposing than any of the few outsiders that she had met. And though he towered over them, as had most of the visitors the camp had received of late, she thought him not unkind and strangely solitary.

Suddenly her brown eyes went wide as it dawned on her what he carried. “No!” she cried. “This thing is very dirty! It will make white shirt black!”

Airefalas simply shook his head, “I suppose it is too late now. But what is in here that is so dirty?” Latah glanced about, her brow furrowing as she searched the tent for words. “Hmm, wood coal?” she said at last. “It helps to burn incense.” She held up the tray. “See. Some good for sickness, some for thinking, but all have nice smell. Leaves, wood, roots, they all smelling very nice,” she said pleased to discuss this subject. “We must go now, wood coal is too heavy. But wait, first this,” Latah set down the tray and crossed the room.

When she returned, she was carrying a strip of heavy cloth. “Let me put here,” she said pointing to his shoulder that still held the charcoal. Airefalas obliged, lowering the bag. As he leaned forward Latah saw that only a dusting of gray was on the shirt. Attempting to brush it off she gave up, laying the cloth in place. “Shirt looks only little gray,” she said. “I think it alright.”

She could see that he seemed amused rather than angry. “I hope so, for as you have seen, my spare shirt is worse shape!” He returned the sack to its high perch. “But tell me, where are we taking this wood coal?”

“We must follow, the young eagle,” Latah replied, and turning back to the boy she told him that they were ready. The guard scowled at Latah as she announced in passing that they would return shortly, and struck off across the encampment.

They did not have to go far, only the short distance to the tent of Ayar’s serving woman Claris. As soon as the gray-haired woman came outside the tent to greet them, the boy thrust the bag of incense into her hands and ran off quickly, considering his job finished. Claris smiled warmly as he disappeared. Turning her attention to the remaining visitors, she offered to take the tray that Latah held. “I am very sorry to trouble you Latah, but I must get things ready for later.”

“I understand, do not worry,” Latah said, as she took the gunny bag from Airefalas. “Where shall this go?”

“You can set it just there, inside the door,” Claris said absently as she looked over the contents of the tray. Latah followed her directive setting the bag on a frayed mat inside. Emerging again she noticed that Airefalas was looking about the encampment as he waited. She wondered what his eyes might see when he looked at her people and their simple encampment. “Where are the tools to repair the pots?” Claris suddenly asked, breaking into her thoughts.

“I do not know.” Latah admitted, growing embarrassed, for it looked again as though she had been careless with something entrusted to her. She found herself wishing that she had not brought Airefalas along. “I have not seen them. I thought that when the burners were taken, that the tools were taken with them.”

“No, no child. They were not. And now I have a pot in need of repair with no way to fix it,” Claris sighed. “Ah well.”

“I will search again,” Latah quickly promised wishing she had more hope of finding them. She had already hunted for them several times. Just as the older woman was entering her tent, Latah suddenly remembered Ráma’s knife and called to her again. Claris wheeled around to face her. Looking furtively to see if Airefalas might be watching, Latah withdrew Ráma’s knife and handed it to her. Without offering any explanation on how it had come to be in her possession she simply said. “Please see that this is returned to Ráma.”

“Certainly,” Claris said.

Latah forced a smile before turning to back Airefalas, but her thoughts were far away. She started toward the tent in silence. It wasn’t long before the northerner asked her if anything was amiss. “Too many things gone bad!” she said looking up into his eyes. “But I can not say I have angered Lord Falasmir by burning docks and ships,” she added with a weak smile before “I have only burnt leader’s tent,” her voice serious as she bent her head in shame trailing off to speak in her own tongue. “But I am always careful! I do not know how this could happen.”

Airefalas strode along beside her for a moment, and Latah could sense that he was weighing which course this conversation might take. “Why would you set fire to your leader’s tent?” he asked at last. “From what I have seen, it appears that your leader was well loved by all.”

“How well you have learned of the eagle’s affection for their leader in so short a time.” Latah continued in her dialect. Then switching to her poor Westron she answered him. “You are right. But I did not do this, incense did.” She looked ahead as she walked. “Yalisha said to me when the Meldakhar was sick ‘Latah, tomorrow we use this incense. Maybe it will help Ayar.”

“the Meldakhar?”

“Yes, the ‘dear lady’. This is what we call Ayar. She is very good woman, good leader. But after Yalisha tells me this, I go home with used pots. I clean and fill them; first I put sand, then wood coal, then incense. Last goes grate. All ready for next day. This fire had no reason to happen. But pot fell and embers came out. And now …” Latah looked quickly at the northerner, “Now Narayad is leaving because so many are giving him dark looks, thinking he did this.” She shook her head. “And now Narayad’s wife has even lost tools to mend pots!”

“Narayad, is leaving?” Airefalas echoed. “What do they think he did?” The foreigner seemed not to follow her and Latah thought that perhaps she had said too much, and badly as well, though she felt a little better for it. “But I thought the Meldakhar did not die in the fire,” her guest said after a moment.

“No, poor Ayar! She was so very, very sick. And now she is gone, Narayad is leaving. The wind blow him away too.” Latah looked towards the mountains. “But maybe he learns to harness wind too, then wind bring him safely home!”

“But I don’t see, how the fire and the Meldakhar’s death should drive him away from the encampment.” Airefalas said cautiously. “Why is it people think he was even involved? Was he involved?”

“Because,” Latah said matter-of-factly, “because he is maenwaith, but not eagle. He is outsider. He is wolf. People here not trust wolf clan. Maybe the ancestors are unhappy and do not protect us since he is here. This is why. Narayad wants good for eagles, so he goes now. But he will return. He said he would return.”

[Ealasaide]

Airefalas

Airefalas listened closely to Latah's words. Her Westron, which had started out rather shaky, seemed to be getting stronger the more they spoke. She now expressed herself quite well, without the long pauses or searches for words that had initially peppered their conversations. Thinking over the events that had occurred in the Eagle camp since the time of his and Mithadan's arrival just following the fire, Airefalas realized that Latah's explanations had clarified a great deal for him. For one thing, he had noticed the difference in the way people had responded to Narayad as opposed to Surinen on the evening Airefalas had gone with Latah and the two outriders to the ceremony at the fallen leader's bier. He had noticed a reserve amongst the tribesmen where Narayad and, to a lesser degree, Latah, were concerned. At the time, he had mentally chalked it up to his own presence, but in retrospect, he could see that the unease ran deeper than that. Having also heard from Ráma and others that there was a long-standing rift of some kind between the Eagles and the Wolves, he could see why suspicion might fall on Narayad. Based on his own judgement of character and the outrider's seemingly guileless nature, however, he guessed that Narayad was probably not involved in anything underhanded where the Meldakhar, as Latah had called her, was concerned.

And how would you know that? he chided himself mentally. You scarcely know the man. Aloud, he said to Latah, "He will come back. I'm sure he would not leave you for long if he could avoid it."

Latah gave him a thoughtful look, then shook her head. "Perhaps not," she said softly. She turned her face away, but Airefalas caught a trace of deep sadness in her expression. She must love him very much, he thought to himself, to be so sad at his leaving. He wondered why she did not accompany her husband into exile, but did not ask. If she wished to tell him her reasons, she would do so on her own. Unconsciously, his thoughts shifted toward Isabel and of how he would not have even offered for her to accompany him on one of his voyages. She was such an indoor sort of girl and frightened of boats. She would never have considered sailing with him, even if the mission had not been a dangerous one, even if he had asked her to come. Nonetheless, he wondered if she felt the same sadness at his absense that showed plainly in Latah's expressive face when she spoke of her husband's departure. It must be nice, he thought, to be so loved.

"Ah, that we may all look back in our dotage and say to ourselves, I, too, was once adored," he mused. Latah stopped walking and eyed him curiously.

"What is dotage?" she asked.

"Old age," he answered. Then he smiled. "Please don't mind my rambling. It's just something I overheard once. I meant nothing by it."

"I see." Latah nodded gravely. "It is nice thought," she added after a moment, with an almost wistful look in her eyes. Then, saying no more, she turned and began to walk again in the direction of her father's tent. As Airefalas fell into step beside her, a companionable silence overtook them. Airefalas found himself pondering the things Latah had said about herself, her husband, and the fire in the Meldakhar's tent. It did sound like someone had committed a sabotage on one of her incense pots, thus setting the fire, but who? The idea that Wyrma might have agents hidden amongst the Eagles had obviously already occurred to others in the camp, hence all the tension and suspicion. He was grateful that he and Mithadan had not arrived earlier. By pure luck of timing, the two Gondorians had been left beyond suspicion. Nonetheless, he resolved to mention what he had learned to his captain at the first opportunity. It might serve them well to keep their eyes open and their minds alert to any hint of treachery.

Upon their arrival back at Fador's tent, Latah took her leave, sending Airefalas into the tent alone. He found Mithadan not only awake, but standing near the center of the large tent beside a maenwaith elder that Airefalas had not seen before. The man was tall for a tribesman and rather thick through the middle with gray-streaked black hair and a neatly trimmed black beard. He was dressed rather conservatively in the robes of a maenwaith elder, but the hilt of the dagger sheathed at his belt shimmered with inlays of gold and lapis lazuli, hinting that this was a man of power and relative wealth. The man looked toward Airefalas with brown eyes that were both bright and shrewd.

"There you are, " said Mithadan to Airefalas as though he had been expecting him. Turning back toward the waiting tribesman, Mithadan said, "Allow me to present Airefalas of Gondor, first mate of the Lonely Star."

The tribesman made a shallow bow, which Airefalas returned.

"I am Fador, humble elder of the Eagle clan," said the tribesman. "It has been my honor to offer you the hospitality of my tent. As I was telling your captain, I can only apologize for my delay in making your acquaintance, but my absence was unavoidable. I hope that you have been comfortable."


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

Fador

Leaving Hasrim behind in the field, Fador had returned quickly to the Eagle encampment, his absence seeming to have gone unnoticed. Knowing what he had to do, Fador moved amongst the dark tents finding the men he needed to speak with. His plan to send the Gondorian sea captain and his first mate as gifts to Wyrma would have to be put into play quickly, before Thorn and Narika were given control of the clan. Bearing that thought in mind, he spent the remainder of the night making secretive arrangements for the trip. He found the guards who would be loyal to him and, rousting them from their tents, set them to the business of gathering provisions and preparing their own and Fador's horses for the journey. Finally, as dawn began to touch the eastern edge of the sky, Fador sought out the tent of his fellow elder, Mumtaz, for a few hours of sleep, his plan being to meet and persuade the Gondorians to do his bidding when his mind was clear, not clouded from lack of sleep.

Waking a only few short hours after laying his head down on to the sleeping mat, Fador returned at last to his own tent. Upon his arrival, he found the Gondorian captain awake and standing near the flap of the tent, looking out across the encampment. The first mate was nowhere to be seen. As Fador approached, the Gondorian captain stepped back inside to let him enter the tent, but instead of passing him, Fador stopped in front of the man and gave him a polite bow. The two of them exchanged introductions, with Fador offering his apologies for his delay in making the acquaintance of his guests. The Gondorian captain had barely begun to respond, when he hesitated. Fador’s daughter had just appeared outside the tent with the Gondorian first mate in tow. Fador and the captain waited in silence as Latah took her leave and sent the young man into the tent alone.

"There you are," said Mithadan mildly. Turning back toward the waiting tribesman, Mithadan said, "Allow me to present Airefalas of Gondor, first mate of the Lonely Star."

Again, Fador exchanged bows and made his excuses. "Please," he said, gesturing to the mats and cushions surrounding a low table in the center of the large tent. "Let us sit. There is much I would like to talk with you about."

"And much we would like to talk with you about as well," said Mithadan with a smile.

The three men took their seats around the table. Fador began the conversation cautiously, asking first about the Gondorians’ escape from Umbar and the burning of the docks. As the captain patiently told the story yet again, Fador listened, watching both of his guests’ faces with interest, trying to read what sort of men they were from their mannerisms and gestures. He had only a short while to figure out how best to convince these two strangers that their best course of action would be to go to Wyrma’s city. After only a few minutes, Fador came to a quick conclusion. These men could not be bullied or coerced. If they went on his errand at all, it would be because they chose to do so. He must befriend them, convince them that the Eagle clan needed their help. Inwardly, Fador smiled, although outwardly he maintained an expression of friendly neutrality.

As the Gondorian captain concluded the tale of their escape from the clutches of Falasmir, Fador applauded with enthusiasm. He asked a polite question or two and then, leaning forward, lowered his voice, allowing his face to go grim with worry. "You are brave and intelligent men," he said, choosing his words carefully. "You no doubt have heard the rumors that circle our camp like vultures."

"We have heard some talk since our arrival, yes," said Mithadan, nodding. The first mate nodded as well.

"Then you have no doubt heard that there is much trouble amongst the maenwaith people. An assassin has struck at the very heart of our clan, taking the life of our beloved leader." Fador paused as the first mate opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, his words going unspoken. A troubled look flitted over the young man's face like a shadow, then was replaced by a look of calm neutrality, the same look worn by his captain. Fador plowed ahead with his plan. "There is talk that this assassin was sent by none other than Wyrma of the Dragon clan, a maenwaith woman of great power and influence in Umbar."

"I believe we had occasion to meet her briefly during our stay at Falasmir's palace," Mithadan replied.

"Then you know of whom I speak." Fador eyed him sternly. "There is talk that she builds a walled city somewhere to the south of Umbar, which she plans to use as her fortress. From there, many of us believe, she intends to enslave all of the maenwaith people, forcing us to give up our nomadic ways, to live in her city and to exist only to do her bidding." He paused looking from one Gondorian to the other for emphasis. "She must be stopped."

Receiving no immediate reaction from his audience, Fador continued. "You may ask of what concern this is to you, what the problems of a few scattered desert clans might matter to the citizens of such a great nation as Gondor, but I tell you, it does concern you, in the most serious kind of way. Wyrma's ambitions are not bound by the borders of Harad. Ultimately, not even your Minas Tirith will be beyond her grasp."

"And you know this for certain?" asked Mithadan.

Fador smiled wisely. "Nothing is certain. I only speak of rumors and images sent to me from the dreamtime. I sit and I think on these things for hours on end, but when I put them all together, I can see that there is only one solution. We must act at once. We must prevent Wyrma from establishing her stronghold in the desert. Only then can we, as a people, be safe. Only then will your people be safe."

"And why do you tell us?" asked Mithadan. "We are only two men a very long way from home. How can we hope to stop these threats from becoming fact?"

Fador leaned forward, his dark eyes locking on to the gray eyes of the captain. "You are experienced men of war. You know how to attack a walled city. We nomads of the deep desert know nothing of city warfare. We have never laid siege to a city such as the one Wyrma seeks to build. We would not even know where to begin. You... you can help us. With your knowledge of warfare, you can tell us how we might attack this city and defeat it."

Mithadan smiled, casting a sideways glance at his first mate. "Yes," he said at last. "We may be of some eventual help to you, but I'm afraid we will not be able to offer much advice without seeing this city for ourselves. One city is as different from another as one man from another. We cannot tell you how to attack it without first knowing its layout, its strengths and weaknesses, where its vulnerabilities lie."

"Then you must go there." Fador rose to his feet and walked to the open tent flap. "I ask you to do this, not just for the welfare of my people, but for the safety and welfare of yours as well." Then, with his back turned to them, Fador waited to see if the Gondorians would take the bait.

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

Airefalas

Airefalas watched as the tribesman turned and walked to the tent flap, stopping there with his back to him and Mithadan. For an instant, a tense silence prevailed. Then Mithadan spoke.

"Well, what do you make of that?" he said quietly to Airefalas in Quenyan, the barest hint of a smile playing on the corners of his mouth.

Airefalas shook his head. “I don’t like it,” he answered in the same language. “Or rather, not to put too fine a point on it, I don’t like him. While I’m sure what he says is true and while he has been nothing but a gracious host, there is something about him that puts me in mind of a certain type of eel you can find if you pick up the right rock in a coldwater river delta.”

Mithadan’s eyes twinkled, though his expression grew grave. “I was thinking the same thing, although perhaps not quite in those terms. Nonetheless, I am inclined to take him up on his offer.”

Frowning slightly, Airefalas nodded.

“You disapprove?” asked Mithadan, having caught the dark look on the younger man’s face.

Airefalas shrugged. “It’s not my place to approve or disapprove,” he said honestly. “It’s just that - didn’t he say that this walled city is located somewhere near Umbar? It seems to me, by going there, we would simply be walking out of the frying pan right back into the fire. We went to a good deal of trouble to get away from Umbar. I find it surprising, considering our situation, that you are thinking of heading back that way. If there were a chance of catching an outbound ship, I could see it, but this...” He trailed off. “Aside from the possible defense value to Gondor...”

Mithadan nodded. “It could be of tremendous value to Gondor, or it could be of no use at all. It is hard to predict. But I have reasons of my own for wishing to see this city, quite apart from the reasons this man puts forward. Frankly, I don‘t think that even he is quite as sincere in his motivations as he would have us believe. Whatever his game is, however, I think we should play along.”

Airefalas gave his captain‘s words some serious consideration, then nodded as well. “As long as we play with our eyes open, I suppose I have no objections. Anything is better than sitting around here in idleness.”

Mithadan nodded again, but before he could say anything else, the tribesman turned back toward them, a shrewd look visible on his dark face for a mere fraction of a second. Then the sharpness vanished, replaced by a mask of hopeful congeniality.

“Will you go?” he asked. “For the good of my people and yours?”

Mithadan rose and approached the tribesman, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I will consider it,” he answered, dropping back into Westron. “But I do have some questions.” He paused. At an encouraging gesture from Fador, he continued. “When would this trip take place? You speak of urgency and haste, yet we would need a guide, horses, supplies. Those things take time to assemble. Do we even know precisely where this city is located?”

Fador nodded. “We do, and I shall supply you with all that you ask: horses, supplies, a guide, and an additional pair of my kinsmen to go with you and assist you as needed. They are loyal to me and can be trusted. If you agree, you shall go at once.”

“At once?”

“Yes.” The shrewd smile flitted again across the tribesman’s swarthy features. “I had anticipated that you might agree to this mission. My men stand ready with horses and supplies enough for five. I have but to speak a word to my nephew who shall serve as your guide, and your number will be five.”

“You assume much,” said Mithadan mildly. “Why such haste?”

Fador’s expression turned solemn. “An assassin haunts this camp. Perhaps he sends word to Umbar of our movements, as well. I am sure that you, as a captain and a strategist yourself, understand the need for secrecy. If too much time is taken up in preparations, then word may seep out to our enemies. If that should happen, then you and my kinsmen alike should amount to nothing more than lambs on your way to the slaughter.”

“Salmon to market...” muttered Airefalas. A vivid image of the sharp knives of the fishmongers, slitting and gutting the silvery, scaled bellies of a day’s catch rose starkly in his mind. He knew he should not like to meet the same fate, but somehow the image remained stubbornly ensconced in the forefront of his mind. Finally he sighed, pushing the graphic vision away from himself. Following Mithadan’s lead, he rose to his feet and walked to the corner of the tent where he and Mithadan had left their packs and swords. At least the forced idleness of the past few days had left them uncommonly well-prepared for immediate travel, their weapons all sharpened to a razor’s edge and their packs well-organized and as well-provisioned as they could manage under the circumstances. Picking up his sword belt, Airefalas smiled grimly to himself. He had walked knowingly into dangerous situations often enough in the past. This would be no different. After all, as he had said to Mithadan only moments before, anything would be better than idleness.

As Airefalas buckled his sword into place, behind him, Mithadan and Fador made the final arrangements for an immediate departure. Airefalas was pleased to hear that the guide who would be leading them was none other than Surinen, the outrider who had gone with him and Latah and Narayad to Ayar’s bier the night before. Surinen seemed like a solid fellow, with a good head on his shoulders and an excellent command of Westron. He would be a good companion, even if he was a little gruff and standoffish at times. As for the other two... while Airefalas hoped that they would be tribesmen of the same caliber as Surinen, he decided to reserve his opinion of them until later. After all, for all he knew, they could turn out to be eels.

Moments later, with their swords and packs in place, Fador led the two Gondorians out of the tent and to the edge of the Eagle encampment. He took a circuitous route between the many tents, a route that kept them well out of sight of most of the other Eagles. Arriving at a meeting place that had been prearranged by Fador and his kinsmen, the northerners found two sturdy horses saddled and waiting for them, being held by two hard-looking tribesmen, one of them as stout as the other was lean and wiry.

“Fador’s kinsmen,” thought Airefalas to himself as he pulled himself into his saddle. “They look more like jackals than Eagles to me... or even eels for that matter.”

Having seen his charges delivered into the hands of his kinsmen, Fador left again briefly to find Surinen. A short time later, he returned with the guide in tow. Shortly thereafter, the five travelers left, riding single file northward into the desert. Looking back, Airefalas saw Fador disappear again between the tents, a shadowy figure, moving surreptitiously back in the direction of his own quarters. Losing him at last, Airefalas’ eyes continued to search the outskirts of the camp for a long moment before he understood what it was that he was looking for. Finally, as the realization hit him that what he sought was not there, Airefalas turned swiftly forward again in his saddle.

Of course, Latah would not be there to see them off. She did not even know they had gone.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Day 3

It was noon of the third day. The original watchfire beside the bier burned low and was finally extinguished with the help of many buckets of water. As the last of the red flames reluctantly spluttered and died, plumes of smoke swirled upward until an overhanging curtain of grey was visible across the desert even from a distance. For the past two days the maenwaith tending Ayar’s watchfire had fed the flames with small twigs or dried bracken gathered from the watering hole. But such a fire would not be large enough for the new job at hand, since this was the final day of mourning, a time when family and clan would offer their last goodbyes. Ayar’s spirit would depart and fly free across the heavens. The maenwaith would burn her body and inter the remains beneath the desert sand, with a cairn to mark the grave.

Some weeks earlier, once the council had understood that their leader would not regain her strength, the Elders had dispatched swift messengers to the south on horseback. Now these messengers had returned dragging sledges behind their horses, each one bearing a sizeable bundle of logs . These horsemen had journeyed to the lower slopes of the mountains in the south to secure the precious wood of the cedar (http://cgfa.sunsite.dk/k/kosztka1.jpg), an aromatic pine that burns sweet and clear.

On this afternoon, the crowd of mourners was even larger than the first two days. Clan members removed the cedar logs from the sledges and arranged them in a single giant stack. On top of this pile, they lovingly placed Ayar’s body. The Eagles stood and watched as tiny tongues of gold and blue flared, taking hold of the sweet smelling bark. This time there was no singing. The two sisters stood erect at the foot of the bier, struggling to hold back tears as they held each other’s hands and watched the flames creep up and tinge the hem of Ayar’s gown. In another instant, a massive sheet of red and orange leapt forward, rising some ten feet above their heads. Ayar’s body and features were blurred and then lost forever beneath its relentless spread. The men of the clan would remove the charred remains, bury them late at night, and pile up the stones, once the ashes were no longer so hot to the touch.

That evening just before the burial, the gathered crowd of mourners again lifted their voices in a final song, urging Ayar to fly free in whatever direction she chose and learn to master her true form, whatever that might be. As the last notes of the melody died away, the two sisters left the gathering and returned together to their tent to await the ceremony at dawn when they would upturn the pot of water, which had sat there from the first day of mourning. This simple act would signify that the clan was now free to go forward and begin to rebuild its life.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ráma slowly made her way back through the small cluster of mourners that still circled the ring of ashes; the latter was the only physical evidence remaining of the three days of mourning now drawing to a close. The moon stood high in the heavens. In just a few hours it would be dawn. She stopped and lingered at the entry to the tent, glancing over her shoulder at the vast expanse of sand extending southward, an ocean of blackness enshrouded in heavy shadow. Her sister already awaited her. Narika crouched near the dying embers of the hearth and idly fingered her mother’s ceremonial brooch with its flying eagle engraved in silver over a base of jade. With all its beauty and memories, the piece would belong to her as head of the clan after the Elders met later that morning.

“Come inside.” Narika gestured to her sister. “Only an hour or two till we overturn the pot. Lay down and rest a while.”

“I cannot. I am restless. There is still much to do.” Ráma hesitated as she wondered whether this was a good time to bring up what Ayar had said. Impulsively, she reached out to touch her sister’s hand. “You and I must talk. I have put this off too long. The afternoon before mother died, she spoke of several things. She planned to share all this with you the next day….” At this juncture, Ráma’s voice trailed off.

“I knew you were bothered by something, even beyond mother’s death. What is it? Speak, and I will help if I can.”

“Mother said the time for talking had passed. You and Thorn must marry and jointly lead the Eagles. Ride out to the other clans and speak with all who will listen, urging them to come together. Use every sword and talon, every tooth and claw, to combat Wyrma and her ilk. That is what she told me.”

“It brings me little joy to take arms against my own kin,” responded Narika with a sigh, “but Thorn and I have come to feel that we have no other choice. If Wyrma is not stopped, the Eagles and all others who follow the old nomadic ways will be destroyed.”

“There is something else,” Ráma noted. “Mother said the strangers may be willing to help us, and we should not turn away from them.”

A look of displeasure flitted over Narika’s face, one that was slowly replaced by a calmer and more thoughtful gaze. She chose her reply with care, “At one time not long ago, I would have scorned such a thought, but as I know these men better—especially this Aiwendil---my feelings have softened. Perhaps these outsiders are meant to be here. It is likely the strangers will flee at the first hint of war. And even if they are willing to stay, I can not promise what others will say. But I give you my word: I will not oppose them or you in any reasonable request.

“In fact,” she added with a hint of a smile, “Perhaps, I will ask Thorn to put you in charge of keeping track of them. That would serve you right. Is that all, then?”

Visibly relaxed and emboldened, Rama continued, “There was something else. Mother related an ancient tale how Thorondor and the other Great Eagles befriended our clan in return for some small service we’d done for an injured eaglet. Because of this, he granted us the gift of taking the eagle form.”

“I have also heard this. But how does it involve Wyrma?”

“Mother spoke of an ancient promise. The Eagles swore to come to our aid if the clan ever found itself in terrible peril. She even mentioned a wise woman dwelling in the southern mountains called Ayka. Ayka may know where these Eagles are and can help us find them. I must go south and beg her assistance. And not only the Eagles,” she continued, “Mother even spoke of wyrms--members of the dragon clan who scorn Wyrma and her evil ways. Perhaps they too can join our fight. ”

“Stop, Ráma. Enough.” Narika raised her hand as if to ward off any consideration of these ideas. “You have a strong sword arm, and Thorn would welcome you into the ranks of those who fight. Do not waste time chasing after old dreams.”

“But these are not my ideas. They are Mother’s, and she spoke with great urgency. I dare not ignore the promise I made to her, nor would I wish to do so.” Ráma planted her feet apart and glared obstinately at her sister.

“I can see nothing good coming from such fancies. Perhaps near the end, Mother was confused, with all the poison spreading through her body. But if you feel compelled to follow this course, do what you must. There should be a group going south to alert the clans in that region. Go with them. Take a few friends and make a quiet side trip to visit this strange maenwaith who lives by herself in the mountains. You will probably find her old and addled with little of worth to share. But at least you will have done your duty and can come back with a clear heart. Only say nothing of this to the Elders, for some are less friendly to Thorn, and they would laugh at such silliness or use it as a pretext to stand against him.”

“Thank you. I will tell only a few, and those whom I trust. Not a word to the Elders, I promise.”

At that instant there was a slight stirring outside the entrance to the tent. Narika went to look if anyone was there, but she saw no one. “Only the wind,” she reported. Come now. With all our chattering, the remaining night has fled. It is dawn. We should go now to overturn the pot.” With that the women headed out of the tent. The period of mourning had ended; the time for action had come.

[Nerindel]

Save: Sorona

[piosenniel]

Miri and Rama

Rama embraced her sister once the pot was overturned then bid her a quick farewell. She had already said what was needed; now it was time to put her thoughts into a plan of action. She was restless, still, and her feet took her to the edge of the camp, to the rocky outcropping where she had often gone in her younger years to think. Her head was down as she walked along, cloak wrapped about her in the cool dawn air, her attention seeming on the movement of her boots . . . right toe . . . left toe . . .right toe . . . left toe . . . a moving meditation as her thoughts collected themselves into some semblance of order.

She was near the rocks, when she looked up, her eye caught by a quick movement of someone’s slender little legs and the trailing hem of a brown cloak as it slipped behind a pile of sandstone. She stopped, smiling a little to herself as she recognized the one who was so desperately trying to stay quietly hidden.

‘Miri! What are you doing out here? So early in the morning?’ Rama waited patiently before a resigned voice spoke up, and a familiar little face peered around the rock.

‘I’m waiting,’ Miri said, matter of factly, plopping down on the flat, smooth worn surface of the little outcropping.

Rama climbed up the short way to where the girl sat, facing south. ‘For the sunrise?’ she prompted, knowing that with Miri this could be a drawn out process of fact finding.

‘Well, no,’ returned the girl, looking up at Rama as the woman sat down beside her. ‘Though it is awfully pretty, don’t you think?’

Resisting the sidetracking ploy, Rama cast her net again. ‘Something in the south has caught your interest then?’ She narrowed her eyes and looked hard into the brightening day as it slid slowly over the southern vista.

‘Yes, that’s where he said he would come from.’ Miri could feel Rama fidgeting in irritation next to her. ‘Rôg! He said he would be back soon. I’m waiting to welcome him back.’

Rôg, again! Bit by bit Rama prised out the story. Rôg had gone for a visit to his clan. To see his family. This so far seemed reasonable, and reasonable still that he would promise his little friend to return. After all, Aiwendil was still here, and they had been traveling companions for quite some time, or so Rama understood. She asked if Rôg’s clan were somewhere near. Miri screwed up her little face, thinking; distances were all very relative to her. ‘Well, they’re just on the other side of the mountains, I think he said . . . at the end of them. That way,’ she said pointing south.’

It was Rama’s turn to have her brow wrinkle as she considered what the girl had said. It was forty days of hard traveling to reach the southern end of the mountains by camel; and perhaps he might get there in twenty if he flew, but the forms she’d heard he’d taken in the Eagle camp might not even make it in that time. Rama shook her head, saying that Miri must have misheard. But the girl was emphatic. He had promised, the very day he left, to be back in a week, ten days at the very most.

Taking a small chip of stone in her hand, Rama traced a crudely scratched map on the flat surface of the ledge between her and Miri. She explained patiently to the girl how far it was to the end of the mountains and how long it might take just to get there. Miri pursed her lips as Rama talked about distances and days. She stood up, putting her hands on her hips and shook her little head. With a scrape of her boot sole over the drawing she obliterated it from the sandstone. ‘He’s my friend. He said he would be back then and he will. You can’t tell me he won’t! I don’t believe you!’

The voice of Miri’s brother came ringing from somewhere near, calling her home to break her fast. ‘Mami’s making griddle cakes with honeycomb,’ she said, remembering the pot of sweet honey comb her mother had gotten out from the food chest. As quickly as she had been angry at Rama’s words, the little girl changed focus, inviting her to eat with them. The subject of Rôg was closed in her opinion; she was inviting her other friend to eat with her.

Rama walked along with Miri back to her family’s tent, only half listening as the girl chattered on about this and that. She was trying to remember an earlier conversation Miri had had with her on Rog’s clan. And yes, the girl had mentioned how most of the clan lived to the south . . . but what was it she had said about the mountains in the north . . . about the Elders . . .

[piosenniel]

Rôg - the Elders speak . . .

‘So, Little Wanderer . . . you’ve come back alone? Not with the others . . .’

He laughed at this old name, remembering how his aunts and uncles had chided him for his explorations. Caught up in following some little bird or bug or even a trickle of water back to its source, his feet sought out the answers to his wonderings. It was often he would be called back from his inquiries only by the frantic calls of his family as they sought him. And here the old woman was now, saying Little Wanderer . . . herself so tiny beside him.

She had loomed so large for him as a child, when the story of the Star Isle was told, and now he stood head and shoulders above her thin, weathered frame. Her gnarled hand still grasped the crooked yew wood walking stick as she looked up at him. Beside her was a very old man, even thinner than she, if that were possible. Bald as a buzzard, his dark eyes looking kindly at Rôg. And suddenly he felt very young in their presence and small. He stammered out some greeting, trailing it off at the end, unsure of what to call them.

‘Just call me Old Mother, if you wish. That will be easiest,’ she said. She crooked her forefinger at her companion. ‘And him, Old Father.’ The old man’s eyes twinkled at her words. ‘It doesn’t matter. Our names flew away in the dry winds long ago, I think.’

The old man turned and motioned for Rôg to follow after him. Back into the foothills a short way. Supper was cooking and hot water on for tea, he said. Rôg followed along behind them, the ridiculous thought running round and round his head. I knew it! They do eat! When they were children, Daira had tried to convince him the Elders lived on wind and sand. Rôg smiled smugly at the thought of proving her wrong after all these years.

~*~

Dinner passed in a pleasant manner. The stew of roots and grains and desert hen was tasty and filling, the tea strong and sweet. The warmth of both drove back the chill that fell as the sun sank. The old man poured each a second mug, then added a few sticks to the small crackling fire. ‘Well,’ he said, sitting down on his mat next to Rôg. ‘Why have you come?’ ‘Two things, two questions I have that I hope you might help me with,’ answered Rôg, thinking hard about which he should ask first.

‘Aiwendil, I think,’ he muttered to himself, biting his lip.

‘Speak up, boy!’ the old man said, scooting closer to him. ‘These old ears can’t make out your mumblings.’

He began with the meeting of his traveling companion in Rivendell; their shared interests in birds; the large store of knowledge about the varieties of birds and other creatures that Aiwendil seemed to have. ‘He is a keen observer of their habits,’ Rôg said, ‘but in that respect not that different from others I have met who followed such pursuits.’ He plunged on, taking a deep breath, telling them of the peculiar things the Aiwendil sometimes did. He had seen the old fellow talk to birds and to a few other animals. And not just talk, as someone who is fond of the little creatures, but listen to them and respond to them in their own way. They were not afraid of him, these animals Rôg had seen speaking with the old man, and often they brought him messages of happenings in the area. Still he seemed just a well-learned fellow, Rôg went on . . . pleasant, if not a little vague as older folk are . . . until they had come south.

The old man and woman kept quiet as Rôg paused in his explanations. Into the silence Rôg blurted out the recent events that he simply could not make heads or tails of. The sandstorm and the old fortification they had sheltered in; Aiwendil’s reference to himself as an old dreamer; his talk of the Men who had built the fort, interlaced with a darkness that had come and wrong choosings. The distant land across the sea from where these Men had come . . . he’d named it the Star Island . . . and he spoke as if he had been there himself . . . It seemed, so Rôg explained, as if the old man was waking from a hazy dream. Aiwendil’s eyes were bright, their gaze purposeful now, and he had begun to talk of a ‘purpose’, as if he had remembered something he had set out long ago to do.

‘A need he spoke of, a need to act, to stand up, face a problem, a rising darkness - unlike those of the Star Island who ignored what was happening and were destroyed.’ In a more hesitant voice he continued, ‘He tells me I am also called, but I cannot think how. Though I think not just me in particular, but all Skinchangers. Though Ibar says it really is not our problem . . . he is clan-leader, I know, but still I feel he may be wrong.’

Rôg frowned. ‘Well, really this all leads into my second question, too.’ And with this he launched into the brief story of what was happening in the south to the other clans, as he had gleaned from Narika and Miri and others of the Eagle clan, throwing in his own observations and the observations of the larks who had spoken with Aiwendil. ‘Oh, and I forgot to mention this, too . . . Aiwendil can change shapes . . . I saw it with my own eyes. He seems a bit rusty at it, but can do so when need calls. He’s not a Skinchanger, not a member of a clan, or so he says. And now that I think about it he was rather vague just how he could do what he did . . . telling me it was a long and complicated story.’

Finished speaking, the young man looked up at his two listeners wondering if they had understood at all. He had meant to be clear, but somehow his thoughts had gotten all jumbled together. Expecting to see frowns of confusion on their faces, he was taken aback at the hoots of laughter that issued from the both of them.

‘And here we thought you were coming to ask us about which woman you should choose to marry!’ the old woman laughed, her eyes twinkling at him. ‘About time, don’t you think?’ she asked, nudging the old man in the ribs. ‘We had her all picked out, you know,’ he said, grinning broadly at Rôg. The old woman stood up and picking up the tea kettle, refilled their mugs. Then, settling her haunches back down on her woven mat, she spoke quietly to Rôg, all hints of levity now gone.

‘When the children first hear the stories we tell, they enjoy them for their grand excitement, for the funny things that happen, and how the heroes, bigger than life, win the day and save the people. Darkness is pushed back, evil laid low. Light shines through and the goodness of creatures in the stories prevails.’

‘This is so,’ continued the old man. ‘The pattern is set and as the children grow older it begins to shift from the fantastic to the ordinary, as situations arise in their own lives. Choices are reflected in the old stories, and are reinterpreted. And not all choose well.’ He paused for a moment. ‘This Aiwendil, that is a name from the Nimîr, I think. Its meaning I don’t know. But have you heard his Mannish name?’

‘Aiwendil is an Elvish name. It means “friend of birds” . . . but he was called Radagast, also,’ Rôg answered. ‘Though what that means I could never discover.’ ‘Some called him fool and simple, too,’ he added as an aside, remembering some unkind whispers he had heard.

‘Radagast! Hmm?!’ murmured the old man. ‘That is an old name, is it not?’ asked the old woman, nodding at him. She picked up a stick she had used earlier to stir the fire and drew three figures in the sandy soil – two near each other and one standing a little apart.

From long ago, she said, there were stories handed down of three travelers who came east from over the western sea. One all in white, the other two in sea blue. The one in white, it was said, was clever . . . wise, perhaps . . . and he soaked up tales and other odd bits of information like a dried up cactus in the wet season. Their little clan avoided him; it was said by others his roots seemed twisted and that he did not grow true. He stayed only a while and then returned westward, or so it had been handed down. They had heard no more of him.

Now the ones in blue - they came east together, it was said, but even when they reached the shores of the Inner Sea they were drawn further east and passed over the waters to the lands near the rising sun. The Elders now long gone never knew the blue ones’ real names; one they called Giant Man, the other Far Traveler. They were friendly enough it seemed when they passed through and they spoke a little of themselves, though in veiled terms. From what the Elders understood, they were to be helpers of some sort. But what help they offered was not clear and then they were gone.

There was some brief reference those two had given that they were only two of five who had been sent. The White one, of course, and then, one garbed in grey. Grey Pilgrim, the Elders knew him as, though he had never come east, and there were no tales they knew of him. But there was one, it was said, they hoped would come . . . one of gentle spirit . . . a tender of beasts. One sent by a most gracious Lady from West over the Sea. It was long they looked for him to come, but he never did.

‘Yes . . . yes, that was him,’ affirmed the old man, his eyes bright with the remembered story. ‘There was a verse . . . oh, now how did that begin, old woman,’ he said a little fretfully. ‘We were to speak it to him, to remind him of his promises to the Lady.’

From beyond the fringes of the little group came the sound of a phlegmy cough. ‘You mean that old saw that starts out:

Wilt thou learn the lore . . . . . that was long secret
Of the five that came . . . . . from a far country? . . .

And so on . . . and something about hidden counsels and the Doom cometh . . .’ offered a tall, angular man, his few strands of white hair, thin and wispy against the tanned skin of his head. Several others of the Elders, seeing the small fire and its attendant tea kettle had come down to join the trio, mugs in hand. ‘That’s it,’ said another old fellow in a fringed red shawl, holding his cup out as the kettle passed. ‘Never much liked it . . . too serious and somber by half . . . what with all its goings on about Dagor Dagorath and the world’s unmaking. Bet one of the old Nimîr wrote that one. Never were ones for the lighter side of life.’

Another old woman, her skin pulled tight over the contours of her skull, chortled as she plunked herself down next to Rôg, startling him as she had slid in so silently beside him. ‘We had a better one than that . . . remember?’ She poked Rôg in his ribs with her bony finger. ‘You know it, too . . . the old counting out rhyme for games . . .’ ‘Come on,’ she chided him, ‘say it with me.’ Rôg’s frown turned to a smile as she started the sing-song verse, and in old habit, he pointed round the circle that now sat about the fire and chanted with her . . .

Eagle chooses
Earth advises
Send the five
As Shadow rises

White is cunning
Grey hides flame
Hand in hand
Blues leave the game

Brown it is
Who’s sent to mend us
Gentler One!
From dark defend us!

Intry Mintry Cutry Corn
Rock, Sand, Grass and Thorn
Fur, feathers, worm to hawk
Five wizards in a flock
Some came east and some went west
Choose the one you think the best

Earth and twig
Bear and wren

Brown, it’s brown!

You’re IT!

There was a short span of uncomfortable silence as Rôg looked about the group. All the fingers now pointed to him. The old faces looked at him expectantly then cracked into smiles, laughing at his discomfiture.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Until mid-day, Ráma had little time to think about the promises her sister had made or even to consider what Miri had told her, although something about the young girl's news tugged insistently at the back of her mind. For now she set these worries aside. Many important duties had been neglected during the days of mourning that now required the immediate attention of the clan. Despite the growing urgency felt by many of the Eagles, the clan could not wage an effective campaign unless practical needs like food and supplies were given their due attention.

For the next few hours, while the Elders sat by themselves and talked, Ráma worked alongside Yalisha and Miri who were helping to water the herd of goats and sheep sheltered nearby. Finishing up her chores, she headed back to the tent intending to take her noon meal. But before she could reach her destination, Narika came running to greet her with a serious look reflected in her eyes, "News from Thorne. The Elders have finished their meeting and have asked the clan to gather around the firepit. They have approved mother's request that Thorne and I wed and jointly assume the headship of the clan."

Ráma laughed and reached out to clasp her sister's hand. "But this is good news then!"

"Yes, and no one spoke against us. Mother's influence was still too strong. If some felt otherwise, they held their peace, at least publically."

"And did they discuss the war? Did they agree that the clan should stand against Wyrma?" If the Elders had already reached a decision to rouse the other clans and march against Wyrma's city, her own voice would not need to be raised at the council, and she could begin immediate preparations for her journey south.

Narika shook her head. "They talk and talk in circles, but still there is no agreement. Thorne has explained that you were the last to speak with Ayar. They have consented to listen to your words, and to learn what Mother said. But it will not be easy. Some feel that continued resistence will only infuriate Wyrma. They genuinely fear for the safety of the clan. But there are others.... I do not know about these. Only that Thorne does not trust them."

"I had hoped to stay silent and be able to slip off quietly to the south. But I can see that is not to be." Ráma looked beseechingly at her sister, "I am no speaker. You are the one with the silver tongue. Perhaps you can explain things."

"No, I was not there with mother. If anything can persuade them, it is her words. Speak from your heart, as she would have done. Only say nothing of what we talked about earlier today. That must be a secret between the two of us and Thorne. And do not be too disappointed if they refuse to accept help from the strangers."

Ráma nodded, and the two sisters continued on to the meeting.

[piosenniel]

Piosenniel

A little over seven days had passed since they had set out from the mountains heading north along the sparsely grassed, sandy base of the foothills. The days were hot, too hot for the little group to travel, and so were spent in fretful sleep beneath what shade their guides could find. Azar, the young male eagle Ayka had sent with them, had ranged far before them; wide though he flew, he brought no promising news of the men from the north. Nor had he brought them many findings of encampments from whom they might inquire.

Only one, the Bush Lizards, would speak with the strangers, and then it was only to say that ‘No, we have no news. We have heard nothing.’ Questions about the port city were taken in with unreadable silence; no answers given save a ‘No, we know nothing of that either.’ The brown-pooled eyes of the desert men gave nothing away, but Pio’s ears caught the whisperings and intake of breath from the huddle of women who stood watching their men speak with the strangers.

‘Perhaps we should go back to the ship and simply wait for the Captain and Airefalas,’ offered Hamar once the disappointing contact had been made. ‘Not yet,’ rejoined Pio, pulling her hood up to shade her eyes as their group moved on to find a resting place. ‘I still have hopes of finding them.’ Though they grow slim she admitted to herself. The Elf looked to the west, her eyes following the line of coastal mountains northward. ‘Their height grows less. Little more than a week and we will come to the end of them. The Corsair city lies not too far beyond. And we dare not go there.’ She looked up, seeing the eagle circling lazily above, wings tapping the rising thermals. ‘When we have come to the end of the mountains and Azar can bring us no new sightings, then we will return to the ship and wait.’

[Child of the 7th Age]

By the time Ráma and her sister arrived, a large number of the Eagles were already present and waiting for the meeting to start. Several of those visiting from outside the clan had also come, standing in a cluster on the fringes of the crowd. Even Sorona had found a perch on top of one of the water barrels, a spot that was close enough for her to hear what was going on. Earlier that morning, most of the Eagles had learned of the impending marriage between Narika and Thorne, and the fact that these two young maenwaith would soon become the leaders of the clan. This news had met with widespread approval.

An hour before, the Elders had broken off their discussions to retire to their individual tents for the noonday meal, but had now returned. They squatted or sat on small woven rugs, forming an inner circle around the clan's communal firepit. Everyone else, including Ráma, stood outside this inner core, part of a broader circle that fanned out in all directions.

Thorne and his bride had been invited to sit with the Elders in recognition of their new positions and authority; the eldest of the Council sat directly opposite them. This was to symbolize that no action could be taken, no declaration of war issued, unless the leaders of the clan and the Elders could reach consensus on what should be done.

When the chief elder came to the fore, he explained that there had been continuing discussion about Wyrma, but no agreement had been reached. The conversation was thrown open to all in attendance, both Elders and general clan members. The dispute quickly picked up from where it had left that morning. Many of the Elders urged caution, noting that it was the traditional maenwaith way to avoid bloodshed and to protect themselves by subterfuge rather than direct assault. Some suggested that the clan withdraw from its present location and pull back further from Umbar and the city in the north that Wyrma was building. Perhaps, the safest thing to do was to pack everything up and trek far south and west, out of Wyrma's watchful eye.

Others disputed this point with vigor, claiming that Wyrma's reach was such that wherever the Eagles might fly, they would still be in danger. Wyrma could simply send out swift flying dragons to locate them and launch a surprise attack. Plus, how could the Eagles turn a blind eye to the plight of their fellow maenwaith ? Wyrma had herded hundreds of their kin into her walled encampment. Who knew which maenwaith would be next, or whether she would adopt even more draconian measures?

It was at this point that Thorne stood up and asked that Ráma be allowed to come before them, explaining that she had been the last to speak with Ayar shortly before the latter had died. The Council members gave their consent to this, as they had earlier agreed. Ráma quietly walked forward and stood in front of the Elders, first bowing to them. Then she began to talk. She spoke as if she was visiting with friends in the privacy of her tent, rather than addressing a large public meeting.

"We all know what my mother was like. Her entire life, she sought to live in peace and to teach the ways of peace to the young ones in our clan whom she cherished with her heart. Even when when my father's life was cut short by violence, she counselled us to hold our anger. She was a patient woman who was willing to wait because she believed that the path of peace was the best one that the Eagles could follow."

Ráma drew a breath and glanced around the group, surprised that they were listening so intently. She was not used to speaking in public, but these were people whom she had known her whole life. Then she continued on.

"Yet, even though my mother loved the path of peace, she knew that sometimes we are asked to walk a different road. When evil comes and stares us in the face, we can not turn away. Mother understood this. She saw Wyrma for what she really was: a maenwaith who thinks her way is the only way of doing things, who wishes to push that way onto all our people, whether they want it or not. It is one thing to build a city and invite those who wish to go and live there. It is another thing to force people to change their lives in ways they do not want."

"And where does the pushing end? My mother's death was no accident. She never spoke of it , but she knew and understood. Wyrma had her killed because the leader of the Eagle clan would not go along with her plans. It will not stop with my mother. Each of us is in danger. No one knows who is next. No one knows what pretext she may use to swoop down and try to eliminate us all."

To strike against another maenwaith is a sad, sad thing, but we have no choice. Ayar told me to speak with the Elders and with everyone in the clan, to ask them to rouse the other tribes and to take a stand against Wyrma and her ilk. Nor should we turn aside from those who are willing to help us. Already one of the outsiders has come and spoken with me. He has given his promise to join in this resistence. If we are fortunate, there may be others. It is time to take a stand: the Eagles, those clans who, like us, hate what Wyrma does, and even those of our friends from outside who would not see the cause of evil triumph. This was my mother's wish. It is also the wish of myself and my sister, and of Thorne. Can we not join together and do this thing? We have the strength for such an enterprise. We must only gain the will."

With that, Ráma went and sat beside her sister, waiting for others to respond.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Thorn

A low murmur ran through the crowd gathered beyond the circle of elders, the various members the eagle clan commenting to one another, weighing Ráma’s stance. So impassioned and sincere was her speech, but many argued that the meeting was laden with conjecture and an overwhelming pessimism. It was high time that they returned to their quiet existence after the upheaval of the past week. It was not the proper time to stir up a hornet’s nest. Let the new leaders find their feet, before considering whether to rally their people to fight.

“I’ve not seen Wyrma forcing me to change my life,” a man shouted from the depths of the crowd. “It sounds more like Narika and Thorn are the one’s who would have us change,” another chimed in. A ripple of laughter erupted, dying down almost as quickly as it had begun.

The elders, who had remained quiet throughout, glanced toward Thorn and Narika to see how they might answer the accusation leveled at them. Thorn looked long at Ráma before standing up once more. He turned to address the crowd behind him as well as those in front. “Ayer’s daughter is right. And you are also right, Amalik,” he said addressing the ill kept man who had spoken his mind so freely. “We are asking you to change. But we have not come to this choice easily. Gone are the days when maenwaith leaders could bring before the Great Wyrm grave matters without fear of endangering their kin, or we might have taken our concerns along that old established route. But more importantly, gone also are the days when we could sit back and let the world look to it’s own troubles. Our Wyrm has stolen both these things from us, just as she has taken our leader. Trouble is perched now outside our camp, watching for a time to ravage us. And it wears a face we recognize, a maenwaith face. Shall we pretend then that we do not see it?”

“But we have no proof,” Amalik said crossing his arms over his chest. “It is only rumor that Wyrma has caused the Meldakhar’s death, or that she would force the maenwaith to live in her city.” He cocked his head awaiting Thorn’s answer. Thorn glanced down at Narika before continuing.

“I know of a witness that will tell you the Wyrm sought the death of Ayar, and heard her agent contracting the very assassin who poisoned our leader,” he announced. “It is not our suspicions that has led us to this moment. The Meldakhar herself had laid out this new route for us to travel, even before her death.”

Amalik stood in silent thought. “It is said that an eagle’s sight is very keen, Amalik, and it can see very far ahead, ” Narika added gently, as she rose beside Thorn. “We owe it to our fellow maenwaith to alert them, and to join with them. For we all stand a much better chance of victory if we do not wait for this new city to be further fortified and manned. Maybe then we all will find our old paths again, but if we do not fight, many of us will lose our way forever.” As Amalik nodded his understanding, Narika and Thorn settled down on their mats once more.

[Ealasaide]

Ealasaide's Post - Fador

Fador listened in silence as first Ráma and then Thorn addressed the assembly, both of them speaking eloquently in favor of taking up arms against the growing power of the Wyrm. Thus far, he had been careful to take no public position himself, choosing instead to speak through others who were sympathetic to his view, such as Mumtaz and Hadya, but he knew that he could not remain silent and neutral forever. The time would soon be upon him when he must take a strong position and lead his people. The problem that faced him now was how to lead them where he wanted them to go, into the grasp of the Wyrm, without the willing cooperation of Ayar’s daughters or Thorn. The new young leaders would have to be circumvented or, failing that, eliminated somehow, perhaps driven from favor.

Fador smiled inwardly. It had been easy enough to circumvent them in getting rid of the northerners. In fact, it seemed that no one of any consequence had yet noticed the absence of the Gondorian sea captain and his first mate, even though the two had been gone for nearly an entire day. Only Latah had noticed their absence when she arrived in the early morning to do her usual round of cleaning. Fador had impressed upon her the importance of remaining silent and she had quietly acquiesced, bowing her head as he explained to her how he had sent them away the day before on an errand of great importance to the clan. If she valued their lives, as well as the lives of Surinen and the two other tribesmen who had accompanied them, she must remain silent. Spies were everywhere. Like a dutiful daughter, she had sworn to say nothing until at least a day had passed and the travelers were well out of reach. How easy it was to fool those who were so willing to believe.

His conversation with Hasrim the night before had gone less smoothly. Fador had flown out to the agreed upon meeting place at dusk, as they had planned, in the shape of a peregrine falcon. Circling high above the tall desert grasses, he watched as his contact arrived, again wearing the shape of a bat. For an instant, in the seconds before Hasrim regained his human form, Fador toyed with the notion of tucking his wings and making use of the fearsome speed of a peregrine’s dive, of plucking the bat out of the air with his talons mid-flight. It would have been so easy, and Hasrim deserved no less for the lack of respect he had shown Fador the day before, but the instant passed. Instead of diving, Fador floated down easily on the dying thermals and settled on the ground beside the other maenwaith man. Each of them having regained his human form, their conversation was brief. Fador told the Wolf of the departure of the foreigners from the Eagle camp a few hours earlier, traveling northward. Hasrim had been furious at the head start that others had gained and left quickly, muttering to himself, his parting words to Fador a threat. If Fador has caused the delay intentionally... Returning to his own camp, Fador had at first been amused by the threat, but later regretted his own foolishness. The delay had been intentional. He could just as easily have sent the Gondorians off later in the day at a time closer to or even after the time of the pre-arranged dusk meeting, but Fador had decided otherwise out of pique. He had been angry at the way the Wolf had disrespected him the night before and had decided to tweak his nose. Now, in retrospect, he began to wonder what the gesture might cost him politically. If Wyrma were to learn of it... Fador pushed the thought aside, his attention returning to more immediate matters.

“...if we do not fight,” Narika was saying. “Many of us will lose our way forever.”

The man she was speaking to, a tribesman named Amalik, nodded his understanding. As Narika and Thorn sat down, a murmur of voices rose, filling the meeting area with a confusion of differing opinions and reactions. Fador raised his hand in the call for silence and slowly the noise subsided.

“We are a people divided,” he said once a respectful quiet had again taken hold. “Thorn and the daughters of Ayar say that we should take up arms and go to war against our fellow maenwaith. They say that this is the only way to preserve our sovereignty and our nomadic way of life, yet there are many among us who disagree. There are many who say flee, let us not kill our fellow maenwaith. Still others say let us not be hasty, let us wait and see what this city has to offer. Perhaps it will bring opportunity, rather than slavery.”

“If we wait and do nothing -” Barakah’s clear voice rang out beside him. “This city will bring us death. Did you not hear the words of Sorona? The Guardians of the Dreamtime have revealed all to her. They have shown her what awaits us in the city and it is not opportunity, that is unless you are in the business of burning or burying the dead. We have been given this warning. We should take heed.”

“Hear, hear,” muttered Dakarai from his place beside Barakah.

“These young people speak wisely when they say we must reach out to the other tribes of the deep desert,” continued Barakah. “We must band together with them in order to save ourselves. When the Counsel of Elders first met following the death of the Meldakhar, I counseled our leaders that we should flee into the deep desert. Since then, having had the opportunity to speak at length with both Thorn and Narika, I find myself falling into agreement with them. Flight would be fatal, unless it were only a temporary measure to be taken while we gather our allies around us. Ráma spoke the truth when she said that we must look for allies wherever we can find them.”

“But she’s mad,” Harith’s quavering treble broke in.

“You’re mad,” snapped Dakarai in response, turning a pair of very sharp eyes on the wizened little man. “You should go back to your dice and your gaming pieces and let those of us who have a pair of brains to rub together get on about our business.”

“Let him speak!” ordered Fador. Dakarai fell silent, but continued to stare balefully at Harith, who nodded smugly at the assembly, giving everyone a happy, though toothless, smile.

“Ráma’s gone completely daft in the head,” Harith repeated once order had been restored.

For a moment, all faces turned toward Ráma, whose gold-flecked eyes widened in a combination of surprise and bewilderment.

“You see,” continued the elder. “I heard her talking to Narika there who may be a little daft, herself, too, you know.”

“It is a serious thing to say that the daughters of Ayar have gone mad,” said Barakah. She turned toward Harith with a gentle look that contrasted sharply with the anger on Dakarai’s face beside her. “Pray, tell us, dear Harith, why you make such accusations.”

“Because I heard her talking.” He nodded again, rather unctuously this time. “I told Mumtaz and he said I should not go to Thorn but go to the assembly and here I am, even though she said, Ráma said, that the Elders mustn’t know. But we do know. I know.”

“Know what?” prompted Fador impatiently. Although he wore a mask of something akin to annoyance on his face, he felt a wild, dancing glee in the pit of his stomach. So soon! Here the new leaders had not even been officially established and already there was something which could be used to discredit them, to undermine their ideas and integrity. He bent forward so as not to miss a single one of Harith’s wheezy, tale-bearing words.

“Ráma wants to run off to the Time of Legends and look for the Great Eagles.”

At a mystified look from the others, Harith began to get impatient. “She wants to run off to the southern mountains and look for an elder called Ayka, who she thinks can tell her where to find Thorondor and the great Eagles. She thinks they can help us against the Wyrm!”

“Madness!” exclaimed Mumtaz from Fador’s left, almost as if on cue. “Utter madness!”

“And Narika told her to go.”

All faces turned again toward the two sisters.

“Is this true?” asked Barakah gravely. Her bright eyes studied each of the young women’s faces in turn, searching their expressions for signs of truth or of madness. “Please explain yourselves.”

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

Child's post for Ráma and Narika

As soon as Barakah had posed her question, Narika slipped away from Thorn to come and stand near her sister. She leaned close to Ráma and confided, “You must share mother’s wishes with the assembly, but first let me deal with this troublemaker who has his nose in places where it shouldn't be.”

Narika stepped forward and politely bowed before the Council in the manner that she had learned as a young girl. Her voice, though firm, showed no hint of fear or anger. “Elder Barakah, I would gladly discuss this with you. Indeed, I intended to do so in private once our clan had made its declaration of war. The tale that Harith weaves is true, yet only in part. He speaks like a child who has overheard a few fleeting words from his parents and, understanding little, can only guess at what these words mean. Ráma can best explain what happened that afternoon, since she was the one who sat with Mother and heard her final request.” At this revelation, murmurings and hushed whispers spread through the crowd. Narika waited a moment for the noise to subside and then continued, "Now I would speak of Harith, for his conduct raises a point of honor that not only concerns me and my sister but the honor of our clan.”

Narika fixed a firm eye on Harith. Their accuser stood on the far side of the circle, looking decidedly uncomfortable. Turning from the Elders, she addressed him directly. “Since when does one maenwaith spy on another under cover of darkness? Ráma and I spoke inside the tent with the leather flaps drawn down and securely fastened. Even later, when Thorn and I met, we made sure to secure the tent flaps tightly. You must have come spying as a sand rat or crawling pest and, under cover of darkness, squeezed beneath the flap. That is the only way you could have overheard our conversation.”

“Are you certain, my lady?” Barakah pressed. “Perhaps Ráma discussed these things with others?”

Narika emphatically shook her head, “There were no others, at least not within the Eagle camp.”

“But none of this is true!” protested Harith. “Not true at all. I never intended to spy on the women, and I certainly never put on a different form.” Harith shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, refusing to look up and meet Narika’s eyes. He continued in a whining voice. “I was just searching for my special ivory dice, the ones I received as a wedding gift. They had slipped out from beneath my sash somewhere in front of the tent. I was crawling and feeling my way along the ground. My ear was close to the small crack at the bottom of the flap. Not on purpose of course,” Harith hastily added, “I merely wanted to find my dice. Then I heard Ráma speak and her sister answer, just as I have told you.”

Harith looked straight at Ráma and pointed an accusing finger, “This one is mad. Her sister protects her in her madness. You all know this. You were there when it happened, but everyone was afraid to say so for fear of offending Ayar.”

There was an uncomfortable silence before Barakah broke in, “That is enough! Ráma is not on trial for her mistakes as a child. Nor is this about anyone’s ability to shift forms. I only wish to know the truth about these charges concerning the preparations for war. For the moment, we will set aside the question as to how Harith came by this information, although what Narika has said does concern me.”

“Daughter of Ayar,” the Elder turned to face Ráma speaking in a gentle tone, “tell us of your mother's wish and whether Harith speaks the truth. Do you or your sister intend to run off on some fool’s errand as your accuser claims?”

“A fool’s errand? This is no fool’s errand.” Ráma strode forward to Barakah and directly addressed her. If she was upset by Harith’s charge of madness or his comments on the incident from her childhood, her speech and demeanor did not show it. She quickly explained, “ Narika and I only seek to carry out the wishes of Mother who talked with me at length the afternoon before she died. Yalisha, Miri, and Claris were there for part of that time and can vouch for much of what I say. They heard mother speak in urgent terms of the clan’s need to go to war and how it was time to take a stand against Wyrma’s enslavement of the maenwaith . Mother said Narika and Thorne must be given the headship of the clan and that we must ride out and call upon the other clans to join us in the fight.”

After listening to Ráma, Barakah directed a question at Yalisha who stood nearby, “Did Ayar speak clearly at this time, or were her wits already addled by the poison?”

Yalisha responded without hesitation, “No. I am certain Ayar knew what she was saying. Until she slipped off into her final sleep, Ayar was perfectly aware of what was going on around her. She said these things just as Ráma has reported. I was inside the tent with Claris and Miri and heard her words with my own ears.

"What of the Great Eagles?” Barakah pressed.

“I do not know. I heard nothing about them. But at the end, Ayar asked to be left with Ráma to speak privately with her. I saw no reason to deny such a request and left for a few minutes. When I returned, mother and daughter were hugging each other, and Ayar was lying down to rest. She seemed happy and relaxed, more so than I had seen her for the past week. It was as if a great weight had been lifted from her heart. A few hours later, the poison returned and by morning she had passed.”

“Elder Barakah,” Ráma interrupted, “I can tell you more about this. After Yalisha left, mother spoke to me about several things, and one of these was the Great Eagles. There is certain lore passed on through the line of the head of the clan. This lore says that, years ago in the midst of another war, the clan had done the Eagles a service and had been promised aid from them if there should ever be a pressing need. For the same reason, these mighty creatures taught our ancestors how to take on our special Eagle shape. As a token of their promise, the Eagles gave the clan a jeweled band that could be returned to them when help was needed. As a child, Mother had actually seen this band and thought that Ayka might have it or even know where the Eagles' aerie lay. Ayka is an Eagle herself, one of our own who withdrew to the mountains when she understood that Sauron’s might could threaten the clan’s well being. She saw what was coming and left years before the actual trouble started. Mother suggested we simply stop and talk with her on the trip south when we journeyed to rouse the other clans.”

The Elder shook her head and noted, “I am trying to remember. Years ago, I remember a teller of tales who visited us and told stories around the campfire, wonderful stories that I had never heard before. I believe her name was Ayka. But I was young at the time and can scarcely remember what she said.”

“Teller of tales? Ráma would have us put our doom in the hands of a storyteller? This is nonsense.,” Mumtaz’s voice rang out harshly over the group. “It is unfortunate that Ayar’s wits left her in the final hours, but she is not the problem. Anyone can fall into delusions when poison overtakes the mind. It is Ayar’s daughters who should have known better. If they are not mad, then they suffer from a total lack of good judgment . It makes me shudder to think that the well being of the clan lies in the hands of such easily deluded fools.”

‘Watch yourself!” snapped Ráma. “My mother’s wits were perfectly fine. Nor were these stories foolish. The Eagles are real. They exist. They are part of our past and who we are. If you deny them, you deny a piece of yourself. Mother was quick to realize that we must not rely solely on such special help. We must use every bit of our own strength and wit. But if there is a chance, even the smallest chance, that these great creatures could come to our aid, we should not hide our heads in the sand.”

“Really now, Ráma,” Mumtaz drawled, “I am surprised at your stubbornness. Have you yourself seen these creatures? Has Narika? Has anyone here had the pleasure of meeting a giant Eagle?” The hubbub in the air died down and was replaced with complete silence. “Come now, friends, speak up. If no one has even seen these Giant Eagles, I do not think it wise to put our faith in them. How sad it is that the two daughters of Ayar have been taken in by a fanciful story. And I am even more stunned that Thorn would have given any credence to their words.”

Ráma stood silent and perplexed, uncertain how to respond. Suddenly from the back of the gathering, emerging from the shadows, a tall man strode forward to the front of the assembly with a heavy wooden staff in his left hand. Even those who had seen and known him from before marveled at the sight of his eyes, so deep set and pensive were they. He bowed respectfully to the Council. “Elders, I ask your leave to speak. I believe I may be able to help you with this matter.”

“But you are not a member of this clan,” Fador objected.

“That is true, but I come from a land where many have the ability to change form. I have sometimes thought of my kin as being specially close to your own because of that. And there are even those in this gathering who can attest to my skill in taking on more than one shape, including that of an Eagle. ”

“Yes, I have heard that you possess such skills," Barakah interjected. "Someday, I would hope to speak with you at greater length.“

Fador responded with some reluctance, "We do permit maenwaith other than Eagles to stand before our Council. Since you have mastery of forms, I grant you permission to speak.”

Mumtaz stared at the old man and scowled in disgust, glancing around to meet the eyes of his friends, just as the tall figure began to address the assembly, “My name is Aiwendil. I have lived among you in recent weeks and seen the goodness of your ways. I tell you that the Giant Eagles do exist. I myself have stood in their presence, speaking to them just as I speak to you now. I have also heard of promises made to this clan long years ago: that if your people were ever in peril, they could call on the Eagles for aid. This is no small gift. Indeed, it is an extraordinary thing. I know of no other people in Arda who have received such a promise. Ayar spoke the truth, and her daughters were wise to heed her words, as was Thorn. If there is any chance that the Eagles could lend aid, you would be foolish not to request such assistance.”

Barakah stepped forward to ask Aiwendil another question but before she could reply there was a series of shouts coming from the back of the assembly, “Look there! The herders have returned upon their camels.”

Two men hastily dismounted and made their way to the front. With grave faces, they announced to the Elders, “We bring news....dire news.”


*********************************
Ealasaide's Post - Fador

As several tribesmen departed from the back of the assembly to see to the camels left outside the meeting circle by the new arrivals, Fador turned his attention to the two sweaty, dusty men who had pushed their way to the front. He recognized them at once as the brothers, Amal and Abdou. They were solid fellows, loyal and reliable, if a bit unimaginative, just the type who should be left in charge of the herds. As he recalled, they were related somehow to Hadya, who sat a few feet behind him, her sister’s boys, perhaps.

Fador nodded to each of them in turn. “Amal. Abdou.”

The two young men nodded in response, their dark eyes shifting from Fador to Thorn and back, as though not certain to whom they should deliver their message. Seeing this hesitation, Fador decided to assert his authority. Until Thorn was officially made a leader of the Eagle clan by ceremony, which would not happen for days, he had no real power. Until then, Fador saw himself as the one in control.

“Speak, man!” he said, addressing Amal, the elder of the two. “You say you bear dire news. What can be more dire than the matters we discuss already in this assembly?”

“We bring news of the death of Siamak.”

“The leader of the Owls,” murmured Hadya from behind.

“How did it happen?” asked Fador. His mind was already churning with the news of Ráma’s impending search for the great Eagles. Now there was this to consider as well, proof that Wyrma was on the move elsewhere. He would have to think quickly to stay ahead of the game.

“It was very strange,” answered Amal gravely. “He was struck ill by what was thought at first to be an insect bite, but his healers were able to do nothing for him. He was dead by the following morning. The Owls are in turmoil.”

“Just like our Ayar!” a voice exclaimed from deep within the assembly.

“Do they ask for our aid?” Narika asked quietly.

“No, miss,” answered Amal, turning toward her. “They do not seek our aid, but they do seek a dialogue. They wish to speak with our leaders. To see where we stand.”

“They did not say it outright, my lady,” Abdou spoke for the first time. “But they believe Siamak’s death to be the work of an assassin.”

“Wyrma!” another voice hissed from deep in the crowd.

“They send riders,” added Amal. “They shall be here within days, perhaps as early as tomorrow. My brother and I hurried back so that our people should be prepared to receive them.”

“Then we must have our leaders in place and ready for their arrival,” said Barakah, speaking for the first time since the arrival of the herdsmen. "Thorn," she said, turning toward the young man, who rose to his feet. "Is there any reason why you and Narika cannot be married immediately? Today, for instance.”

After exchanging a quick glance with his bride to be, Thorn shook his head. “No, Elder Barakah, there is no reason to wait.”

Fador bit the insides of his cheeks with fury as Barakah turned to the rest of the assembly. How dare she circumvent his authority and commandeer the meeting, he thought to himself. She had been a problem for years, always the voice of the opposition to Fador’s ideas, but now she had gone too far. While he had not constructed any kind of a concrete plan of dealing with the Owls, he had already begun to think of ways to manipulate them if he could meet with them alone. If Thorn and Narika were the ones to meet with the Owls instead of him, Fador’s influence evaporated.

“Then, let the wedding take place today,” Barakah was saying, her bright gaze moving from face to face around the circle. “If no one in this assembly can voice any true objection, let us move ahead with the wedding ceremony this very evening. As soon as Thorn and Narika are wed, we can have them installed properly as our leaders. By the time the messengers from the Owl clan arrive, we shall be ready.”

“But what of this other madness?” objected Mumtaz. “This business of finding the great eagles.”

“Are you still convinced it is madness?” asked Barakah, amid a rising flood of voices. “With the death of Siamak, I can see that our position is precarious at best. It becomes more important than ever that we have strong leadership in place. And we must look for allies where we can find them. If Ayar believed that the Great Eagles could come to our aid, then what advantage do we forfeit by sending Ráma to search for them?”

As voices rose on both sides and the meeting threatened to deteriorate into open argument, Fador rose to his feet. Thinking quickly, he had come to the conclusion that it would be pointless for him to oppose Thorn and Narika at this stage. Remembering the way the young herdsmen had looked first to Thorn before him, Fador understood that in an open opposition he would lose. The Eagles were a clan ruled by tradition, and in a time of uncertainty, they would cling to their traditions more stubbornly than ever. The Eagles had always chosen their leaders from the ranks of the young. Who would he offer instead of these two young people, whom the Eagle people already looked to for guidance? Himself? No, it would never work. What he must do is see that Thorn and Narika were properly installed into the leadership of the clan. He already had their trust. He must simply find ways to manipulate that trust and further his own ends through other channels. Raising one hand, he called for silence and gradually the assembly again came to order.

“Seeing as I can hear no true objection to what Elder Barakah suggests,” he said. “I submit that we move ahead with the marriage of these two young people this very evening and that, immediately following the wedding, we place the mantle of leadership upon their shoulders. We must show strength to the Owl clan, not disorganization or fear.”

He paused, waiting for the perhaps inevitable objections from outer edges of the assembly, but his ears were greeted instead by a nervous, anticipatory silence. Beside him, Mumtaz grumbled something indistinguishable. Then, Barakah’s clear voice rang out again:

“Elder Fador is right. We must show strength.”

Barakah’s words were answered with a general nodding of heads and mumbles of agreement.

Fador nodded as well. “Then,” he said solemnly. “If that is the decision of this assembly, let it be done.” Within minutes thereafter, the meeting broke up. With a direction at last and something concrete to do to prepare their clan for the future, most of the Eagles, elders and young folk alike, left the meeting with a renewed sense of focus visible both in the set of their faces and the purposefulness of their strides. Fador walked away with a similar sense of purpose, but his thoughts did not revolve around the upcoming wedding or even the imminent arrival of the messengers of the Owl clan. Fador’s thoughts centered instead around Barakah and how he could rid himself and the clan of her troubling influence. After all, he had managed to get rid of the Gondorians rather neatly. Barakah, a prominent elder of the clan, would not be quite so easy to eliminate as the two newly arrived outsiders, but it could be done. Fador touched the lapis inlaid hilt of his dagger. It could be done.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Surinen

The mountains had long since slid below the horizon as the small caravan reached the first well along their route. They were making good time, and Surinen harbored a private hope that perhaps they might catch up to Narayad or at least gain some rumor of him along the way. His friend was only a day's ride ahead, and seeing that the two Gondorians seemed keen on traveling swiftly, Surinen obliged them gladly, guiding them by starlight the first evening when the heat of the day had passed.

And on this, the second day of their journey, Surinen had already begun to forget his initial displeasure at being stiffly reminded by Fador of the duties of his station, and his uncle’s gentle insistence that he serve as guide to their northern visitors. Knowing that he could not prevail over the elder’s wishes, even so that he might not stop to wish Thorn well with the meeting of elders or with his impending marriage, Surinen had followed Fador to the outskirts of the camp where all stood ready, extracting from him a promise to look after his father while he was gone.

But now the outrider felt heartened for it was by happy chance Narayad had seemly taken the same path they now followed. For Surinen found, as he rode, the odd trace of his friend having passed this way ahead of them, but guessed that it was short lived and that his fellow outrider would veer off shortly after reaching this first landmark and water.

Jumping down off his horse, Surinen took the shawl off his head and threw it over his shoulder as he strode over to the well's edge. Circling it once, and finding no dangers at its side, he peered briefly over its low wall to see if any thing unfortunate had fallen in. "It is a good well!" he announced to his traveling companions in their own dialect. "Very clean." And it might have seemed to the foreigners as though a signal had been given, for the three other men of the eagle clan who accompanied them quickly dismounted, and once they had unstrapped their water skins, they set about rapidly filling them and refreshing their horses.

Surinen returned to Mithadan and Airefalas as they too dismounted and stood aside waiting for an opportunity to draw water. Hurrying past Mithadan without a word, Surinen took the water skin from behind the saddle of his horse and handed it to a stout maenwaith who had followed closely behind. The large fellow grinned at the sea captain, revealing a pronounced gap between his front teeth. Surinen turned to fetch Airefalas' water skin also, but found that the tall Gondorian held it ready in his hands, and seemed intent on filling it himself. Politely asking for the skin, Surinen explained, "This is not our well and we can not stay here. Let the others fill this, it is good to let them feel useful." Seeing that the two still seemed to have doubts about surrendering their last skin, the outrider assured them that both their water skins and their horses would be returned to them shortly, when all was ready for them to set out once more. "And while they do this, maybe you will tell me by which way I should lead you," he suggested as he looked toward the horizon that spread out under the westering sun, picturing to himself where in that wide expanse they might next expect to find water.

Airefalas then handed the skin to Surinen, who in turn passed it the other. "I suppose by the most direct way you may know," Mithadan said, as the stout maenwaith bowed slightly and carried away the skins. "If that would be considered advisable," he said turning to the outrider. "There doesn't seem to be much to conceal us other than the darkness, which ever path we choose to take."

"Ah, but I have thought of two ways to go. One would be to head deeper into the desert. It is a longer and much more difficult way, but for you maybe safer." Propounding his thoughts now in a conspiratorial tone, Surinen's dark eyes glittered beneath his brows as he lowered his voice to a whisper. "The other would be to head for a remote village by the sea. There maybe we find a fishing boat to take you home, right under Lord Falasmir's nose." He winked at them, and smiling at his cleverness, waited to see which course they might choose.

But Airefalas looked at Mithadan uncomfortably and to the outrider's chagrin he said, "We are not going home Surinen, not yet." A spike of suspicion arose unbidden in the maenwaith's heart. Maybe these men had come as spies after all, and all their stories would, given time, prove false. Was he then to lead them? Noting Surinen's reaction Airefalas spoke to his captain in a language that sounded to the outrider very much like Westron, but whose words were so confusing the maenwaith could recognize very little of it. After a moment Mithadan nodded.

The captain looked at the other two maenwaith who were still occupied with the horses and then at Surinen, whose open expression had now evaporated. "Surinen," he said slowly. "Didn't your uncle tell you were we were proposing to go?"

The wiry man looked him in the eye, unblinking as he pondered his situation. "No. Fador said only that I should take you where you wanted to go. I thought that you were to return north, and so agreed to this. But if we are not going there, where are we going?"

"Perhaps I should explain our change of plan," Mithadan said. "Before we left the encampment your uncle proposed that it would be useful for us to first go investigate this new city - Wyrma's city," the captain said cautiously. "He said that it may be of help to the Eagles if we can determine its progress and layout. And of course, it might have some value to Minas Tirith as well."

May be helpful? It would be more helpful to give the seat of Wyrma's ambition a very wide berth, Surinen thought as he clucked disapprovingly. "But it is a bad place. They don’t like eagles there," he said, with a sinking heart. He wondered what had he done that his uncle would knowingly send him near the place.

"You have seen it then?"

Surinen snapped out of his reverie. "No, no," he muttered shaking his head. "I have not seen it, but I know where it is. They say it is close to Umbar." The unfortunate truth was that the outrider knew very well where it was. Being a trusted friend of Thorn's carried with it many blessings and curses, and this bit of information was quickly coming to be viewed as one of the latter to Surinen.

"Close to Umbar," Airefalas' sigh echoed with dismay. "Just how close the Umbar, is it?"

"Too close," Surinen said looking up, with the hope that perhaps Airefalas was beginning to understand. "Maybe only two days ride from burnt docks and angry lords. It is not safe for you," he pleaded.

"And to be sure there are messengers traveling between the two cities," Airefalas added, looking back to Mithadan who stood behind him.

"Will you take us there, Surinen?" Mithadan asked the maenwaith directly, "To help your people?"

Surinen felt a surge of misgiving and pride, as if he was being tested, but the Gondorian captain had struck him as sincere. "If Fador said I will take you there, then I will take you. I will not leave you here." With that he turned and walked back to the others.

And sliding into another shape as they set out, a mottled brown dog ran before the horses for many hours, before he tired and again deigned to ride beside the foreigners under the stars.

[piosenniel]

Mithadan

Mithadan pulled his cloak about him as they rode through the night. It was not so much the chill that prompted this movement, as it was the desire for some small measure of privacy. The eyes of the three mounted clan’s men kept much to the sandy track before them, but often their eyes slid to the two northerners, or so it seemed, and their own faces, hidden beneath their shawls, were well concealed by shadow, impossible to read.

Fador’s words were still much in his mind as he rode along. The man had linked the future safety of his own clan with that of the safety of Gondor. From his brief meeting of Wyrma, Mithadan could well believe that she would at some point wish to extend her reach beyond her fellow maenwaith, beyond Umbar itself, northward to areas rich with possibility. And what would stop her and her allied clans? Driven by ambition, greed, whatever the motive, the roused maenwaith would be a powerful, a formidable enemy.

Still, true as the danger might be to Gondor, there was a deeper layer of mistrust which Mithadan felt toward Fador and his sudden eagerness for the aid of himself and Airefalas. Something lay beyond the fervent request for help in dealing with the tactical problems of attacking an established city. He considered the possibility that perhaps he and his companion had been summed up by the Elder and managed, as it were, into agreeing to Fador’s plan. And to what purpose? What hidden plans lay beneath the Elder’s play upon the northerners fear for their own country and people? Fador would certainly be looking out for himself and for his own clan, but in what way?

Twists and turns and possibilities of all sorts tumbled through the captain's head as his horse plodded along.

‘Enough,’ he murmured, shifting in his saddle, drawing back his hood. He’d set his own tasks for this expedition. Determine if Wyrma and her allies did indeed present a threat to Gondor and beyond that see to the possibility of finding a way to return to the north. He laughed grimly, at the daunting thought of attempting to accomplish either one.

Airefalas drew near him, asking if he had spoken. He had caught the captain’s laughter, but no further words. Mithadan chuckled, recalling his companion’s first reaction to Fador and his request. ‘I was thinking of eels, Airefalas,’ he said. ‘Slippery eels and the rocks they hide beneath.’ He grinned at Ariefalas’ bemused expression. ‘And remembering your good advice when we were asked to play our parts in this game.’

‘My advice?’ the younger man prompted.

‘Yes . . . “As long as we play with our eyes open” you said. And that’s what I was doing, keeping my eyes wide open . . .’

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Child of the 7th Age's post: Ráma and Narika

Ráma stood on tiptoe as she slipped the traditional filigree over Narika's brow, carefully centered it, and then stepped back to view her handiwork. The band was fashioned of silver, engraven all around with a medley of birds, beasts and other living creatures of the earth and the heavens. At its apex was an Eagle outlined in tiny jewels with wings and talons extended as if about to pounce on its prey. Thorne would be wearing a similar headpiece. Used only for ceremonial purposes, these treasured bands passed from one clan leader to the next and were said to depict all the true forms that had been granted to the Eagles at the beginning of Arda.

Ráma finished adjusting the long silken veil and spoke to reassure her sister, "You are lovely. Beautiful inside and out. Mother would be so proud."

"But...?" Narika could hear the unspoken reservation underlying her sister's tone.

Ráma's voice quavered as she responded, "Mother is not here. And this is all so different than what we imagined. No time to sew the traditional gowns. No time for the display of the dowries or the days of feasting. You deserve more."

Narika shook her head, "No one can replace mother, and the shadow of war hangs over all our heads. Yet otherwise I am content. I love him, Ráma. I would happily marry in rags. All these years, you and he would ride out together to tend the herds and only, at the very end of the day, would he stride into the tent to bid me an awkward and solemn goodnight. I did not even know how he felt. It was only after he voiced his intentions to mother that I understood the meaning behind his silence."

"I am happy for you," Ráma responded without hesitation. "Once I dreamed and thought it might end differently. But in my heart I knew even then. I am not ready to settle in, not with Thorne or anyone else. I only wish I understood what I am meant to do."

The silence between them hung heavy in the air. Finally, Narika spoke, "You did not listen to what that fool said in front of the Elders, surely? All that was long ago. We have had no time to talk, but Yalisha said that you had mastered another form during the time you spent in Umbar."

"Mastered another form? I would not quite put it in those terms. The forms seem to come and go at their own bidding, and I have little control over them. In any case," she added, "it was not one form, but two."

Narika stirred uneasily and wished she had more time to help her sister. The Elders maintained that, with the exception of the clan leaders, no Eagle could hold onto more than three changes in shape. With Ráma there had been the one unfortunate incident from her past and now these two in Umbar. Clearing her throat, Narika continued, "When things settle, I will certainly help you gain more control over your skills. Perhaps one of those two in Umbar was the Eagle shape?"

"No," responded Ráma tersely. Unwilling to talk about the subject any further, she handed her sister the few paltry blooms that Miri had found at the edge of the waterhole. "It is time for you to go. The whole clan awaits you. With so much sadness and doubt, we all need something to bring hope. Your love and concern for each other is a clear token of that hope." With that Ráma kissed her sister and guided her over towards the spot on the edge of camp where the rest of the clan had already gathered.

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

Hilde Bracegirdle's post: Thorn

It was dark and the heady smell of smoke and incense filled the air when the people gathered again. When the couple had taken there places one by one they approached Thorn and Narika who were standing now apart with their backs to the fire and a small group of clay pots some distance in front of them. After depositing a handful of grain in one or the other of the pots, the members of the Eagle clan filed past them both, offering their blessings. Thorn thanked each in turn. Straight and strong he looked, the fire glinting off the silver band that encircled his brow. He smiled calling each by name, warmly clasping their hands as the flames bathed the familiar faces with an orange cast.

Narika, he knew, stood beside Ráma just as he stood with Yalisha, but the sisters were screened from his view by a grass mat to his right. And as the guests disappeared behind this screen he could hear Narika’s silken voice as she too accepted the blessings of her people. As the last of the assembly found their places in the circle surrounding the fire, his sister left his side to take a small portion of grain from each of the four pots, handing them to their mother, who then rapidly parched them over the glowing embers.

Rolling up the mat that separated the couple, Ráma cast it on the fire, and accepted the small bowl of parched grain that Thorn’s mother offered to her. As the screen blazed briefly, Thorn watched Ráma carry the bowl to where Fador and Barakah now stood by the clay pots. So grave the elders’ faces were. Indeed strange and solemn this gathering seemed, lacking the merriment that normally accompanied a union within the clan. What would Suri say? He knew that his friend, given a half a chance would fill his ears, lecturing him that this was not the proper way to celebrate such joyful moment in his life. And he would have to agree, but it was not to be helped. But searching the crowd, Thorn could not find Surinen, though old Dinsûl sat there with his thin legs crossed under him.

Yalisha touched his elbow and he looked over to where the screen had been. There stood Narika clothed not in the elaborate garments of tradition; yet beautiful she was for her simple dress and handful of bright flowers, like the bloom of the land after rain, and the strength of her spirit shone in her bearing. The thought that he had waited far too long pierced his heart. For now this day would be mixed always with grief and thoughts of war, in memory. Moving to her side she let fall the veil from her face and he took from his sash the necklace he had recast for her so many years ago in Umbar. Laying it about her neck he spoke to her softly as if she were a songbird he did not wish to frighten. ‘I would that we had been bound to one another in better times than this, Narika. How can I ask you and your sister to be happy when you have suffered far more than the rest of us….” He looked out to where Ráma waited alongside Barakah. “It does not matter to me what difficulties we must face so long as we face them together, but know that I will always be sorry to have deprived you of the proper ritual.”

“Do not worry Thorn, I do not require a week’s ritual to learn of your worth.” Narika whispered, smiling as his gaze returned to her. “But as for better times, together now we will work toward them and toward our clan’s survival. And all the more precious will peace seem to us then.”

Thorn’s serious expression softened. “Then let today itself mark the beginning. Let it become a true turning point for our people.” And he took her hand leading her to where Fador and Barakah waited for them.

Narika and Thorn both sat upon their heels opposite the two elders. And between the four of them, Yalisha placed a broad shallow basket with symbols woven into it. She glanced at Fador several times as she adjusted it. Finally the elder nodded, satisfied with its correct placement. After she withdrew, the elders spoke quietly with the couple for several minutes before they began taking it in turns, reciting the same ancient words that had been recited to them when they too had taken a spouse, and to their parents before them. As the clan looked on Barakah began this ancient portion of the ceremony. Taking a handful of millet from one of the pots in her thin knotted hand, she let it spill into the basket drawing a narrow line toward the south. Then uncoiling a long cord she looped it once about their upheld wrists so that the bottom portion of it dragged in the dust, saying,

‘Now you will not feel the heat of midday,
for you will be a shelter each to the other.’

Fador then withdrew barley from another of the pots, and quickly drew another line in the basket, this one very straight, pointing toward the north. Taking up the cord from their outstretched arms he made a second loop a little smaller than the first, as he spoke the next phrase,

'Now you will not feel the cold of darkness,
for you will be as warmth each to the other.'

With rice Barakah traced the third line east, and speaking these words as she made another loop still shorter,

'Now there is no more loneliness,
for you will be companion each to the other.'

Taking wheat from the last of the pots Fador made the final line toward the west. And after making the final loop he took the two ends of the cord and tied them together tightly around their wrists saying,

‘Now you are two persons,
but there is only one life before you.
Go now to enter into the path of your life together.
And as thread is strengthened when intertwined,
may each of you also be strengthened.'

Ráma then put the bowl of parched grain in the center of the basket, and watched as Thorn and her sister, their with the two hands bound, fed each other from it until the small bowl was empty, and the assembly clapped, shouting,

'May your days be long upon the earth!’

Fador spoke again and the crowd quickly quieted, for this was the signal that the end of the ceremony was to come. For it was customary that the newly joined couple should transform themselves into all the shapes at their command, so that they might always recognize each other and be recognized also by their clansmen. For many, especially the children, this was the favorite part of the ceremony, though it sometimes proved long and tiring for the participants. From the least to the greatest creature they would shift forms as the crowd watched. And it could sometimes be amusing when the couple or the animals they became where particularly mismatched.

But Thorn, knowing what to expect, quickly squeezed Narika’s hand before he felt the cord slip from his wrist and he lost hold of her, standing now as a plump sand rat before the people. He struggled to resist the strong urge to run, as he heard the crowd chuckling and as Ráma and Yalisha rushed forward to spread the cord into a circle about them. Waiting for a moment he quickly mastered the rodent’s instincts before moving to the next form, that of a thrush. But he saw that Narika had already accomplished her third, and he immediately let go that shape, moving on to the next. It was only a short while before their list was fully exhausted and two eagles stood side-by-side staring calmly at the assembly with their keen eyes.

When they allowed themselves to slip back into their given form, Thorn felt exhilarated rather than tired. He had missed the strong sense of purpose and freedom he felt in these forms. But it always was the eagle who left the longest lasting imprint. And again the clan clapped as he and Narika caught their breath. Smiling they held hands and as one they made a shallow bow before the people they were to serve. Thorn then caught up the cord in his hand and winding it quickly he presented it to Narika before lifting her chin for a kiss.
************************************************** **************

Latah

Latah arrived after the couple’s guests had been received and the ceremony had begun. Creeping quietly along the edges of the raucous crowd, like a shadow cast by the flickering light, she avoided the notice of any who might call out to her. She did not wish to speak with anyone, but felt distant and strangely guilty. And though it was not the cause of her discomfort she remembered with sadness the last time Fador and Barakah had performed this rite, when she and Narayad knelt before them. She should have been proud, for Narayad had not only shown considerable prowess in the contests of skill leading up to that moment, but also obvious pleasure at being granted her hand. But as she had knelt beside him in her heavy raiment, she had felt empty as if she moved in a dream carrying out what she knew was expected of her. Her feet had been set upon this unexpected path, and so soon Narayad had been sent from the Eagles and her father’s protection. Away from her.

Suddenly she heard a sharp ‘Hsst’ to her right. There was Dinsûl trying to get her attention as he sat in the crowd. She was cheered to see her elderly uncle, and with a smile she threaded her way over to him. “Ah, what a beautiful evening,” she sighed, looking at the faces around her as she tucked her skirts under her and sat beside him, “And so significant too. Even the stars seem to crowd the sky to watch!” she said looking up. “But most of all I am glad that you are here so that we may watch this together.”

“And I am glad that you are as well. I had been looking for you,” Dinsûl replied, pale eyes shining in the dim light. “Where have you been hiding all day?”

In truth, she had thought it better to remain aloof until her father told her it was safe to answer any question regarding the Gondorians, but curiosity had brought her out of her tent, for her father had returned in the afternoon saying Ayar’s daughter was to be married and receive her commission as soon as the sun had set. But Latah’s uncle knew her too well, and she felt self-conscious as she now avoided his glance. “I have not been hiding, but have only kept busy,” she said, hoping he would not ask after the sea captain or his first mate.

“Hmm, busy is it? It is a good thing for you to stay busy now that Narayad is gone, but you have missed much that you should have heard!” Dinsûl said patting her knee to draw her attention back to him again, just as he had done when she was young and easily distracted. “It concerns you my dear girl, just as it concerns all of us,” the old man said looking into her warm eyes.

“Ah but nothing it seems should be of concern to me,” she let escape, looking away as her father tied the cord tightly around Narika’s and Thorn’s wrists. “See, I am here to witness as Narika and Thorn are united and the Eagles are delivered into their care. I have not missed a word.”

“I do not mean this, Latah. The elders have said that we can no longer ignore our troubles with this Wyrm. They have said that for the good of all maenwaith we must rise up against her leadership, especially now. I heard that word has come this afternoon that another leader has been killed by her. Latah, in all my years I have never heard of such a Wrym as this, trickier than a trader from Khand she is!

“Narika and Thorn are planning to leave as soon as they have talked to the Owls. They want to collect the remaining clans that are faithful to the old ways and rebel against Wyrma. Even Ráma is leaving to try to find the Great Eagles, to ask for help and advice.” The news fell heavily on the young woman. Stunned into silence, she hung her head and sat mutely sorting through what her uncle had told her. Cocking his head to one side Dinsûl brushed back the wavy curtain of hair so that he could see her face. “Not everyone was quick to decide, of course, but it is true.”

Latah saw that Dinsûl guessed that her father had neglected to tell her this news and that he was cautious and worried; with Surinen gone the old man had no one to help ease his mind. But Latah did not know what to say to her uncle. Her immediate thought was neither of herself or her people, and as the crowd shouted their wishes to the newly joined couple, her mind was very far away, not wholly grasping what this war would mean to those surrounding her. These conflicts had always been something that had been diligently avoided. All that she could think of was the little caravan making its way slowly across the desert, and the two tall northerners.

“What of Surinen?” she suddenly asked turning to face Dinsûl. “Will they send for him?”

“Oh Suri, Suri!” the old man sighed, visibly distressed. “Where has he gone? Do you know? He did not send me word when he’d be back, only that he’d be gone for quite some time, and I have not heard anyone mention him. But isn’t Narayad also wandering? I have seen bad times before this and he of all people should not be rootless in the days that are coming. No one will risk helping him!”

Narayad! Latah thought. What Dinsûl said was true. Chances were that her husband would not learn quickly enough of the Eagles’ decision or even of the changing nature of the struggle. And it troubled her that she had not thought of it immediately. Latah wanted to unburden her heart and tell Dinsûl all that she knew, but as she looked furtively toward Fador she saw that the ceremony was over. Indeed, as her father was occupied arranging for the contents of the clay pots to be emptied into sacks and removed, Thorn took the importunity to walk over to them.

“Latah! Dinsûl!” Thorn cried as he approached. “I am glad to find you here.” He took both their hands in his, as he had not done before the ceremony. “I have missed Surinen, do either of you know why he has not come? Is he not well?”

Dinsûl’s brow furrowed. “He is as well as usual, I expect. But didn’t you send my son on some errand?” he asked, “For he left the encampment, and I am told he won’t be back for some time.”

“It was not I that sent him,” Thorn assured him. “Why? Where has my friend gone that he can not be here tonight?”

Before Dinsûl could speak, Latah touched the old man’s arm. “It was my father that has sent Suri, to act as guide.”

“Guide?” Thorn echoed. “Who is he guiding and to where?”

Latah took a deep breath. “He has gone to act as guide for the Gondorians, but do not worry, Uncle,” she said placing a gentle hand on Dinsûl’s back. “He is not alone. Yemnya and Zahur have gone with him. I do not know any more than this, but I think that they must be headed north.”

“Heading home, I should think.” Thorn said, “That is good.” And he asked her when they had left. She explained that it was just the day after Narayad had set out.

“Dinsûl, it seems that no one has told either of us about the elder’s decision to send the Gondorians away. But after tonight I should be better able to keep you informed regarding your son’s whereabouts.” Thorn turned to see that the elders were waiting for him, so that the second ceremony might begin. “But if you will excuse me Latah, I see Narika and your father desire my presence.” Looking up, past Thorn, Latah saw her father stood steadily poised watching them, and suddenly she felt ashamed.

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

Child's post:


"Thorn, although time is short, there is something I would share with you." Fador stepped over to the young maenwaith, leading him to a spot a few paces distant where few guests lingered, and then spoke in a lowered voice. "We must start the ceremony. Yet I would be remiss if I did not mention one thing. The times are difficult. It is hard to know what to do. You are brave and hardy, yet still young. I merely want to let you know that I am here to help. If you should need me any time, day or night, do not hesitate to ask for counsel. For my own part, I will do everything I can for you and your wife, to offer advice and support that will bring our clan through this time of trouble. But now it is time for us to begin. Step forward with your wife to assume the leadership of the clan." He turned and smiled encouragingly at Narika who had walked up during the latter part of their conversation.

The young couple made their way over to the embroidered mat in the middle of the gathering on which Barakah had already set out the few simple things that would be used in the naming cermony. On the rug sat a beaker of water, a pearl of great beauty and luminescence, and an ornate dagger with its hilt emblazoned in jewels.

Fador hurried to the front, hastily brushing Barakah to the side, and raised his hand to the assemblage as he asked for silence. "We come now to our final task. Our dear leader Ayar is gone, but she has left us with good counsel. It was her wish that Thorn and Narika should wed, and that these two jointly take on the headship. Narika will protect our customs and lore that we may follow the ways of our ancestors, while Thorn will be the bulwark of our defense, shielding the clan from its enemies. Together, with my assistance and that of the other Elders, these two will make the decisions that must be made in these hard times. Narika, my lady, would you go first?"

Narika walked onto the mat and sat down cross legged. She reached over and picked up the pearl cradling it gently against her body as she intoned the traditional words, "May I guard and protect the traditions of our clan just as I shield this pearl today within the safety of my palm. For like this gem, our traditions once gone can never be replaced. They are part of who we are and, without them, we are but shifting sand."

At that moment Thorn came over and sat beside her, reaching out his hand to lift up the dagger and brandish it before the assembled guests. "May I fulfill your trust in me. I will not take up any weapon lightly, but when danger assails the clan--whether from beast or invader--I will stand true until that danger has passed. And I pledge to do so even at the cost of my life."

Finally, Thorn picked up the cup of water and drank from it, and handed it to Narika who did likewise. For a final time, she spoke: "This cup is filled with water, that which is deemed most precious. For desert dwellers, it represents the boon of life. May Thorn and I make wise decisions that will preserve the life of our clan as well as the lives of all who make up this circle today."

Fador came forward and placed a hand on each of their shoulders, motioning them to rise. Then he turned the couple around to face the crowd, calling out in a firm voice, "What say you then, Eagles, would you confirm the choice that Ayar and the Council have made?"

A loud cry went up from the gathering, a cry of jubilation and hope that rang through the assemblage and thundered out onto the sandy reaches that surrounded the camp. Holding his hands above his head, Fador responded in kind , "It is so ordered then. May Ayar's wish, and that of the Council and the people be honored. Thorn and Narika, you are awarded the headship of the clan. Your fate and that of the Eagles is bound together as one. And may I be the first to share my good wishes."

The Elders crowded in to offer congratulations. Barakah was the first to reach Narika and extended her hand in welcome, "You are our hope, little one, a promise that better times are possible. May that hope find its fulfillment in the coming months and years." Then she turned and hugged Narika and Thorn as the crowd surged forward to offer its wishes and support.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Tinar awoke early; the fire had died down to a faint glow, and he shivered in the chill of the morning air. The sky was beginning to lighten up, almost imperceptibly as yet, but as he looked over to his companions, he could tell that Hasrim’s bedroll was empty. He had disappeared the previous evening without saying why, but he had flown in the direction of the Eagle encampment. Tinar walked to the southern edge of the oasis and peered into the sky so intently that he did not hear the whirr of wings behind him. He jumped in surprise when a familiar but unexpected voice spoke.

“Are you looking for me, little brother? I’m afraid that is the wrong direction!” Kumat sounded amused.

Tinar spun around, more delighted to see his brother’s face than he ever thought he could be. “What are you doing here?” he exclaimed.

“Did you really think our mother would let her youngest disappear without notice and not send out a search party?” Kumat said with a touch of sarcasm.

“I’m not sure it’s whether she cares or just because she needs to keep us all under her control,” Tinar commented with unwonted insight. Kumat looked at him closely; he realized suddenly that the child to which he was accustomed had changed during the past days and weeks since he had last seen him. “Tell me, what is happening at home?” the young man continued.

“Well, the wall is finally growing,” Kumat answered. “Halfr’s soldiers were ordered to help with it; they grumbled, but obeyed.” He lowered his voice, glancing over at Korpulfr’s prostrate form. “I was glad to get away – it feels too much like a cage to me.”

“You were never very good at staying in one place more than necessary,” Tinar laughed softly. “No woman, not even Mother, was able to keep you for long.”

Kumat grinned. “She is wise enough not to try to make me do the same tasks as our elder brothers, but make no mistake about it – she uses me, and she will find ways to use you unless you can free yourself from her web. But not just yet, I think – she has sent me to bring you back.”

Tinar sighed. “It doesn’t look like I’m going anywhere here, so I may as well come back with you, I suppose.” A slight movement in the sky toward the horizon aroused his attention. “If I am not mistaken, that is Hasrim coming back.”

They waited for the black bat to alight and resume his human shape before greeting him, but he interrupted them with hurried words. “We must pack our things and leave immediately,” he exclaimed. “Kor!” he called, striding over to the fire and quickly kicking sand on the remaining ashes.

Within minutes, they had packed their things and were ready to mount their horses. Tinar wondered that Hasrim and Korpulfr hesitated, apparently engaged in a heated debate, though they had lowered their voices and he could not hear what they spoke. Finally they joined the two brothers and Kor said, “Tinar, I’m sorry, but you cannot go with us. You are known to the Gondorians as Wyrma’s son, and Hasrim says that the Eagles are very hostile to all that concerns your mother. They may have influenced the Northerners against you.”

Tinar groaned, protesting. “Just when something finally happens, I have to leave?”

His friend was firm in his verdict, and Kumat agreed with him. “It is better that you come with me; if they are indeed coming to our city, you will be able to get all the excitement you want there. But can you keep up with me, little sparrow?”

Tinar lifted his chin with a hint of his mother’s stubbornness and pride. “Do you think a sparrow would have made it this far?” he retorted. “Take care that you keep up with me!”

“That is good,” said Kor. “We can keep your horse and baggage; then it will look like we have been trading.”

As the horses and their riders left, kicking up dust from the sandy desert ground, two birds arose in flight. Had an observer watched, he would have wondered at the fact that a desert owl and a falcon flew together.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

The horses were well-rested; Korpulfr and Hasrim made good time. When they arrived at the watering place, there was no sign of the other travellers. Soon Kor was taking care of the animals while the black bat flew southwards to see if Fador’s information had been correct. He did not have to fly far before he saw the cloud of dust and counted five riders. Satisfied, he returned.

It was nearly dusk when they came. A fire was burning, and it smelled of food. They dismounted, glad to stretch their weary limbs. The two strangers who sat at the fire arose and greeted them cordially. Mithadan and Airefalas looked attentively as Korpulfr introduced himself but said nothing. They gratefully accepted the offer of hot coffee to drink, a southern custom they had come to appreciate.

Later, wrapped in their blankets to ward off the chill of the desert night, they spoke softly. “That man was our host for the dinner in Umbar!” Airefalas exclaimed. Mithadan nodded. “Do you think he recognized us?” the first mate continued.

“I’m sure he must have – we don’t look like desert dwellers,” the captain replied. “I wonder why he said nothing – more games?”

Airefalas shivered slightly. “It is possible,” he mused. “Things are getting complicated; I hope we can see our way through clearly enough to survive.”

“As do I,” Mithadan agreed. “The new day will show more – it appears that our new friends travel with us. I wonder, is it only chance that they take the same way at the same time?”

[Ealasaide]

Airefalas

The travelers broke camp well before sunrise and, by the time the sun's rays broke over the eastern horizon, were well underway once more. The Walled City still lay several days' ride distant, yet Airefalas knew that, hour by hour, it grew ever nearer. He wondered what they would find when they got there. He frowned to himself and pulled the head shawl he had taken to wearing closer around his face. A stiff breeze had risen in the night, carrying with it a fine sand that chafed the travelers' exposed skin and covered their clothes, their horses, their packs with a coating of pale dust. With only his eyes exposed, he looked over at Mithadan, who had ridden forward to converse with Korpulfr, the young merchant who had hosted them at a dinner party on the night he and Mithadan had escaped from Umbar. Was it a coincidence that the fellow had shown up to join them now? If so, then what could he hope to gain by pretending not to recognize them? It made Airefalas distrust the fellow's motives. He would be interested in finding out from Mithadan later what they had talked about, if the merchant had continued to feign unfamiliarity with them, or if he had chosen to offer an explanation for his behavior of the night before.

Surinen, their Eagle guide, on the other hand, had made his feelings toward their new companions quite clear. He had spent most of the evening before in the shape of a dog, keeping watch from a spot just outside of camp. He had retaken his human form as they remounted their horses in the morning, but had instantly kicked his horse into a gallop and now rode at a good distance ahead of the rest of the group. Catching Mithadan's attention, Airefalas pointed ahead toward the guide and indicated with a gesture that he intended to ride ahead to join him. Mithadan nodded. Airefalas chupped to his horse and galloped forward, slowing only as his horse drew up alongside Surinen's mount.

Seeing him, Surinen raised his chin in greeting, but said nothing.

Airefalas dropped his head shawl. For a brief instant, he considered making some kind of small talk, but then decided the better of it. He might as well get right to the point.

"So," he said bluntly. "What do you make of our new companions?"

Surinen turned to look at the northerner, then shrugged. "Why ask me? I only take you where you want to go."

This time, Airefalas shrugged. "I trust your opinion. You seem to dislike these men and I would like to know why."

"They are Wolves," said the maenwaith guide rather sullenly, as though that statement would explain everything.

Airefalas made an open gesture with one hand. "Yes? So?"

"The Wolves and the Eagles are no longer of a common mind. The Wolves have thrown in their lot with the Wyrm and are not to be trusted. These men that you and your captain seem to like so much serve the Wyrm." The outrider turned and looked back over his shoulder. "It is no trick of chance that they have joined us. They watch us. They wait."

"Wait for what?"

The outrider faced forward again, and leaned over to speak a quick word in his own dialect to the horse. The animal broke into a trot. For an instant, Airefalas let the distance grow between them, then kicked his own horse into a trot. When he had once more fallen into step beside the outrider, he gave the maenwaith guide a searching look.

"They wait for what?" he asked.

Surinen shrugged again. "For what, for what," he echoed angrily. "What do you think they wait for? They wait for the chance to serve their mistress."

Airefalas reined his horse to halt and watched the retreating back of the outrider as he continued to ride at a fast trot toward the north. Thinking hard, Airefalas turned his horse and rode back in the direction of Mithadan and the others. If the Wolves had not happened upon them by chance, then what Surinen had to say had an ominous ring. He thought of the way Fador had attempted to manage him and Mithadan into making this trip in the first place and a cold knot began to form in the pit of his stomach. Was it possible that Fador had known the Wolves were out there, waiting? If so, then he and Mithadan were walking into a trap. He wondered if Fador’s "kinsmen" were in on the plot as well. He looked past Mithadan to where the two Eagles rode, bringing up the rear of the procession. They traveled with only their eyes exposed, eyes that remained fixed with cold determination upon Mithadan’s back.

They wait for the chance to serve their mistress... Did these men serve Wyrma as well? If so, he and Mithadan were surrounded by enemies, with only Surinen as their ally. But what if Surinen was mistaken? Perhaps the outrider had his own axe to grind with these men. What if the Wolves were not minions of Wyrma? What if Fador’s kinsmen were merely kinsmen and watched Mithadan so closely only to make certain that he came to no harm at the hands of these Wolves, these strangers who had joined them in the dusk on a lonely stretch of sand, where none but jackals might come upon their bones for weeks should anything ill befall them. Airefalas shook his head. So many questions, so many layers of truth and deception. Seeing Mithadan still deep in conversation with the young Wolf merchant, he found himself growing doubly curious as to the content of their conversation. He hoped the Wolf had had a good reason for pretending not to know them.

Sighing, Airefalas squinted up at the high arc of pale blue sky, wishing that such a thing as navigational charts existed for the sea of sand. He had a solid knowledge of the stars in the southern sky, so finding his direction would not be a problem, but he knew nothing of the terrain in the deep desert. The word among sailors was that the open sand could be just a treacherous to the uninitiated as the open sea could be to those unfamiliar with her ways. Nonetheless, he felt a strong inclination toward telling Mithadan that perhaps they would be better off ditching all of their companions and striking out on their own, leaving the maenwaith of all ilks to work out their problems themselves. After all, this coming war that everyone seemed so worked up about was probably just a local squabble, anyway, and would turn out in the end to have very little to do with himself, Mithadan, or Gondor. They should wash their hands of the entire business, he decided grumpily.

Just then, Fador's two kinsmen, who had been bringing up the rear of the procession drew up alongside him. One of them, the stouter of the two, said something guttural and pointed ahead toward the other travelers. Airefalas nodded and rode forward to join the rest of the group, momentarily distracted by a small tug he had felt at the back of his mind, like a hand at the hem of his cloak. Latah. What would happen to her in the event of a war? Did it really matter what became of her? After all, he barely knew her. Besides, she was maenwaith, not to mention another man's wife. Frowning darkly, Airefalas resolved to put her out of his mind, but soon found that the harder he tried to forget her, the more clearly her face and the sound of her voice became defined in his memory. Finally, he had to admit it. At least to him, she did matter. Very much.

[piosenniel]

For the time being, this game will be stashed safely in Elvenhome.

Upon request it can be resurrected for continued play.

~*~ Pio