Here There Be Dragons - RPG

[Mithadan]

The breeze which entered through the open window was hot and carried with it a variety of odors. The sea tang was ever present, even as it had been in Lond Lefnui, the home of his youth. The scent of burning wood and cooking meats was also in the air. These were familiar to Mithadan. Less familiar were the smells of the odd local flowers and fruits, yet these at least were pleasant. But less pleasant were other smells. For the air was infused with the fumes of rotting garbage and even sewage.

The Havens of Umbar were a mighty port and city, located on the verge of the great sea. Many were the towers and spires of Umbar and the hill which overlooked the port was crowded with the houses and warehouses of the rich; the traders, lords and princelings of the city. But outside the opulence of the central square, the hill and the primary docks were the homes of the less well off. The farther one traveled to the south and east of the palace of Umbar's Lord Falasmir (as he was known in Westron) the poorer was the housing until the surroundings degenerated into a maze of hovels and shacks; a place of filth and violence. To the north was a river on which inland trade was conducted and across the river were plantations and farms.

Between the city and the slums to the south was a vast market which lay in a broad arc around the base of the hill. There, a dizzying variety of goods and services could be had. Spices, foods, fine cloth, gems and metals were sold there, as were animals, including the odd humped beasts that some rode instead of horses. In the center of the market was a square which was bordered by a large, fenced-in pen. But the pen housed not animals but rather men and women who were bought and sold for use as servants, beasts of burden and less humane tasks. Mithadan shuddered at the mere thought of that place.

Weeks ago, the trade minister to King Elessar had approached him to undertake a voyage to Umbar, one of the first since the War of the Ring. Mithadan had been reluctant at first, but a personal note from the King had persuaded him. Piosenniel had been angry, both because of the possible danger as well as because he would not allow her to accompany her on the voyage. They had argued long into the night until she agreed to remain at home with the children, at least for this one voyage. Gilwen, Isilmir and even little Cami had accompanied their parents on a number of voyages to the north, even to the Grey Havens. But this time, they could not come along and Mithadan had steadfastly insisted that his wife stay with them. "Perhaps six weeks at the most," he said. "Likely five or less. We will not be long separated."

Three weeks and five days had now passed since they had left port. The Lonely Star's holds were nearly empty. The ship had carried a cargo of fine wood from Lebennin as well as the work of Gondor's craftsmen
when she had departed from Minas Anor. When she reached Umbar, she had been escorted into her berth by a black sailed corsair. The cargo had been off-loaded in a matter of days and had fetched a fine price. Then Mithadan and his crew had been eager to deal with the local traders for spices and other rarities with which to return to Gondor.

But Falasmir's trade minister has suggested (almost demanded) they wait. He explained that a great caravan was expected which
would deliver the best and newest goods at better prices. In the interim, Mithadan and his first mate, Airefalas, were invited to stay at the palace, "for just a few days, until the caravan arrives." In the interim, the crew were invited to shop at the Great
Market and enjoy the hospitality of the port.

Whenever his crew went abroad they were accompanied by guards. Yet even so, it seemed that crewmembers were often separated from their "guides" when in the Market. They learned quickly to maintain their sense of direction and keep to the north side of the Market, away from the ghettos of the south. At least two of his crew were robbed and beaten when they wandered too far. Others had their purses cut by pickpockets. Mithadan was ultimately forced to order his crew to stay aboard the ship except in broad daylight while travelling in groups of four or more. Even then, they ventured into the city only one group at a time. It was not long before they became bored and began to
complain, for the "few days" stretched out to a week and he had heard no word of the caravan, at least until this morning.

A messenger arrived from the trade minister bearing a note. It read: "The caravan is now two days away. Its advance riders have now arrived. Please honor the Lord Falasmir with your presence this evening for dinner, where you will be introduced to Umbar's most
reputable traders. Please attend to the Lord Falasmir this evening at six bells at the Great Hall."

Mithadan placed the note on a table, and turned to Airefalas. "Well, it seems that we may yet escape this place," he said to his first mate. "The caravan approaches and we are invited to dinner to meet some traders."

"Say not 'escape'," said Airefalas. "I do not like the sound of it. Say rather that we will depart with a full hold sooner rather than later. The Lord Falasmir's hospitality aside, I am eager to return home. I feel as if we have been delayed intentionally. What can this caravan hold that we cannot purchase here already?"

"I also am ready to leave," answered Mithadan. "I have not been separated from Piosenniel and the children for this long since Cami was but a babe in swaddling cloths. Falasmir, I am sure, wishes only to
present Umbar in the bast light possible. Yet I too chafe at the delay."

"At least the wine is good," said Airefalas with a slight laugh as he raised a cup. "It is the only thing that has kept the crew from mutiny, cooped as they are on the Star."

Mithadan nodded. "They are not yet that bored, and they have had a chance to explore such of the city as they might wish. And they have all filled their cabins with trade goods of their own. They will be happy when we return to Gondor."

Airefalas sipped from his cup and looked out the window at the city. The bray of some beast of burden echoed through the streets below. "None too soon," he muttered.

[piosenniel]

Pio's post - Piosenniel

The air was still and thick with the dust of several old leather-bound volumes she had pulled from the shelves. Here, on the fourth floor, in a tiny cubicle at the back of a larger room Pio sat cross-legged on the floor, the journal of one Cemendil, a trader in cochineal and indigo in the Southern Lands, perched on her knee. She was only half way through the faded pages and already yawning from the heat of the little room and inactivity. ‘I will never get this read here,’ she said to the dancing motes in the shaft of sunlight from the small window.

She laid the journal on the floor beside her and went to the door to check for the docent who had shown her to this place. She could just see his head bobbing over some bound manuscript at the far end of the big room, stopping every so often to scribble notes in the little chapbook that was his constant companion. He was engrossed in some obscure research for a class he was teaching, and for all intents and purposes had forgotten her presence.

‘Good,’ she thought to herself. With his nose stuck in his book, his thoughts wrapped round the rule of King Ostoher and the rebuilding of Minas Anor it would be easier getting round him. She picked up Cemendil’s journal and stuck it into the waistband of her breeches, letting the loose folds of her tunic hide the rectangular lump that now graced her belly. Her eyes searched quickly through the stacks for a volume of similar size and color, and having found one, she placed it into the hole where the other one had stood, the intimate companion to a book on fishing techniques found favorable along the River Morthond and another small leather journal that bore the inscription, The Sandpiper, in faint black lettering against faded red.

A captain’s log, she discovered, when she took it down and leafed quickly through the tattered edged pages. Charts of tides and currents, carefully noted with details of shoals and reefs marked clearly. ‘Lovely,’ she thought, running her fingers over the maps the good captain had made for his lugger as she plowed the waves along the shores from Cobas Haven to a small cove just south of Umbar, at the foot of the Grey Mountains. ‘Perhaps I should take this, too,’ she murmured, thinking her own store of sea charts plotted mostly the courses for ships in deeper waters. Into her waistband at the back of her breeches went the ship’s log. And again a search was mounted for a like volume to replace it.

Once done, she crept quietly behind the hunched over figure and his book on Early Gondorian History. Moving quickly to the door, she cleared it, just as his head turned in her direction. Down the hall, down the steps, she strode, her feet hurrying her down further as she made the descent from the fifth tier to the first and out the Southern Gate of the Rammas Echor. Her mount was there, a grey gelding called Sinda, waiting patiently in the green field to the west of the South Road. Pio clambered up onto the horse, her mount-up made clumsy by the unyielding tomes that splinted her mid-section.

‘Home,’ she directed, flicking the reins lightly on Sinda’s neck. The horse set off at a leisurely pace. He had taken his rider so often on this route that he could have found his way to and fro blindfolded. A short half hour later found him at the small dwelling nestled at the foot of Mindolluin.

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

It was later that night, when the little ones were tucked in bed, that Pio got out her journal. It was an irregular habit at best, but she had told herself she would keep the unspoken promise to her old friend Cami when she had found the unused journal among the others left behind in the Shire. Lately, though, she had found herself writing down her thoughts more often . . . beginning with the day her hidebound husband had declared she would not be accompanying him on his voyage south.

The children, thankfully, had been on an overnight outing with their Aunt Rilwen, the wife of Gaerion, Mithadan’s older brother, when Mithadan had come home from the city, announcing he was to put together a trading mission to Umbar. Pio was surprised at the news. She knew the King’s minister had made the request some time before, and Mithadan had been reluctant to take it on. But now Elessar himself had urged Mithadan to undertake this on his behalf, and Mithadan had agreed.

Pio seized on the opportunity, assuming she would accompany him to Umbar. It would be the perfect opportunity she told him, for her to see what information she could ferret out on their old friend Bird. They had not heard from her in three years, since she had gone south seeking news of her kin. Her absence was always present at the back of Pio’s mind, an uneasy sense of loss. Of further concern to her, though none the less important, was that the Southern realms were still unsettled. Respect for the new King’s rule was tenuous in Umbar – given their long history of animosity toward Gondor and the pockets of shadow that yet remained despite the outcome of the War. Another able blade might keep the balance tipped toward the side of Mithadan’s and the crew’s safety.

Mithadan had listened carefully to Pio’s hastily conceived plan, and then, in his irritating way, had just as carefully detailed for her why she could not go. He could, and would, see to the safety of himself and his crew, he had informed her. She need not concern herself with that. Further, the children could not come, and he would not have them left at home without either parent for the five or so weeks it would take to complete the mission. They were too young he had told her, and he insisted that she stay with them, despite the fact that she argued his older brother and his wife would be happy to care for them this one time.

The morning after his announcement found him bleary eyed, his face drawn with fatigue, but unmoved by any of the arguments that Pio mustered. It was with great reluctance and a simmering anger at being thwarted that she acceded to his ‘request’.

Her anger had cooled these last two weeks; a non-useful emotion that produced at best only haphazard solutions to a problem, she concluded. She still chafed at the fact that she had not been allowed to go, but there were only two more weeks before the Lonely Star would return. Pio smiled as she turned back to those first few days in the journal – the words pig-headed . . . obstinate . . . perverse . . . doggedly stubborn . . . narrow-minded . . . stiff-necked . . . hidebound . . . , among others, stood out on the white background of the pages, underscored and smeary where she had stabbed them out on the innocent vellum.

What had not waned was her concern for Mithadan’s safety. His assurances aside, she felt uneasy that she would not be there should he need her.

The night was warm; a breeze blew in from the river, carrying the tang of the Anduin faintly to her as she sat on the stone bench in the garden. Light, from the brass lantern hung on the fig tree’s branch above her, obscured her view of the night sky, drawing her attention in to the blank page of the journal that lay open on her knee. Picking up Cemendil’s Journal, she flipped through the pages, making hasty notes in her own when something of interest struck her. Then, with measured strokes she charted the course of her day, pushing worries she could do nothing about from her mind for a brief space of time.

[piosenniel]

Pio’s post - Rôg

The last part of their journey, from Druadan Forest to the White City, had been a pleasant one. There had been much to see and discuss as they passed on the outskirts of the forest, making their way to the thickets of Grey Wood. ‘We can pass through these,’ the old man had said. ‘It will be safe for you to do so. No poisoned arrows to be wary of.’

Late autumn held the woods in thrall. Birds were few, just the hardy souls who had not as yet gone south to warmer climes. Or those brave ones who staked their claims in these trees year round. Ravens and crows – their raucous tale-telling echoing off the bare trees as the travelers passed.

Three days of travel had brought them to Gondor, and to an Inn the old fellow said was comfortable, the owner discrete. ‘The ale is good,’ he’d said. ‘And wine and other spirits from Elessar’s kingdom find their way to the cellars of the Seventh Star. Possibly something from your homeland.’

Rôg smiled within the folds of his brown hood, pulling his cloak more tightly about him as a chilly breeze gusted. He would be glad to leave these northern lands with their promise of increasing cold. And gladder still to be spending the night in the warmth of an Inn.

‘Come,’ he invited, holding the door open for his companion. ‘We’ll find a table by the fire. I’ll see if they have the spiced wine you favor.’

The old fellow’s eyes glinted with anticipation, his face wreathed with a merry smile. Twitching his cloak about him, so as not to catch on the roughened frame of the door, the old man entered, his staff thumping loudly on the wood, small swirls of dust floating up from each footstep.

Rôg entered close behind, shutting the door firmly against the outside cold. His nose wrinkled slightly at the musty smell; his eyes narrowed at the layers of grime and dust.

‘So, this is the Seventh Star, eh, my friend,’ he murmured softly to his companion as they seated themselves at a table near the small, crackling fire. ‘And the ale, you say, is good?’ Rôg propped his feet on the nearby hearth, relishing the feel of the welcome heat through his boots. He pushed back his hood as he leaned toward the flames to warm his hands. The flickering fire caught the small gold stud that winked from the top inner curve of his left ear. Shoulder length black hair fell forward, brushing across the olive plane of his cheek.

‘Shall I get us something to drink then?’ he asked after a few moments, sitting back in his chair. ‘And perhaps something to eat?’

[piosenniel]

Pio’s post - Rôg

A courteous voice intruded into the space between the old man and the younger. Looking up, Rôg acknowledged with a nod the serving girl, apron in hand, who had asked the question. ‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’

‘Wine, goodmistress,’ he replied with a look at his companion. ‘Warm and spiced, if you will.’ He leaned close to the old man and murmured something to him, a question, an observation. ‘And a loaf of brown bread, if you please, with some of that soft farmer’s cheese to spread thick on it.’ The old man leaned near him, the breathy softness of his request barely audible. ‘And honey . . . yes, honey . . . and an apple . . . that would be nice.’

When the food had come, the two settled in to enjoy it. That is, they did so after a few moments of silence, and the placing of a small amount of each of the foods on an extra plate they asked for. Noting the curious glances of the others when he placed the little plate of offerings toward the far edge of the hearth, Rôg smiled at the woman, who stood nearest.

‘For our little friends,’ he said, as if she were to understand it was an everyday occurrence. He nodded at the little plate partly hidden behind the hearth broom that leaned against the stones. ‘They may be hungry, and we have plenty to share, thanks to you.’ His voice drifted off as his hand hovered over the remaining food, seeking his next delight. The explanation, such as it had been, was punctuated by the crunch of his even white teeth through the crisp, red apple.

[piosenniel]

Mithadan’s post – Baran

Mírënin, for that was the serving girl’s name, had barely tied the apron's strings when the door to the Inn swung open again. The girl turned to welcome the latest arrival, blinking against the morning sun which streamed in through the open door. A smile, however, did not quite reach her face. Instead, her eyes opened wide as the morning's light was eclipsed by a figure which filled, nay, more than filled the doorway.

He turned slightly sideways and ducked so that his mane of brown hair cleared the portal's frame. Then he straightened and sniffed dubiously at the air before stepping forward into the common room. "Mercy!" said a patron, the first to recover his voice. "Darkness at mid-day! Would you look at the size of him!"

'He' was a good head taller than the innkeeper and broader as well. His hair, which was long and tied in a single plait reaching halfway down his back, was brown as the leaves of an oak tree in the fall. The length of his hair in back was nearly matched by his long and curling beard in front. He wore a heavy green cloak over a brown tunic and breeches held by a woven rope belt. His boots were of some sturdy padded cloth. In one hand he held a staff, but if he bore any other weapon none there could see it.

Stepping forward, he looked down at Mírënin and grinned slightly at her sagging jaw. Then he spoke in a voice as deep as distant thunder. "A table if you please? And a cup of..." At that moment, a grey-clad server hurried up with a large cup of mead which she placed upon a table. Still unable to speak, Mírënin pulled out a chair for the new guest. He sat gingerly, waiting for the seat to stop creaking before resting his full weight on it.

At this point, with the eyes of all patrons upon the newcomer and the innkeeper's eyes upon her, Mírënin found her voice at last. "M-m-m-ay we get you some breakfast sir?" she asked. "Perhaps some bacon or ham?"

The man shuddered as if he had been offered a dragon's venom. "No!" he said sharply. "But some bread with butter and honey and perhaps a few apples would do me well."

Even as Mírënin turned towards the kitchen, a server swept by, dropping off a platter with a half of a loaf of bread, slathered with butter and honey and a small basket of green apples. Almost dizzy, Mírënin turned back to the table with a gasp. Then, regaining her composure, she nodded her head and said, "Welcome to the Seventh Star, sir. I am Mírënin." At that moment, she remembered to smile.

The man drained his cup in a single draught, then answered. "I am Baran and I am from the Vale of Anduin where I dwelt in the North 'ere beginning my journey."

[piosenniel]

Mithadan’s post – Baran

The serving girl had been humming a tune as she moved about the room, the words barely audible. Baran stopped her as she passed the table and asked to hear it more fully. She blushed prettily, and began her voice becoming stronger as she noted the approval in his eyes. It was a pretty song – of the Anduin and its wanderings. Baran listened to the tune and nodded his head at the lyrics. A few of the other patrons clapped with varying degrees of enthusiasm when she finished. Mírënin blushed at the accolades and hurriedly sat down with Baran.

"Pretty," he said. "Very pretty. I can't vouch for its accuracy as I didn't come here via that route though I don't doubt you have it right."

"You live in the Vale of Anduin but did not follow the river in your journey to our city?" she asked.

"Well, you see, I was not specifically traveling to Minas Anor," he answered. "I've been wandering a bit, an indirect route if you will." He paused and drained his cup again. Although this was his third cup of mead, the strong drink seemed to have little effect upon him. A server apparently agreed and his cup was quickly and quietly filled again.

"I owe you a tale," he said. "I'll give you a bit of one. Not the whole story, mind you. Can't be too careful, begging your pardon. But here it is.

"My people are...private in nature. We don't like outsiders much, except maybe for purposes of trade. We've been living in the same area for a long time. A very long time. Legend has it that long ago we traveled west with other men and even reached the ocean. This was ages ago when the Great Dark Lord still dwelt in the north. Well, we suffered there, in the west of Middle earth, and chose to turn back and move east again. So we crossed into what is now called Eriador. But even there we found Orcs and Trolls and other evil things. Then some of my kin decided to head south and get away from the evil that dwelt in the north. So they did and my people did not hear from them, except for an occasional rumour, for ages. Some said they didn't exist."

He paused to wipe a stray bit of honey from his beard and sipped at a cup of water that had appeared on the table. Then he continued. "Well, the Great Dark Lord was defeated and the lesser Dark Lord who lived yonder," he said, motioning vaguely to the east. "He arose and evil things stirred again. They didn't bother with us much at first because we...we're very strong. Though later they caused us enough trouble and we had quite a bit of fighting in the last War. But among my people it was said that there would come a day when they, meaning the people of the Dark Lord, would die and then we would return to the west and meet again our long-parted kin.

"Now most among us thought this a fable and even more didn't care whether we ever met up with our kin. We don't care much for strangers, like I said. Anyway, about 5 years or so before I was born, some strangers came up the Anduin. They brought with them a young child, maybe 3 years old, and begged us to take her. She was our kin from far away, they said, and indeed she was for she had the same sort of...skills, talents that my people do. So we took her in, even though she was kind of...different. She was a bit older than me so we didn't speak much, but I know she missed her family and her people. Truth be told, some of my people didn't care for her much, though we never mistreated her. I always thought she was nice enough...clever she was. And funny. She had a way with a joke.

"Anyways, about five years before the War, she took off on her own. She went looking for her family. Then came the War, and after the Dark Lord fell, his people, the orcs and trolls went into hiding or disappeared. Lots of them died. And some among my folk began whispering that our old legend was maybe true. Some wanted to cross the mountains again and others wanted to look for our kin, and many of the latter recalled the girl...she'd be a woman now of course.

"To shorten the story a bit, I was sent to look for her. I'm the curious type and I kind of like new things and people. So I went after her into the west and wandered about for a long time looking for clues about where to find her or my kin. I haven't found her, but...well, tell me young lady, have you heard anything about dragons hereabouts?"

[piosenniel]

Pio’s post - Rôg

Her last verse spoke of the secrets of the First and Second Born the River had seen and kept throughout its long life. The old man chuckled, and thumped his cane to the rhythm of the girl’s tune. He murmured the last two lines, slightly out of tune . . . a weird echo of sorts to her own singing of them that made the fine hair on Rôg’s arms prickle.

‘There’ll be no secrets spilled here,’ he said to himself, drawing up the hood of his cloak. His dark eyes blackened, the pupils widening to accommodate the shadows now thrown over his face. The man, Baran, he had called himself, listened appreciatively to the girl’s song. The thick fingers of one hand tapped on the table’s top, while his other brought the apple in its grasp mouthward, to be sundered by one chomp of his strong jaw and sharp teeth. Yes, he would like apples, thought Rôg, watching the man closely, as he applauded the girl’s song.

He turned back to the fire, sipping at his ale, and watched the flames wrap hungrily round the logs, their ever changing shapes dancing wildly in the thick, hot air. ‘Why has such a one come south, Dester’ edre?’ he asked the old man quietly.

[piosenniel]

Mithadan’s post – Baran

Dragons?

The girl shook her head in puzzlement. There were a number of stories she recalled that had dragons in them. But none sparked his interest as she briefly recounted them. She shrugged her shoulders as he rejected her last offering and looked at him with a frown on her face. ‘That’s all I know of dragons, sir. Perhaps if you told me more of the woman you seek, it would spur my memory.

"Well, to be truthful, I barely recall," he answered. "It was long ago that I last saw her and I was yet a child of perhaps seven years. She was short with jet black hair, quick to laugh and just as quick to anger as I recall. And she couldn't...'enchant' herself as a dragon." He laughed for a moment. "At least I don't think so," he added with a smile.

"The dragon or dragons I seek are...well, I suppose you've not heard of them. Silly I guess. Everyone says there are no dragons left unless perhaps in the Withered Heath far to the north and that kind of dragon is not what I seek."

Mírënin gnawed at her apple, but her eyes expressed confusion. Behind her, the Innkeeper cleared his throat. Realizing that she had overstepped her bounds, she jumped up and looked about. Seeing that two new customers had entered, she waved to Baran and walked off to greet the newcomers.

Baran laughed under his breath, mostly at himself. What would such a one know of wyrms or the Last Desert? You're a fool who has been wandering alone for too long. He stretched and yawned mightily. Even before he dropped his arms a server approached and motioned to a stairwell which led up to the Inn's rooms. Baran nodded and rose wearily. Mid-day or not, a bed seemed like a good idea. He dropped some coins on the table and walked towards the stairs.

Then he paused and looked back at a neighboring table. The old man there looked very familiar, but he could not quite place him. Baran nodded a greeting, then turned away and continued on. But at the foot of the stairs, he stopped again with a smile on his face.

"Where are my manners?" he exclaimed. He stooped and reached down to the floor. When he arose, in his hand was the mouse. He stoked the tiny head for a moment, then knelt and let the animal go. It stepped away, then turned and squeaked. "Well met to you too, little one," said Baran. Then he proceeded up the stairs...

[piosenniel]

Pio’s post - Rôg

Night at last. The old man had gone to bed, several cups of spiced wine glowing pleasantly in his belly. ‘Time enough to see to those parchments on the morrow,’ he told Rôg, sinking down onto the soft mattress with a satisfied oomph and a bone weary sigh. ‘The library has been there for scores of years. It will be there when the sun comes up again.’ A few moments later and soft snores floated from beneath the pile of thick woolen blankets, along with the occasional murmured word or two.

Rôg sat quietly in the chair drawn up to the small fire in their room. When the murmurings had subsided and the snores settled into a gentle rhythm, he got up, stretching his limbs, shaking the long day from his muscles. The draw of the welcome warm had faded against the urgency of his feelings that they should soon be on their way. They only needed to check on something the old man had half remembered seeing in the great library in the city. Then they would be heading south.

The young man stood by the window of the room for a long while, his gaze falling on the young woman below and to his left who lingered before the kitchen door. The singer, Mírënin - her eyes turned star-ward to the clear night sky. For a moment she dropped her gaze, following a spiral of moths that had seen the low light from the kitchen window and were now heading toward it.

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

The slim-winged grey brown bird flew high in the air with easy strokes, the inn falling away quickly beneath him. Strips of moonlight through breaks in the clouds caught the broad white bar across each pointed wing, glinting off the white bar across his notched tail. The sharp calls of other nighthawks followed him, indicating his traverse of their hunting territory. He paid them no heed, nor did he veer from his course, intent on reaching the fifth tier of the hillside city before the night grew older.

[piosenniel]

Child’s post – Radagast

The old man sat up in bed and wearily rubbed his eyes. He stared out the open casement looking for outward confirmation of the flutter of wings and the soft whir of feathers that had enticed him up from sleep. Over the years, he'd lost at least some of his physical strength and vitality, but time had not dulled his senses. He could still catch the slightest movement of small beasts in a grove, or make out the shadow of a tiny bird silhouetted against a distant bank of clouds. He could even untangle the strange utterances of the creatures that he passed in the woods, although that was no longer so easy.

Again searching the skies, he glimpsed a small brown bird pushing against the wind, gliding gracefully towards the stars with no apparent effort. For an instant, he wanted to throw back the covers and join in, to leap out towards the sparkling night. But then came the sad realization. He could not do it. The old man slumped back in bed too weary to rise, unable to recall the hidden secrets of his past.

Back home, he had never been accounted among the wisest or most powerful, but many had acknowledged his mastery of shapes and hues. Vague memories of a former life tugged quietly at his mind. The old man could recall a time when he had slipped on the form of a Great Eagle atop the craggy peaks of Taniquetil. But now his body controlled his every step; he could barely recollect the shape or form of the rich green fields and gardens that had once been his home.

Complaining to others was not his way. By day he said nothing; indeed, until recently he had walked only by himself. Now, sensing the emptiness all about him, he had chosen to plod along with Rôg, a younger scholar who was ostensibly his servant. He nodded politely to any who addressed him as they strode along the road, but rarely said more than that. Wholly absorbed by the intricacies of the birds and beasts around him, many mistook his simplicity and single-mindedness for lack of understanding. Yet that was far from true. He lacked cunning, not intelligence.

At night, trapped within fears, the old man wondered about many things. He'd been told to come and care for the olvar and kelvar. He had not neglected this charge. So why could he not step onto the sleek Elven vessel and sail back to the sandy white shores where there was no death or despair, a place so unlike that in which he now found himself? Why was he still here when so many others had left? Perhaps if he could untangle the answer to that riddle, he would find his way home. The old man lay back in bed, purposefully shutting out the sounds of the night, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

[piosenniel]

Pio’s post - Rôg

‘Mmmm . . . tasty!’

The nighthawk’s bill snapped up a fat silverfish that dared the desk top. Hidden under a thin sheet of parchment it had been chewing on, the insect wriggled hurriedly for safety on its thin spidery legs, antennae waving wildly when the plop and scrabble of the bird’s feet had first hit the edge of the paper.

The bird had spent a good half hour poking about the clerestory windows that flanked this section of the library. And at last had been rewarded with one whose grout had crumbled, allowing him to move it out of the way and enter, gliding silently down to the reading desks that lined the center aisle. A few small lamps burned low – one at the entryway door, and two at each end of the great table. He wondered what sleepless librarians wandered the halls this night, guardians of the papery treasures locked away in the maze of rooms. Thank the powers that be that the old man’s memory of this place had been so clear, so precise.

In the shadows of the stacks he changed to his two legged form – more convenient for browsing through the dusty rolls of vellum piled one upon the other in the small cubicles. The leather bound tomes he ignored. The old man had been specific – it was a small, single, yellowed piece of parchment; the edges crackling into dust with age. He had rolled it loosely, he said, securing it with a bit of red string.

Ah! As if that would help him in this search!

He was colorblind – the red of the string would be so much grey to him, indistinguishable from the other dusty strings that wrapped round the myriad of rolls. Nothing to do but sort out the larger rolls from the smaller, the single pieces of paper from the others, and begin.

It was nearly dawn when he found the one he sought. Rolling it up carefully, he left himself enough of a loop to carry it securely

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

The flight back to the Inn was torturous. The roll of parchment caught the vectors of the breezes in odd ways, slowing him down or sending him flying in odd directions a he tried to maneuver with the cumbersome burden. A clutch of small brown wrens took advantage of his plight and dive bombed him unmercifully, trying to knock him from the sky. He grew tired and frustrated. Folding his wings tight against his body he dove toward the ground, a feathered missile, the wrens spiraling just above him, and straight into the midden of the Inn’s kitchen.

Peels of potatoes mingled and ripened with those of apples. The head, skin and bones of fish, slimy tops from the garden carrots, half eaten bits of bread now mouldered in a pungent stew. In one of his other forms he might have enjoyed the tangy mess he found himself wing deep in. But now his feathers were sodden and stuck together, his beak stained red from some castoff beet it had chanced into, and on his head, like some limp cockade sat a bit of old kale. Disgusting! And to make matters worse he could hear the birdish laughter of the wrens as they sat in the leaf bare plum tree at the corner of the Inn.

He stood up in the midst of the oozing mess and found the window the Innkeeper had pointed out to the young woman just last night. He pressed tentatively against it, feeling it give way. Reaching in carefully, he unlatched the door and opened it quietly.

A trail of ripe compost marked his journey through the kitchen and up the stairs to the room he shared with the old man. Aiwendil, sat up in bed as his companion entered the close confines of the room. His eyes watered and his nose wrinkled at the stench.

‘Open the window,’ he gasped, drawing the bedclothes up over this nose. ‘By the One, you stink!’

[piosenniel]

Pio's post - Rôg

The water was cold, freezing almost. It prickled at his skin, as did the harsh soap with which he’d scrubbed the stench from his skin. The old man stood at the window. The shutters were flung back, letting the fresh, morning breezes carry the last of the reek away. That troublesome host of sparrows sat on the ledge chirping at him, shaking their feathers to gain his attention. One of the bolder ones, the leader in the flying ‘V’ that had assailed Rôg last night, had claimed a perch on Aiwendil’s shoulder. His bright black eye was fixed on the younger man in a challenging stare.

‘I surrender, Master Sparrow,’ said Rôg, grinning at the little brown bird. ‘Gondor is yours, from leaf to sky.’ He packed his hard won prize of last night in his leather bag and placed it on the bed beside the old man’s. ‘I’ll see to breakfast,’ he said, opening the door to the room. ‘Just come down when you’re ready.’ From the floor to the left of the door, Rôg picked up the bucket of now dirty water and the pillowcase he’d stuffed with his aromatic garments and, holding it away from him, proceeded down the stairs.

The Common Room was already starting to fill up he noted, his foot resting on the next to the last stair. Naught to do but hurry through to the door, hoping that the unsavory smell would not linger long. A glance to his left showed the young woman of last night at the bar speaking to a red-haired man he had not previously seen in the Inn. And as his ill placed stars would have it, there stood the Innkeeper, his gaze already on him as he dithered on the stairs.

Like a man delivering a suspect and distasteful package, Rôg held the bundle well away from him. He fixed his sights on the main door and started boldly across the room, picking up speed with each muttered comment as he went.

[piosenniel]

Pio's post - Piosenniel

‘Ammë! I’m thirsty! Are we there yet?!’

Cami, the fidgety little five year old was tucked in close against her mother, shielded from the morning’s breeze by the folds of the great blue cloak. Dark brown curls surrounded the fair face that poked itself out through the woolen edges, and curious brown eyes swept the road ahead for their promised destination. She wished that her mother’s mount would sprout wings like the dragons from the stories and fly them to the Inn at a faster pace. Her brother and sister rode their own horses, and showed their impatience by riding ahead and racing back as their mother called to them.

The four riders had just come from a brief visit to the city’s great library. Pio was returning a volume she had borrowed just yesterday, she told the pale librarian who stood blinking into the morning sunlight at the great door. A frown puckered his brow until she mentioned the name of the senior docent who had helped her yesterday. Then, he took the leather bound log, Cemendil’s Journal, with a smile, saying he would see it safely back to its place. The Elf thanked him, returning the smile, and the four remounted their horses and set off for some refreshments at The Seventh Star Inn.

‘You shall just have to have patience!’ piped the twin chorus of the young girl’s siblings, impishly echoing the phrase they had been hearing now for the last half hour. Gilwen and Isilmir, six years old, their black hair and grey eyes a mirror for each other, broke into laughter at their mimicry. They urged their ponies alongside their mother’s horse and grinned up wickedly at their little sister – who promptly stuck out her tongue at them.

At long last, at least to the little girl, though if truth be told it was only another quarter of an hour, the Inn hove into view as they crested a rise in the road. At a nod from their mother, Gilwen and Isilmir took off at a gallop toward The Seventh Star, their excited voices challenging each other to a race.

Little Cami stretched herself low over the horse’s neck. ‘We could beat them, Sinda,’ she whispered in a coaxing voice, her little fingers winding themselves into the coarse salt and pepper hairs of the grey gelding’s mane. Pio grinned as the horse flicked his ears back toward Cami, indicating an interest in showing up the ponies. She flicked the reins gently and urged him to a faster pace with a light tap of her heels against his flanks.

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

A short time later the four riders found themselves in the front yard of the Inn. In a rush and a chorus of laughter they dismounted, Gilwen arguing good-naturedly with her brother that her pony’s nose had been the first to the hitching post. Isilmir took the reins of the other two mounts and handed them along with his own to the grey clad hostler who approached.

Shaking the dust off their cloaks, and pushing their wind tousled hair back from their reddened cheeks, the chattering trio ascended the steps, Pio in tow. Their little voices were loud in the near emptiness of the Common Room as they burst through the door.

‘A ginger beer for me! And me!’ cried the two girls, dashing for a table near the fire. ‘A birch beer for me,’ requested Isilmir, in a considering tone to the grey clad server who had hastened to see to their needs. He waited for his mother and sisters to take their seats, then took his own.

Pio, her eyes sweeping the room for a familiar face, asked for a glass of Southron red, if they had it. And could he ask Master Rimbaud to come speak with her for a moment. The server nodded politely to her and hurried away, but before he reached the bar, he was called over by another group at a nearby table – the wagoneer’s group from The Silver Swan ship that had recently delivered wines to the Inn. They nodded unseen toward Pio and her children, then sent the server on his way.

[piosenniel]

Pio's post - Piosenniel


The mug of ginger beer covered the bottom half of little Cami’s face, and Pio stared in wonder at the child. She had the drink tipped so far up and was drinking so greedily that Pio half expected the liquid to go up the child’s nose. Not so – the mug came down with a satisfied clunk on the table top, a few missed drops flying onto the smooth surface of the wood. She glanced hopefully in the direction of her sister’s ginger beer, but Gilwen only pulled hers in closer and took a sip.

‘Who are those people,’ she asked tugging at the sleeve of her mother’s tunic, and pointing toward the table where a woman, Elf, Dwarf, and Hobbit sat.

‘Stop pointing,’ whispered Isilmir. ‘It’s not polite.’ He leaned nearer his younger sister and spoke low. ‘They are from a ship called The Silver Swan.See their cloaks - that silver bird on the green. We were docked near them once, in Cobas Haven.’ He looked a little smugly at her. ‘Of course, you were just a baby then.’ Pio arched her brow at him and his necked reddened at being caught egging on his sister.

Little Cami snorted at his discomfiture and turned back to her mother. ‘They were nice, weren’t they,’ she asked. ‘They bought us our drinks.’ A familiar look came on her features, and before Pio could catch hold of her, she had grabbed her now empty mug and scooted off the chair. Her little legs carried her to the Swan’s table at a quick pace, and she squirmed in between the Dwarf and the Hobbit.

‘That was a good drink! Thank you!’ Her mug was carefully set on the table as she smiled, taking them all in. Her eyes drifted to the plate of seedcake slices that sat near the elbow of the Hobbit. He was busy with a plate of fried mushrooms, and she tugged on his sleeve to catch his full attention. ‘I’m Cami,’ she said, her eyes straying to the cake. ‘I like seedcake, too.’

Gilwen and Isilmir stared at their sister, then back at their mother, who had watched the little scene with some amusement. Pio approached the table, a half smile playing on her lips and shook her head. ‘She is my adventurous one,’ she laughed, tousling the girl’s hair. ‘And yes, thank you for your kind offer of drinks. My crew was quite thirsty.’

The twins had by this time abandoned their drinks and come to stand at their mother’s side. ‘I am Piosenniel, by the way and these are my children. Little Cami, you’ve already met. And this is Gilwen. And this Isilmir.’ Both of them nodded politely at the group and smiled. ‘We see you are from The Silver Swan. How was your last trip? Profitable, I hope.’

Pio motioned for one of the servers to come near and ordered drinks all round for the table.

[piosenniel]

Pio's post - Piosenniel

The Innkeeper ambled over to the table where Pio stood talking to the wagoneer’s group from The Silver Swan. "Did someone call for Master Rimbaud?" he asked. "He's not about, nor is he likely to be for some time. May I be of service?"

‘Perhaps you can,’ said Pio, stepping forward. My name is Piosenniel. Master Rimbaud and I were old acquaintances and had an understanding of sorts. He would always put back one of the older bottles of Dorwinion wine for me, to be picked up when I came to the Inn.’ She glanced up at the rafters, taking in the cobwebs still gracing the corners of the beams. ‘And I must confess I have not been here in quite some time.’ Her face took on a worried look. ‘Have I missed some news about my friend?’

Morien introduced himself, giving a brief account of the former Innkeeper, and how he had come to take on the duties. In passing, he mentioned he was from Lossarnach. ‘Not kin to Old Forlong,’ she almost said, then bit it back noting that though he was a large man, he did not possess the girth of the former Lord of Lossarnach. Instead she told him that her family dwelt in a small holding just outside the southwestern edge of the Rammas Echor. ‘Up against Mindolluin,’ she said. ‘So I guess you might call us neighbors of sorts.’

He told her there was some Dorwinion wine just come in, but as to its age, he could not guarantee that it was not of recent vintage. He turned away, saying he would just fetch her a bottle, when she laid her hand lightly on his arm. ‘One other request, if you will, Master Morien. A friend of mine often sends me letters here.’ Pio laughed remembering Bird had told her the Inn was more likely to stay in one place than was the Elf, and so she intended to send her letters into the keeping of Rimbaud. ‘They would have my name on them, and be sealed with the silver outline of a small bird in flight on black wax.’

[piosenniel]

Mithadan’s post – The Innkeeper

The Innkeeper slipped through the kitchen and stopped in front of a heavy wood door. From his pocket he withdrew an intricate key which he inserted carefully into the lock. With a click, the door opened and swung inward. He stepped into the office with a frown. Dust covered the surface of a heavy oak desk which stood to one side of the room. On the other wall was a bookshelf. Lighting a lamp to illuminate the dimly lit room, he scanned the surface of the desk.

Seeing no envelopes which met the description provided by the Elf, he proceeded to the bookshelf. There, he found a small stack of packages and envelopes. He lifted one, pausing first to blow the dust from the heavy paper. Then he cursed imaginatively and walked quickly from the office. The door swung shut behind him and he did not have to wait to know that the lock had snapped shut even as he rushed through the kitchen towards the common room.

He proceeded to the wagoneer's table where the children were gleefully holding court to the amusement of those nearby. "My lady!" he cried. "My apologies! This letter must have arrived before Rimbaud went on his journey. He left in quite a hurry as I recall. It is dated nearly two years ago! I am very sorry. It is addressed to Piosenniel." He handed the envelope to the Elf, whose brows furrowed with annoyance as she took it. At that very moment, a deep voice rumbled through the room. "Piosenniel? She is here? Which one is Piosenniel?" Keeping a neutral expression upon her face, she dropped the letter to the table and turned to face the speaker. At the same time, her hands disappeared beneath the table.

"Oooo! Ammë! He's big!" cried Cami. Behind the Innkeeper, looking at the faces of the table's occupants, one by one, was Baran...

[piosenniel]

Pio's post - Piosenniel

Her thank-you’s to the Innkeeper were cut off by the loud voice and looming presence of the person who stood across the table from her. Her gaze locked on him, trying to recall where she might have met him. He was a massive figure of a man, one who would not be easily forgotten. In her long memory she could find nothing that marked him friend or foe.

The deciding factor was the stout staff he clenched in his large hand.

Fëanen . . . Fëasolme . . . Fëalor! Quarë, híni!

Quick and silent, the three children gathered behind her, a tightly closed fist at her back.

For a brief moment, as she stood and moved back from the chair, her awareness took in a familiar voice calling her name, then shut it out. Pio backed up slowly, moving her children toward the door to the kitchen – like a mother bear, keeping herself between them and the stranger. ‘What chance meeting is this,’ she thought to herself, watching for any advance on his part. Her right hand slid beneath the left sleeve of her tunic as she spoke.

‘Who comes seeking Piosenniel? And why?’

[piosenniel]

Pio's post - Rôg

Wiping the last few drops of water from the well on the front folds of his cloak, Rôg crossed the narrow, wooden verandah and pushed the Inn door open. He had sluiced his hands off thoroughly, removing any lingering odors from the bundle of soiled clothes he had carried out to the refuse heap. And now he had plans to secure a table by the fire for himself and his traveling companion. Breakfast, and plenty of strong, hot tea to wash it down, occupied his thoughts as he stepped into the Common Room.

‘Pio!’

He heard the young woman who had entered ahead of him call out to someone she had seen across the room. His gaze, drifted from the sparrow on the woman’s shoulder, toward the small scene playing out a short distance from him. With a sharp intake of breath he stepped backwards toward the door, seeking a quick exit back to the Inn's front yard. He abhorred violence, and the promise of it was too near for his comfort.

~*~

The wrens had flown off, their attention caught by a field of sunflowers in a field to the north and the lure of abundant seed for the taking. The old man lingered at the open window for a moment, watching the tiny brown cloud of them grow smaller in the distance.

A soft whirr, and the feathery brush of delicate wings tickled against his left ear. His hand came up to brush the source of irritation away and was stopped by a barely audible murmuring.

‘Move your stumpy fingers! You’re about to crush my antenna!’

The small brown, gypsy moth latched on to the old fellow’s fingers and rode them in a dizzying arc to a position just in front of Aiwendil’s eyes. A moment of sudden queasiness ensued, followed by the irritated twitching of the moth’s antennae. ‘Yes, it’s me,’ he squeaked, his front leg smoothing out the crook in his right antenna left by the brief pressure of the old man’s fingers. ‘I’ve come to suggest we skip breakfast and hit the road. That big fellow who came in after us yesterday – some Elf, named Pio, I think, has challenged him. The atmosphere in the Common Room has taken a decidedly tense . . . and possibly ugly, turn.’

[piosenniel]

Child's post - Radagast:

Aiwendil sensed another gentle whirring, this time near his right ear, as the brown moth fluttered up to land on his shoulder. But the wizard seemed not to notice. His round eyes blinked once, then twice, as he stared off into the distance, struggling to retrieve a memory from behind the grey haze.

Pio?... Pio was in the Common Room? Faint hints of a forgotten time sparkled beneath the surface. It was a time when he had first journied to this world. He and Gandalf had worked together to sow the seeds of resistence within the hearts of the Free Peoples. His own heart had been much stronger then. There had been that strange business with the hobbits and the Anduin he'd never fully understood. But the little ones had made good neighbors. He had first met Piosenniel along the river and made his promise to her and her friend, the feisty and insistent Skin-changer, that he would check on the hobbits now and again. That promise, at least, he had kept.

Nor had that been his last encounter with the Elf. Time and again, he had come across her on the road. And, just a few years ago, she had unexpectedly shown up with a husband at her side and two babes in her arms, looking quite content. At the moment, however, the thought uppermost in the wizard's mind was the fine ship that belonged to her and her husband Mithadan.

Aiwendil stood up so abruptly that Rôg tumbled off his shoulder and landed on the broad arm of the chair. The moth lowered his head and tried not to listen as the wizard began lecturing him, "If Pio is in the Common Room, we've no time to lose. That is, unless you intend to walk all the way to Harad! Come along now!"

Seeing the stubborn look on Rôg's face, the wizard shook his head, "I'm more concerned about the safety of my neck on the roads to Harad than I am about Pio. And she may be able to help us with that. Anyways, I know her well enough. The Elf can be hasty, but she's not likely to strike a blow unless the fellow truly deserves it."

Aiwendil headed towards the door, walking purposefully in the direction of the Common Room, and beckoned Rôg to follow him.

[piosenniel]

Mithadan’s post – Baran

"Who comes seeking Piosenniel? And why?"

Baran's eyes fixed upon Piosenniel, taking note of the children who huddled behind her. The Innkeeper, alarmed at the sudden tension in his common room, scowled and stepped between the massive man and the Elf. "Here now..." he began. But Baran interrupted. "I do," he said. "I have traveled a long ways to find Piosenniel."

At that moment, the boy, Isilmir wriggled away from his mother and stepped forward, looking at Baran with curiosity. "Are you going to kill him, Ammë?" he asked. The room fell silent at the child's words.

Baran laughed, a booming sound which seemed to echo through the rafters. Then he took note of the Elf's serious expression and her failure to chuckle in turn and his laughter died. He set down his staff, propping it against a table, and stepped back, placing his hands behind his back. Among his people, extending one's hands outward away from the body was a sign of aggression. But his movement only made Piosenniel drop into a fighting stance. Baran cleared his throat and smiled.

"I am Baran," he said. "I am a Beorning from the north." At this many of the patrons muttered and some backed away towards the door. "A Beorning! A shape-shifter!" But Baran ignored the others, focusing upon Piosenniel.

"You are Piosenniel? Who once worked at The Green Dragon in the Shire?" he asked. The Elf nodded cautiously without moving. A knife had appeared in her hand. "Well met!" he continued. "I have traveled throughout the northlands seeking certain of my kin, though I know not where they might be. I seek one in particular who is known to me. Is it not true that you are friends with one named Bird?"

Piosenniel started at the mention of her friend, but did not lower her knife. However, her children danced in excitement at the name. "Auntie Bird!" cried Gilwen, clapping her hands. Baran nodded with a smile and eased his bulk into a chair at a nearby table. "Come!" he cried. "Let us speak! I bring you tidings from Imladris!"

After a moment's hesitation, Piosenniel sheathed her blade, to the relief of the Innkeeper who had been looking uneasily at the massive Baran. "Sit with our friends," she instructed her children, motioning towards the wagoneer's table. Then she joined the Beorning at his table. A server appeared and deposited a tall cup of ale at Baran's elbow.

"Why do you seek Bird?" asked the Elf suspiciously. Baran sipped at his mug before answering. "I do not really seek her, but rather her people. But she seemed a good place to begin. She and I were acquaintances in the northlands. I cannot honestly say friends, because I was yet young when she left and did not know her well. But I know she is one of our long-lost kin. Indeed, some among my people believed them to be but a myth before she arrived in the north."

He then drunk deeply from his mug and the Elf began to relax. "The Darkness has departed," he continued with a wipe at his beard. "There is a legend among my people that when the Darkness lifts, we will again dwell west of the Misty Mountains and be reunited with our kin -- Bird's people. Most think I am a fool to chase after the stories of old women, but I remember Bird, her humor and the fair shapes which she could take. Perhaps I...my people can learn to take shapes other than the Bear, if we meet our kin. So I have ignored those who ridiculed me and sought after them...and Bird. Where is she?"

[piosenniel]

Pio's post - Piosenniel

‘You are a fool, indeed, if you think the Darkness has departed altogether,’ she thought to herself, wondering if he were some sort of simpleton, or skillfully cunning to make her think so. Pio waved away the server with his offer of wine, and leaned across the table. Bird had spoken little of her time among the Beornings, only that they had been kind to her in their own way. For that kindness to her friend she was prepared to grant the man some measure of tolerance.

He looked the sort who would be a Beorning, at least as Bird had described them. She, herself, had never met one, though she had traveled somewhat where they were purported to live. Her business at that time had kept her to herself, wary of others. And she had learned from Bird since then that the Bear folk were not that sociable to those outside their kind. Her brow furrowed. As she recalled, her friend had also said they were an insular sort, not given to travel and exploration. Behind his simple explanation, there must be other desires that drove him.

Yet, here he was, saying he brought news from Imladris. And saying it quite loudly, she noted, seeing the reactions of folk to the word Beorning and how they leaned closer at the mention of Imladris. Gossip and speculation would run rampant if he continued on in this manner.

Pio put on a gracious smile and spoke low to the man. ‘Perhaps this is not the best place to share what information we might have. I would prefer to hold my business in this matter close, not sharing it with whoever might have heard bits and snippets of our conversation. Perhaps the day after tomorrow you can come to my house. We can talk there more fully.’ She gave the man directions, saying she would look for him sometime after midday. ‘I will know more then of where Bird has gone, by then,’ she thought to herself, fingering the letter she had jammed into the waistband of her breeches. ‘And more of you, if I can.’

‘Cook will make some honeycakes. Bird likes them, too, when she visits. And my children will be delighted to meet an old friend of their Auntie . . . and assist you in the disposal of the treats.’ She chuckled at the image of this man in competition with her little scavengers and cajolers. Her wager would be on them.

‘Are we agreed, then? Will you come?’

[piosenniel]

Mithadan’s post - Baran

Fool, waving that little potsticker at me. "Are you going to kill him" indeed! Why this little she-Elf would be lucky to stand against a cuff of my left paw! And now she fears to speak, even with me present! As if any here might threaten me. Baran sniffed with barely concealed amusement at the Elf's sudden concern, after her feeble attempt to protect her cubs. But he was in the world of Men, and he must play by the rules of the realm. And as he understood it, courtesy was required in this situation.

"Very well," he said. Then he rose and bowed politely, favoring the Elf with a smile. "I would be delighted to visit your home and discuss these matters further in the quiet of your parlor." He lifted his staff from where it was propped against a table and wandered off toward the bar...

[piosenniel]

Pio's post - Rôg/little Cami

Rôg followed the old man down the stairs to the Common Room. He kept his eyes on the stair treads, not wanting to be witness to any mayhem that might be taking or might have taken place. His ears, thankfully, were assaulted only by the normal sounds of the busy room. The ebb and flow of conversation was a constant back drop against which the sharp clink of mugs and glasses and the raised voices used for calling the attention of others played counterpoint. No screams. No moans. He raised his gaze and dared a look about the room.

No blood, no fallen combatant.

With a lighter tread, he stepped off the last stair and caught up with Aiwendil. The old fellow had spotted the Elf and her large table companion and was making his way toward them.

~*~

Cami

Little Cami slid off the seat of her chair, a half-eaten piece of seed-cake in her hand. Isilmir and Gilwen were just settling in to listen to some tale from the dwarf, and Cami, too, would have stayed to hear the story had she not caught the movement of two interesting folk toward her mother and the large fellow.

Scuttling toward the older fellow in his long brown robes, she fell in slightly behind and to the side of him. He reminded her of someone, she could not remember exactly who . . but it was someone her ammë had told her about in one of her stories.

The name hung on the tip of her tongue, and a few more steps alongside him, jogged it tenuously into place. Cami reached out and tugged on the man’s robe, drawing his attention. Ignoring the other fellow who looked at her askance, she waited until the old man had stopped and faced her. She smiled up at him, her cheeks dimpling, then motioned for him to bend down near her.

‘I have something to ask you,’ she said in explanation, whispering in his ear. ‘Did you know him?’ she asked, as if the old fellow might have been privy to her previous train of thoughts.

‘Know who, child?’ he said, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

‘My ammë’s friend,’ she went on, pointing toward Pio, whose back was to them. ‘She called him Uncle’ . . . Cami frowned trying to remember the rest of the name; then, her features brightened, as she recalled it.

“Uncle Leemon . . . that’s who it was. Did you know him?'

[piosenniel]

Child’s post – Radagast

Uncle Leemon?,,,,,

Slipping down to his knees, the old man stared quizzically into the solemn eyes that gazed boldly back at him. His brain felt addled and stiff beside the nimble mind of this obviously gifted child. He tried puzzling out the meaning of her words, thinking through the names of all the folk he'd met since his arrival at the Havens, and every variation in Quenyan or Sindarin that he could remember, but he still could not understand what the child was asking.

Once more, the little one tugged on the hem of his sleeve and repeated her request, "You know....Uncleleemon," impatiently slurring her words together.

As realization dawned, he turned and beamed at her, his eyes catching fire like great blue jewels sparkling under a sunbeam. For an instant, the weariness of his body faded as he reached out to tousle her soft brown curls. "My, my! Aren't you clever! Many a grown Man would not have seen that resemblance. No, I am not Ancalimon. But we are distant kin. And I do know your ammë as a friend, though perhaps not so close as Ancalimon did. Indeed, I would like to speak with her."

A small voice interrupted. "Do you know where Uncle Leemon is then? I'd like to go visit him." For, although this gentleman looked interesting to Cami, her mother's tales of the other fellow had sounded a bit more exciting, involving things like swords and displays of flying dragons. This fellow did not seem to carry any weapon at all.

The wizard stood up and sadly shook his head, "No, I'm sorry. I can't help you. I believe Ancalimon now dwells in a distant land close to Elvenhome. And I have no way to reach him there."

Cami didn't know where Elvenhome was, since she had not heard her ammë discuss this before. But she politely tugged on the old man's sleeve, guiding him over to where her mother stood.

Pio looked up and smiled, extending her hand in greeting. For it had been a number of years since they had last seen each other. Aiwendel inquired as to the name of Pio's youngest, since only the twins had been born at the time of their last meeting. Upon hearing that the little girl was named 'Cami', he fought back a smile, but said nothing more. So many years ago.... Glimmers of a time when he still understood why he was here.

After brief greetings were exchanged, Aiwendel led the Elf over to meet Rôg, explaining that he was his companion and servant, and that the two of them intended to travel to Harad to track down some of the rarer birds and animals. Aiwendel looked up expectantly at Piosenniel, "Please forgive me for asking, but do you and your husband still have that splendid ship that sails under the emblem of the Lonely Star? For we wish to hire a vessel, and would gladly pay well for passage down to Umbar. I have long wanted to travel to Harad. Such a fascinating place, it would seem! And, now that things are settling down a bit, it would appear to be the perfect time."

[piosenniel]

Pio's post - Piosenniel

‘And now that things are settling down a bit . . .’ Pio frowned at this phrase, thrown in among the old man’s other words. From what she had gathered in conversation with those recently returned from the South, ‘things’ were not yet settled enough that a pair of birding enthusiasts would feel comfortable wandering about the countryside in search of rare species. She glanced at Aiwendil’s companion – no bodyguard, if she had the right of it. He looked the sort to be soft and hesitant. And the old fellow . . . were he cut from the same mold as her old friend she would not worry about him. But he looked less sure of himself, if that were possible, than her last chance meetings with him.

Aiwendil had come to the end of his speaking, and stood looking at her expectantly. What she wanted to tell him was to wait . . . that when Mithadan returned they would take them south. The old man had seen Pio’s friend safely to her destination, and Pio, in turn, would return the favor. Problem was, she chided herself, Mithadan would not return for four weeks, and the two companions, she sensed, were eager to be off.

‘Ah, Aiwendil. Were the Lonely Star at Harlond, I would welcome your booking passage on her. Unfortunately, she is gone for three more weeks at the very least, and more likely four. Can you wait that long?’

Rôg had drawn near his companion and now spoke quietly with him. The old man nodded his head in agreement. Turning back to Pio he said that they really could not. One of the birds they were studying would have migrated by then, and they would miss their opportunity. Could she suggest another ship and captain? The Scuppered Gull, she told them was one that might meet their needs – its captain was one Faragaer. They would find him a fair man to deal with, she said. ‘Just let them know that I have sent you.’

A few more pleasantries passed between them, then Aiwendil thanked her, saying they would seek out the captain after the morning meal. As he turned to find the table Rôg had gotten for them, Pio put her hand on his arm to detain him. ‘A favor, if you would,’ she began. ‘Bird is traveling in the south. She has been seeking news of her kin.’ Pio pulled the letter from her waistband, to share parts of it with the old man. ‘This is the most recent letter I have had from her. Unfortunately it is two years old. But, in it she mentions a growing unrest in the area around Umbar. Not all favored the rise of the new King and the dominance of Gondor. There were faint rumblings of changes in the making then, and unfavorable, I think, in Bird's opinion. I fear that over these last two years the disquiet may have grown. And for some reason she has not been able to send messages.’ She grasped the old man’s sleeve more tightly. ‘Be careful; be circumspect when you are down there. Pay attention to the little details you pick up. And . . . should you see Bird, send word to me. And if she can, have her send word also.’ Rôg, by this time, stood fidgeting near the two, obviously eager to be on their way. Aiwendil nodded to Pio, saying he would do his best, and thanked her once again for her help in finding passage south.

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

At a smile and a motion of her hand, her children gathered about her. ‘Oh, ammë, can we stay just a little longer?’ Isilmir’s plaintive question was followed by Gilwen’s explanation that they had a new friend, one Odrin, the Dwarf sitting at the wagoneer’s table. ‘He’s only just finished one story,’ continued the boy, ‘and I should like to hear another.’ He raised his brows, giving another argument. ‘He was just about to begin one. And we shouldn’t be rude and leave before it’s done. Father would want us to be polite.’ A smile crinkled the corners of Pio’s eyes. So, he had brought out the heavy artillery! Gilwen picked up on this leverage, saying she thought this story would have something to do with a trip south they had made. ‘We’ve never been there! Can’t we stay to hear what it’s like where Father is?’

Little Cami watched the negotiations between her brother and sister and her mother with interest. She wanted to stay a little longer also. The old fellow she had met was sitting at a nearby table with his companion, and she had heard him tell her mother they were going south. Perhaps she could get a message to her father – that he shouldn’t forget the small present he had promised her. Some little carved figures for her toy ship . . . animals from the desert lands. As she slipped away toward their table, she saw her brother and sister with smiles on their faces as they waved to Odrin and headed back in his direction.

Pio shook her head and laughed. ‘Like herding cats!’ she murmured. From across the room, a friend caught her eye and waved her over. She was just on her way to the table when a man’s voice called her back.

‘Avarlond,’ he said, seeing the questioning look on her face. ‘ Airefalas is my brother, Mistress Piosenniel . . .’

[piosenniel]

Ealasaide’s post – Avarlond

Avarlond waited patiently as the Elven woman finished her conversation with the elderly man and his companion. She had just settled her children and was beginning to move away from him again when he managed to catch her eye. She turned toward him, a questioning look on her face. Avarlond acknowledged her with a courtly gesture that could have been seen as either a deep nod or a short bow.

“Avarlond,” he said to her by way of introduction. “Airefalas is my brother, Mistress Piosenniel. He sailed with your husband to Umbar on the Lonely Star.”

Piosenniel returned his nod, smiling graciously. “Yes,” she said. “I remember meeting him. How can I help you?”

“It is not so much how you can help me,” he answered, a faint smile twisting on the corners of his lips. “But how you can - begging your pardon, Mistress - help the womenfolk of my family. You see, my brother and I had a bit of a falling out over a matter of business, so I wouldn’t expect to hear from him, but Lady Isabel -” he nodded in the direction of Isabel and Edelis, her companion “- is his fiancée. She hasn’t heard from him in some time and grows concerned. His mother - our mother - is greatly concerned as well. I promised to make some inquiries on their behalf, which is what brings me to you.”

He paused, nodding again. “I was hoping, Mistress, that you might have some word of the ship, how she fares, or whether she might be soon returning to port. It would comfort the ladies so to know that all is well.”

[piosenniel]

Pio's post - Piosenniel

And it would comfort me as well if I knew all was proceeding smoothly.

Pio’s grey eyes darkened for a moment, then flicked to where Avarlond had nodded. An expectant pair of large blue eyes looked quickly away from where she stood with Airefalas’ brother, the long ash blond hair falling forward like a veil to cover the crimson staining her fair cheeks. ‘One does not wish to appear to be too eager,’ she remembered her sister-in-law instructing her when first she came to live in Gondor. ‘Society does not favor the woman who cannot temper her emotions. It is not convention to be so forthcoming.’

Isabel appeared the very model of frail womanhood – a well-crafted air of vulnerability, innocence, and powerlessness was about her. A half smile appeared for only a second on Pio’s face as she wondered if that same steel backbone she had seen in other ladies of Gondor held the young woman’s figure so ramrod straight. Perhaps when the Lonely Star returned she would meet the First Mate’s intended one.

For now, she held her gaze on Avarlond. ‘It has only been two weeks since the Star went south; there has not been time to hear back yet from Umbar. We estimate that it will take at the very least five weeks to complete the trading mission and return. Though, since it is a new area for trade being opened for Gondor, it will most likely take a number of weeks longer to secure the contracts.’ She wrinkled her brow at him. ‘But then you must know that, being a merchant yourself.’

Pio looked briefly toward the two ladies at the table, their heads bent together in hushed conversation. ‘Tell her that there have been no ill tidings from the south. The mission is less than half done by the Captain’s schedule, and I expect the Ship and all its crew to return safely in three or four weeks time, and with their pockets well lined with the riches of the Southlands.’ Isabel glanced toward them for a moment, then turned away again. ‘And tell her I will send word to you if I do receive news from the Star.’

Like little leaves caught in a sudden breeze, Isilmir, Gilwen, and little Cami came racing up to surround their mother. ‘The story is finished, ammë! And Odrin has promised us another when we see him again.’ Isilmir’s eyes were alight with images of closely fought battles, and Gilwen gave out with a Dwarven battle cry she had just mastered. Cami, not one for tales of well fought battles, was already thinking about how the Dwarf had promised a story of the great Wyrm who had stolen his people’s gold. ‘A clever Wyrm,’ Fastred had chimed in, ‘but not clever enough to outwit a Hobbit.’

‘You will excuse us, Master Avarlond,’ laughed Pio as the children clamored for her attention. ‘It is time for us to be heading home now. Dreams of glorious battles . . . and dragons, if I have the right of it,’ she said winking at her youngest daughter, ‘await my little crew.’ She reached out and touched him lightly on the arm. ‘I will send word when word comes to me.’

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

In the flurry of capes being put on and good-byes said, Cami seized the opportunity to visit the old fellow once more. She tugged at his sleeve as he sat at his table drinking the last of his wine. ‘Ammë said that you were leaving soon. If you see my atar will you tell him to remember his promise to me?’ Aiwendil smiled fondly at the little one and nodded his head ‘yes’, chuckling a bit. ‘How small and safe a world she moves in,’ he murmured.

‘Yes, kept safe like other small creatures by the hands and eyes and wisdom of those about her . . . at least for now, and as we can,’ rejoined Pio, as if he had addressed her. She fastened Cami’s cloak about her and pushed the curls back from her brow. Gilwen leaned patiently on the back of an empty chair, watching the slender fingers of Aiwendil’s companion draw lines in the beaded perspiration on the ale mug’s sides. Her eyes considered his face next, and his dark brown eyes. Light from the small lantern above the table caught the small stud in his ear as he turned his head to look out the window. The light from the window threw his features into relief. Gilwen frowned at the image, and prodded her brother who had come to stand hear her. ‘Don’t we know him?’ she asked, prompting Isilmir to look closely at the man.

His answer was cut off as Pio said good-bye a last time to Aiwendil and herded the three out the door and to their waiting mounts. In the ride home and the recounting of Odrin’s stories, amidst the plans for honeycakes and Baran's visit, the question was forgotten.

[piosenniel]

Pio's post - Rôg

Rôg watched the four as they swirled out the Inn’s door, letting it bang shut behind them. His companion’s eyes followed them with interest, still chuckling at the comments of the littlest one. Turning back to Rôg he downed the last few drops of wine and stood up with the aid of his staff. The young man shouldered the larger of the packs, helping Aiwendil to adjust the strap of the smaller satchel across the folds of his robe.

‘I’ll meet you outside,’ he said, opening the strings to the soft leathern pouch that hung at his belt. ‘Let me just pay the Innkeeper and we can make our way to the docks.’ A few moments later he was standing by the old fellow, their feet turning south toward Harlond.

A fair distance was passed in companionable silence as the two made their way down the path along the river. Gulls wheeled in the air along the edges of the mudflats as the two approached the port, seeking easily preyed upon fish and any promising pieces of flotsam and jetsam. ‘The Scuppered Gull, wasn’t it?’ asked Rôg, shading his eyes against the sun to catch the names painted on the ships. ‘There she is,’ he said pointing his finger. ‘There in the last berth but one.’

They picked their way down the docks to the slip where the ship was tied. Rôg ventured a question that had been on his mind since they left the Inn. ‘Tell me something, if you will, Aiwendil. That woman that you asked about the ship . . . Piosenniel. How is it that you know her? And if I might also ask – why would a Skinchanger from the north seek her out?’

[piosenniel]

Child’s post – Radagast

"....How is it that I know her?" Aiwendil repeated Rôg's initial query and glanced sidewise at his young friend, choosing his words with care. "I have known Pio a very long time. I met her shortly after I landed in this part of the world."

The old man sounded tired and hesitated for a moment, but finally picked up his story. "A distant kinsman of mine had dealings with Pio and her husband. He was using the Star to transport some folk up the river who hoped to settle along the banks of the Anduin and in the western part of the forest formerly known as Greenwood. I offered to help guide her friends northward. In recent years, I've seen her several times. She has always dealt fairly with me and, although she can be hot headed at times, I've found her to have good judgment and a kind heart. As to her personal affairs, I know little." An image of Mithadan and their three little ones, especially the impetuous Cami, slipped through his mind.

"The Skinchanger from the north? Her name is Bird. I know less of her than I do of Pio. I do know that the two women were companions on the road for some years. And Bird can be incredibly persistent when it comes to safeguarding her friends." Radagast chuckled, remembering a distant time when the Skinchanger had begged him to keep a close eye on the hobbits, at least until they were settled in.

Aiwendil's voice dropped, as though he was speaking to himself rather than Rôg, "There was a time, long ago, when I thought Bird might help me accomplish an important task. A task that had been laid down for me by one in authority far across the Seas. But, alas, I did not see her for many years. And, by then, all chance of accomplishing anything seemed to have vanished. It has indeed been a while since I have even thought of her." An uneasy feeling stirred in the recesses of the old man's mind, which he hastily pushed back.

"But, come! Enough idle talk. Shall we try to arrange that passage with the shipmaster that Pio recommended?"

[piosenniel]

Pio’s post – Rôg

Passage was booked on The Scuppered Gull. Faragaer’s face, at first skeptical at taking on two unknown passengers, softened as Rôg mentioned that Piosenniel had recommended him to them. ‘Don’t take on too many travelers,’ he told them, ushering them up the gangplank to the deck. ‘But if you come with a word from her, I’ll give you a berth.’ He had just gone over the bills of lading a last time with the merchants whose goods he carried, and was just about to call for the lines to be cast off, the ship taken out to the deeper current in the river. ‘There will be many stops along the way. At the small trading docks along the southern coast,’ he told them. ‘With a good wind once we’ve reached the Bay, it should be about two weeks' time to reach the small cove just south of Umbar.

Aiwendil smiled in satisfaction and nodded his head in acceptance as he handed over the asked for coins. Rubbing his hands together in anticipation of the sea journey, he strode after one of the cabin boys who was to show them to their bunks. Rôg trudged along behind him, carrying their packs. His senses were painfully aware of the slight rocking motion of the ship as it bobbed on the river’s current.

‘Two weeks!’ he thought to himself, his stomach already gone a bit queasy at the unending rise and fall of the deck beneath his feet. He glanced up at the cross beam of the main mast. A tern and some of his fellows eyed him with their glittering black eyes, their heads cocked to one side.

[Mithadan]

Hilde Bracegirdle/Surinen

Dinsûl had not been well as the sun rose that morning, nor had he gotten out of bed. Spending the early hours laying in the cool shade of the tent, his son Surinen wordlessly took over his father’s obligation to the clan, providing the bread for the afternoon meal. Sitting on a worn mat beside the fire, with one knee drawn to his chest, Surinen patted the dough between his uplifted hands forming a well-practiced disk, and slapped it onto the concave iron pan resting over the fire. He watched it closely for a moment and once he saw it puff slightly in the hot pan, turned it over and reached out to shape another portion of dough. After a moment he grabbed the cooked bread and with one hand laid it down on a cloth and struck it, quickly expelling the hot air before placing it under the cloth to wait until it was required. With the other hand he slapped down the next to cook. It was a familiar rhythm, something that could be done with little thought, though the heat of the work was taxing even this early in the day.

Surinen smiled, as a soft muttering emanated from the black darkness of the tent behind him, his father whispering to his dreams. Dinsûl would be right enough given a little more time. It was not often that he had had cause to celebrate in this way and it was not be held against him. For his old friend and cousin had returned after a long absence, and though the desert had not claimed him as had been thought, his people did, and that most joyfully. He came bringing word also that he had heard news of Surinen’s sister Mîrya, who now appeared to be living under the protection of a benefactor some days further west of here. So Dinsûl had felt doubly pleased and had drunk giving expression to twice the amount of thanks, and further multiplying his happiness, until the evening had grown late and Surinen had gone to bring him home, with his many tears of joy and incoherent declarations of gratitude and best wishes.

Setting the last round in the pan to cook, Surinen took the empty vessel where the dough had rested and rubbed it hard with his rough hands, dislodging the small dry bits that adhered there. Gathering them up carefully he placed them before a small bird that was waiting expectantly before him. “Do not worry,” he said. “Dinsûl is not making bread today, but neither will I forget you.”

Having finished his duty, he quickly made coffee over the dying fire and brought a bowl of the bitter drink into the tent. “Father,” he said softly, placing his hand on Dinsûl’s shoulder. “Father, you must awake. The women will be arriving soon and all is ready. Here, have coffee. I have been here too long already and must leave now.”

Dinsûl rolled over and after a moment asked for water, which his son quickly brought to him. “Go son, I am awake. Go and my blessings and thanks go with you.”

Surinen stopped short to watch as he left the tent, for close by a horse and rider thundered hurriedly past toward the leader’s encampment, frightening away the bird that had been picking at the last crumbs of dough. It was Surinen’s fellow outrider Narayad, his lance held high but with no pennant to signal danger. Wondering what tidings brought Narayad so quickly back; Surinen took his own lance from its position by the tent flap and swung up on his horse. He would know soon enough, but sooner yet once he reached the outskirts of the Eagle Clan’s sprawling borders. Turning his horse to follow Narayad’s trail, he quickly headed out past the flocks and herds, into the waste beyond.

[Mithadan]

Ealasaide/Airefalas

Airefalas gazed down into his wine cup as Mithadan nodded. "They are not yet that bored," said Mithadan, speaking of the crew they had left confined to the Lonely Star. "And they have had the chance to explore such of the city as they might wish. And they have filled their cabins with trade goods of their own. They will be happy when we return to Gondor."

Airefalas took a sip from his cup and turned his gaze out the window toward the city below. “None too soon,” he muttered. He had been against Mithadan’s and his move from the ship to the palace in the first place, but had held his tongue and not objected when Mithadan had told him of the plan. Airefalas was well aware that it was a matter of protocol. Mithadan could hardly reject the hospitality of Lord Falasmir without causing Umbar’s principal lord a considerable loss of face, which could lead to a breakdown in the trade negotiations. Nonetheless, Airefalas would have preferred to have remained on the ship. Moored in the shadow of the black-sailed corsair that had escorted the Lonely Star to her berth, the ship was highly vulnerable. On the other hand, he could hardly have allowed his captain to go ashore alone either. Airefalas disliked the options they had been faced with all the way around.

“We’re being manipulated,” he said quietly, putting the wine cup aside. “From the moment we arrived, they began their maneuvering and now they have us at a complete disadvantage. To what purpose, I cannot say, but I honestly feel we are being delayed intentionally. We are at their mercy.”

For a long moment, Mithadan said nothing, but a shadow of a frown passed over his features. “Perhaps you think of them too harshly, Airefalas,” he said at last. “It would be to Umbar’s considerable advantage to establish open trade with Gondor. What could they possibly gain by holding us?”

Airefalas shrugged. “That I don’t know, but I don’t trust them. We should have moored the Lonely Star outside the harbor and outside of their control.” He paused, turning his back to the window and folding his arms stubbornly across his chest. “If you will permit me to speak frankly, I just spent seven weeks as a prisoner on one of those galleys. I know how their captains think. While their hospitality is excellent, they are nonetheless a black-hearted bunch, who would sell their own mothers into slavery if they thought it would bring a grand enough profit.”

Mithadan nodded. “You know you may always speak frankly.” He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. “While what you say may very well be true, what would you have us do? We are here on behalf of King Elessar to open up trade with Umbar. We must behave like diplomats, not churlish boat captains.”

Airefalas laughed. “My apologies, Mithadan.” He raised his hands in friendly surrender. “Of course, you’re right, but the churlish boat captain in me refuses to sit down and be quiet.”

“ I can tell that the waiting is beginning to wear on me,” Airefalas added after a moment. “Caravan or no caravan, I would feel much more secure if we waited on board the Lonely Star and outside the shadow of that black-sailed dromond.”

“I, too, would prefer the situation be something other than what it is,” answered Mithadan patiently. “But, hopefully, the caravan will arrive in two days as expected, and we will be able to conclude our transactions as planned and be on our way. In the meantime, we must enjoy Lord Falasmir’s hospitality and try to make as good a use of our time here as we can.”

Airefalas nodded. “Again, you are right. All I’m saying is that we need to keep our wits about us. They’ve gone to a good bit of trouble to put us at this disadvantage. It would be very unlike the Corsairs not to make use of the situation.”

“I will keep that in mind,” answered Mithadan.

[Mithadan]

Estelyn Telcontar/Wyrma

The curtain which covered the entry to the Lord Falasmir’s audience hall rustled softly as the woman pulled it aside. She approached ruler’s throne with purposeful, unhasted steps and bowed her head with only as much deference as necessary to greet him.

“Welcome, Lady Wyrma,” he said politely, yet without warmth in his smooth voice. “You have arrived punctually as always. I hope you had a good journey?”

“A journey is always good when it is uneventful,” she replied, almost curtly. “I trust you and your family are well, my Lord Falasmir.”

“As always,” he answered, “as always. However, time is too short to spend in talking of such matters – the appointed hour for the banquet draws nigh and we must plan our course of action well.”

“So you still intend to go through with this – farce?” she said with only a hint of the disdain she felt.

“Of course,” Falasmir replied. “There must be no outward sign that we do not intend to cooperate fully with King Elessar’s plans and wishes. Besides, it does not hurt to remind the traders who holds the power here in Umbar.”

Wyrma curbed the retort that came to her mind; she had long ago learned not to say what she thought without carefully considering the repercussions. Not even among allies did she allow herself to speak freely.

“What are you planning?” she asked instead.

“The northern captain has been told that the awaited caravan arrives in two days. However, at noon of the second day, we shall seize him, his first mate, and the whole crew. If any resist, they will be slain,” he said.

“Would it not be better to rid yourself of them all immediately?” Wyrma queried. “Of what further use can they be to you?”

“Oh, they will show their worth – at the slave market! They are healthy and strong and will bring a good price, I am sure!” Falasmir laughed.

“Live foes can still do mischief,” she said.

“You see matters too sternly, I deem,” came his reply. “Now, have you news from the north?”

“Yes,” she answered. “A messenger has come, bearing tidings that all is ready. It shall take place in seven days.” With a glance at the guards flanking the throne, she said no more.

“Good, good,” he responded, noticing her look with chagrined irritation. Wyrma was an excellent counsellor and a cunning ally, but he did not trust her so far as to meet with her alone and unguarded. She had abilities that made her dangerous, and there was no telling whether she might use them against him. He had the uncomfortable feeling that she knew of his fear and was secretly amused by it.

Well did Wyrma realize his apprehension, and she did nothing to allay it. She knew that fear of the unknown was greater than that of a visible danger and was therefore careful never to reveal herself to him. Indeed, there were few who had seen her true nature made apparent.

Since all that was now necessary had been said, she took her leave, departing by the same doorway which she had entered earlier. It was located at the side of the room and used only by those who were granted the privilege in order to remain unseen by those waiting in the courtyard. The curtained opening led to an antechamber, where two more guards stood. Wyrma ostensibly took no notice of them, just as they appeared not to see her, but she was acutely aware of their interest.

She entered the chambers which she always occupied when staying in the palace. Her maid, who accompanied her on all journeys so that she needed no other assistance, was unpacking the baggage efficiently and quietly. She brushed past a large mirror with only a cursory glance. She needed no mirror to tell her how she looked; beauty was not what she strove to achieve. She knew that she was not an outwardly attractive woman, being too stocky for gracefulness and having stern features that showed no feminine daintiness. That was of no importance to her. She sat down at the desk near the window to peruse the messages lying there.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ráma

The piercing rays of the sun coated the buildings and alleyways of Umbar like a thick woolen blanket surrounding the city. It was mid-afternoon, the time when most residents wisely remained inside under walls and roofs that could shield them from the stifling heat and glare. The streets were bathed in silence, the markets empty. Only a servant or two trudged unwillingly about on business, hauling jugs of water and supplies, or engaging in other errands at the whim of some great lord. Rich or poor, few voluntarily ventured out at this time of day when the air hung so oppresively heavy that it was difficult to catch one's breath.

In a few hours, with the approach of early evening, this scene would dramatically alter. The quiet streets would waken as elegant villas and sqaulid shacks threw back their doors, and residents spilled out onto the streets. Crowded throngs of citizens would go about their business or pleasure often till late into the night. By its very nature, Umbar was a city of darkness. Only at night, or in the few hours immediately following dawn when many still lay abed, could a resident of Umbar conduct public business in reasonable comfort.

A half-shadowed figure stood beside the open casement in the Common Room at The Cat's Paw, a small and ancient hostelry that was tucked away on a forgotten lane far from the main thoroughfares criss crossing the city. The figure at the window instinctively drew back so that she could watch those passing in front of the Inn, while still making it difficult for them to catch a clear glimpse of her own face and figure. The woman appeared to be young, no more than twenty years of age, with masses of cascading black curls framing a well-tanned face and alert brown eyes that were highlighted with flecks of gold. Short and lithe, she sported leather boots and a scarlet pelicon elaborately embroidered with silhouettes of birds worked in golden thread. This was worn over a pair of long pants that flared out almost like a skirt, an outfit in which she could sit astride a horse with ease but still manage to blend into the finest establishments of Umbar. Tucked deep under her belt within a leather sheath, she carried two jambiyas, the traditional doubled-edged curved daggers of the southern peoples.

To her friends and family she was 'Ráma', a name that means 'Wing of the Eagle'. Those in Umbar regarded her as a well-to-do Mannish desert dweller, a representative of one of the more powerful tribes living in the region to the east. She did nothing to dispel that illusion, which was essential to her safety and that of her people. In truth, the woman was a Skinchanger, one of those rare folk who are spoken of in legend, much feared and courted by so-called normal men. She had been sent on an errand by her own tribe, those few who rejected the overall leadership of the confederated clans. Her ostensible mission was to represent her kin in their business dealings with the wealthiest families of Umbar. In this regard, Ráma could offer her customers three exceptional commodities that were much prized by those of high rank and fortune: the rare white merino sheep whose silky wool was so valued by ladies at court, the sturdy camels who could glide like ships across the deep sands, and, sweetest of all, the prized stallions and mares who ran as sure and fleet as the wind roaring across the desert.

Yet, at the moment, Ráma's mind was not on trade, nor even on the horses that she loved. She uneasily surveyed the street below, searching vainly for any sign of her kinsman who was now some two hours late. The woman's fingers drummed nervously against the window ledge as she considered what to do. For trade was only a small part of her assignment.. Her proud mother and their other kin preferred to lead lives of fierce independence and eschew any involvement with outsiders, almost like solitary eagles atop a craggy cliff. But that had become increasingly difficult. Disturbing rumors swirled through the desert. These rumors spoke not of harassment and attack on the part of Mannish clans, an all too common occurence when men awoke to the reality of Skinchangers in their midst. Rather, they spoke of a new threat from within her own people: Skinchangers who wanted to expand their influence outward and who threatened to eliminate all those refusing to give proper allegiance to the main wyrm chieftain.

These charges and concerns were not new, but lately they had taken on a more somber tone. Since her own family and kin had no intention of honoring the directives of the wyrm leader, such rumors posed a serious threat. She and Thorn had been sent to gather whatever information they could to find out what lay behind all this. In most lands to the north and west, one as young as Ráma might not have been burdened with such a task. But this was Umbar, and young ones grew up fast. Either that, or they perished from the dangers and intrigues that constantly surrounded them. Ráma knew that most young women her own age were already married, or at least have secured promises for the future. That was not an option for her. Pushing down the bitterness that threatened to resurface, she forced herself to concentrate on the immediate problem at hand.

That evening, she was expected to attend an audience at the Great Hall of Lord Falasmir as one of the traders in the area to meet with foreign shipowners from the city of Minas Tirith. The shipowners did not interest her in the slightest. But the chance to gain admission to court and pick up information was another thing. Surely she could arrive at the palace just a few hours early to make some polite inquiries as to the whereabouts of Thorn who was supposed to be tending several prized steeds that Falismar had recently purchased from her clan. Or perhaps she could even make discreet inquiries and learn something more of those strange rumors.

How she hated playing a game like this! She would rather have been free to ride out of the city and return to the wild desert lands that she loved. Only there would she find a way through to solve her personal dilemma. But that, too, was a luxury she could ill afford. Ráma pushed personal thoughts from her mind one last time and went out to saddle Kyelek, quickly making her way into the street and turning the animal's nose in the direction of the palace.

[Mithadan]

Mithadan and Airefalas stood outside their chambers at the palace, speaking with the captain of their "escort" detail. Both of the Gondorians had white cloths bound about their heads with red rope. The cloths trailed down their necks covering their skin.

"You wish to go now?" whined the captain. "It is mid-day! The sun is at its strongest as is the heat! Why not wait until the evening when it is cooler?"

"Your Lord Falasmir requires our presence this evening," replied Airefalas evenly. "We will not have time then. We will go now."

"Wait a moment then," answered the captain with a scowl. He moved to a door down the hall and opened it. The sound of hurried, then angry discussion followed. Several minutes later, three heavily armed and annoyed looking men emerged and shuffled over to the Gondorians.

"Raal, Mahat and Seft will accompany you to make certain you find your way safely," announced the captain. "Take care and avoid the direct sun when you can."

"Thank you," responded Mithadan with a smile. The one named Seft, a broad shouldered, olive skinned man wearing mail made of bronze led the way through the corridors of the palace. The place was built of heavy stone with many windows, narrow on the first two floors and broader above. There was an open courtyard in the center of the building in which a fountain bubbled with clear water. The walls were hung with brightly colored silks and cloths, many portraying scenes of the oceans or of the men of Umbar in battle. Mithadan suspected that the opponents in many of these scenes, warriors wearing black armor, were people of his own country.

Servants pushed open the great doors as they exited. The hot air broke around them like the surf on a beach, but unlike the surf it did not recede, but rather enveloped them. Mithadan began sweating almost instantly as they stode down the steps of the palace towards the broad road leading down towards the seaport. A few beggars, sprawled in the shadows gestured hopefully, but Raal put a hand on the hilts of his sword and growled at any who made as if to stand and approach them. But by and large, the streets were empty; most of the citydwellers stayed indoors at this time of day.

It was nearly a league to the docks and when they at last approached the water even their guards were sweating and grumbling. The Lonely Star was berthed in a commercial quay near a row of squat warehouses. When they had arrived, other trading vessels had occupied the docks nearby. But when they approached the Star, to their surprise, on either side of their ship was docked a black corsair. Mithadan frowned and looked with distaste at the rows of windows just above the waterline of either vessel. From these slaves could extend oars to speed the warships on their way. "I have black memories of ships like those," muttered Airefalas as they walked past.

"You don't like The Black Eagle?" asked Maal with a laugh. "She is the largest ship in our fleet. And the Seahawk there is the fastest. Are they not grand?"

"Wonderful," answered Mithadan wryly. "But why are they docked here? These are commercial quays. Your warships were berthed to the south when we arrived."

"The truth be told," answered Seft with a slight smile. "It has come to our ears that some are not happy that a ship of Gondor is here. We feared for the safety of your crew and moved these vessels here...to protect your ship."

"We feel much safer now," retorted Airefalas through clenched teeth. "And I see that more guards have been posted. Also to protect us, I assume." Two tents had been raised across from where the Star was berthed and several guards lounged in their shade.

"Yes," laughed Maal. "To protect you."

Mithadan and Airefalas climbed the gangway to the Lonely Star in silence. Their... guides remained on the dock and chatted with the guards who had walked over when they arrived. On deck, Saelon, the second mate greeted them. Mithadan took a quick look about before responding. Everything, the decks, the railings, the helm were clean, indeed spotless. A sure sign of a bored crew with little to do.

"Captain!" cried Saelon. "Any word on when we leave?"

"Soon," replied Mithadan. "Soon. We meet tonight with traders. I hope to cast off in a matter of days if we can." He looked over to the Black Eagle. A few members of its crew were leaning upon its railings looking down at Mithadan and his companions. He noted that the corsair's men wore swords and leather jerkins notwithstanding the heat. "When did they arrive?" he asked turning his back on the black ship.

"Yesterday," answered Saelon. "Both ships, one right after the other. A trader was moved to make room. Some of us don't like this Captain."

Mithadan nodded. "How is the crew?"

"Bored," responded the mate. "Eager to take to sea. Angil got drunk last night and got into a fight with one of his guards. I locked him in his cabin."

"Let him out," said Mithadan. "But no more leave for him. And no leave longer than two hours for anyone else. Tell everyone that we will leave in a matter of days. I want the ship ready to go." He looked back up at the corsair and thought for a moment. "How are we provisioned with oil?" he asked.

"Cooking oil?" asked Saelon. "We have plenty."

"No," answered the Captain. "Lamp oil. Purchase two barrels of it. No. Three."

Airefalas and Mithadan went among the crew, shaking hands and smiling. They assured all that they would depart soon and bade them be ready. Then they made their way back to the gangplank again.

"'In a matter of days'?" asked Airefalas.

Mithadan scowled, then put on a fairer face as their guards approached. "Yes," he answered quietly. "With or without cargo."

[piosenniel]

Rôg

They were three days out of Harlond, soon to be heading out of the bay to open sea. Faragaer’s lugger had skimmed down the river, sails catching the wind as she sped down the center of the channel. There had been a brief layover at Pelargir, just enough time to take on a pallet of woven cages, fifty in all, bearing pairs of quail – all bound for the tables of Umbar’s more prominent citizens.

A riot of loud sounds had accompanied their transfer to the deck of The Scuppered Gull, becoming higher in pitch when the net which swung them to the ship was caught for a moment as it passed over the railing, jostling the small, chunky, short-tailed birds, frightening them.

. . . ka-KA-ko! . . . ka-KA-ko! . . . they cried to one another. The old man had clucked his tongue and followed after them once they were lowered into the dimly lit cargo hold; his presence offering them a moment of calm reassurance.

Rôg had watched as the greyed top of his companion’s head disappeared below the rim of the hatch. ‘I should go down, too,’ he thought to himself, barely suppressing a belch as his stomach revolted at the thought of the small, dark, enclosed space rocking however gently on the river’s current.

Two of the crew members passed by him as he stood at the railing, he recalled, his gaze now fixed on the small quay and the land beyond it. One jostled the other and pointed with his chin at the bedraggled man with the ghastly pale green tinge that underlay the olive complexion. ‘Don’t know how he’ll weather the real waves once we bear south along the coast,’ he whispered. The other had reached for the bucket with wood shavings they had learned to keep near the younger man and pushed it near the bilious looking passenger. ‘Nor do I,’ affirmed the other crewmember, ‘but I guess he’ll keep me busy with the planer.’

The two nodded, with as much sympathy as they could muster, to Rôg as they passed on to their tasks. And he had pulled the bucket up to him, hugging it to his chest like some long lost love, his head resting on the rim.

And so he had remained, the last fifty leagues from the relative calm of the bay to the Great Sea; his claim on that portion of the deck and railing given up only for brief periods when sheer exhaustion claimed him and he dragged himself below deck to his and Aiwendil’s small cabin. During one of these retreats to his hammock, the older man’s ice blue eyes crinkled with concern and a hint of mild amusement at his companion’s discomfiture. The wind from the west had picked up as they turned south, and the waves beat at the side of the ship in a rhythmic manner.

‘It will be a long, insufferable trip I fear, for you, my friend,' he said, shaking his head sympathetically as a groan escaped from the depth of the hammock’s netting. ‘Perhaps you should consider trying an alternative.’ The sound of the young man retching, the unfortunately familiar sour stench of ship’s biscuit revisited, drove the older man from the small cabin. He exited quickly and shut the door to the cabin firmly, his footsteps fading as he climbed up the steps to the main deck.

Rôg raised his head cautiously from the mouth of the bucket, the wave of nausea receding. In a small moment of clarity he nodded at the door which now stood closed. ‘Moth,’ he mumbled, pulling himself shakily to his feet. ‘I don’t recall ever hearing that moths throw up.’

The window of clarity and calm passed as the very last remnants of breakfast met the already soggy shavings . . .

[piosenniel]

Gondor

‘Move over, Wenny. I want to see, too!’

Isilmir reached down and grabbed his little sister by the wrist, pulling her up to the wide branch of the red oak. The tree sprawled conveniently near the high walled fence that ran about the grounds of their home. Gilwen scooted further down the limb, making room for Cami as she clambered onto the rough platform.

‘Do you see him yet?’ Cami squinted into the distance, along the line of the narrow track leading west from the South Road to their front gate. ‘No,’ said her sister, pushing a clump of leaves down that obstructed her view. ‘But we can’t miss him,’ she giggled. ‘He’s as big as those stone statues in the White Tower!’ Cami looked skeptically at Gilwen, her brow furrowing. ‘No, he’s not,’ she declared after a few moments’ recollection. ‘Not by half,’ she said, emphasizing her argument with a decided smack to her sister’s bare arm. ‘Hey! Watch it!’ growled Gilwen, an annoyed look on her face. She raised herself up, sitting cross-legged on the limb as she rubbed her arm.

Cami scuttled out of reach and tucked herself in close to Isilmir. ‘Hold still, you two!’ he hissed at them. ‘I can’t see clearly with my spyglass with both of you bouncing about like big bunnies. The girls sat quietly for a few moments as Isilmir tried to focus the small, telescoping brass tube. The smaller girl, her attention waning, pulled on the sleeve of his shirt. ‘Do you see him . . . yet?’ she whispered. Her brother sighed, shaking his head ‘no’, and pushed the two parts of the spyglass firmly together.

‘Well I see something,’ said Gilwen, her eyes lighting up. The other two followed the direction of her gaze – away from the road and toward the house. On the broad kitchen windowsill, Cook was just setting out trays of small honey-cakes to cool. Their honey glazed tops glistened in the morning’s sun, beckoning.

The children, their plans to spy out the arrival of their guest now replaced by a mission more promising, climbed down from their leafy platform. Prizes in sight, they stole near the tempting sweets, mouths watering in anticipation.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Wyrma looked up from her papers when she heard a knock on the door of her room. She was alone in the opulently furnished chamber; her maidservant Elsta had left to run an errand. “Enter!” she called imperatively.

A young man came in with buoyant steps, barely containing his excitement to be in this fascinating surrounding. His dark eyes shone with eagerness, and his black curls were slightly tousled, as if he had run from his quarters to hers. It was the first time Tinar, Wyrma’s youngest son, accompanied her on one of her trips to Umbar.

“Mother,” he burst out, “I have finished unpacking my things. May I go out to meet Korpúlfr now? He has promised to show me the city!”

“In the heat of the day?” she protested. “Would you not rather wait until it is cooler?”

“But we won’t have time then – the banquet begins early in the evening, and who knows how long it will take?”

“Then go,” she said, with an inner sigh of resignation, “but go inconspicuously. And be sure to be back in time for…”

“Of course!” he exclaimed impetuously, with the disdain youths of all times have for the well-meaning yet entirely unnecessary admonitions of their mothers. He paused for a moment of concentration, shrinking before her eyes until he was transformed into a sparrow. The little bird fluttered to the window sill, waiting impatiently for her to open the painted wooden shutters, then disappeared into the shimmering afternoon air.

Wyrma closed the shutters and stretched her weary back before sitting down again. She found planning and writing more tiring than anything else, though it was a necessary part of her office as leader of her people. Her eldest son had given her many sheaves to peruse, and his image rose to her mind as she studied them. Markal was a pompous, officious man who seemed older than his years. If she could have chosen a form for him, it would have been a donkey, she thought wryly.

He was dutiful, but a weakling, looking to her to make the decisions that he implemented. Worse yet, he was boring – just like his father. He would never be the leader of their people. He did not have the magnetism, the power, the personality that was necessary. Most important, he lacked the essential ability that her people would expect of her successor. No, he was more suited to what he did now, supervising the business of the city that was developing as her capital.

It would be more strenuous to supervise Tinar, true, but it was time to give her youngest the opportunity to show and develop his abilities. None of his elder brothers had evidenced an inclination to follow in her footsteps as yet. Should he have any of the characteristics of his real father, combined with hers, he could become the next Great Wyrm – if he learned to…

She swept aside the papers with an impatient gesture, as if to brush away the irksome thoughts that troubled her mind. Perhaps she should rest before the evening came – she would need all of her wits about her in the treacherous scheming of this court.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Surinen

From a distance it seemed as if Narayad were gesturing at the ground beneath a small arrangement of rather worn looking tree trunks, propped one against another. But in truth he was addressing Surinen, who was in a pit deep below the surface digging in the hard ground. Pulling a rope strung over the tripod produced an oft-mended pan laden with dirt, which Narayad promptly threw on a large pile of similar stuff, and lowered down the hole again. Nearby a similar pit was to be seen, the remains of the old well found to have collapsed a few days before.

“Watch your head,” Narayad said as he let the rope slide easily through his hands. “Any sign yet?”

“No,” came the thin reply. “Tell me Narayad, if I should never come out of here alive, would you take care of my father?”

“You are not going to die while I am around,” Narayad shouted back. “And don’t worry, if you weren’t around the whole clan would care for Dinsûl or else starve. Aren’t you feeling well then?”

The scraping sound left off for a moment replaced by wheezy laughter that ended in a fit of coughing.

“Surinen, are you all right?” the man asked, stooping over the edge of the pit. “Surinen?”

“Yes, I’m alright, and more comfortable than you no doubt. In fact so pleasant it is and my feet so cool that I think I should curl up and stay down here forever. Please give my father my apologies.” He broke off again into another crackling peel. “You know where to find me. Tell him I have become a poisonous serpent coiled inside this well, one that you dared not remove, but that I promised not to bite if he would visit me here.”

“Ah! Then we are near water, aren’t we?” the other outrider said, quickly tying the end of the rope. “Here climb back up, and let me take a turn as the earth will become heavier and your wit even weaker.”

After a moment the dusty head of the delver appeared above ground as Surinen climbed the rope to its top. Narayad grabbed his hand pulling it sharply to help him gain the side of the pit. Once more standing in the light of day Surinen shook the dust from his hair and squinted as he picked up his shawl and placed it on his head so that it might shade his eyes.

“And I shall be sure to bring comfort to your wife in her sorrow should you decide to stay here and not return to her,” he said winking at Narayad as he took the rope and prepared to descend. “For I hear it is bad luck for a married man to dig a well! And even worse for one with such a beautiful wife!” He joked knowing that Narayad, only recently wed, had a passion for excavating that his new wife did not share.

“You truly are practicing to become a viper then, aren’t you? But if you have such venomous ideas, I shall crush your head now with this beam so as not to worry about them. Beware what you say to me!”

“No friend, I am no snake, but your wife would not have you put your self at risk and bound me to speak with you about it…and you of all people know I do not mind the digging.”

“Then you are free of your obligation for you have broached the subject, and the result is not in your hands but mine. I will speak with her on our return.”

“That is all I ask.”

“Then it will be done, rest assured, and quickly also if you let me be about my business! I think we should be able to return tomorrow or the next, if the water seeps in quickly.”

“And if I do not decide to linger in the well waiting for frogs to arrive!”

[Ealasaide]

Airefalas

As Airefalas walked with Mithadan back down the Lonely Star's gangplank toward the shore, he felt a peculiar sense of relief. It wasn't that things were going any better. They weren't. The ship and her crew were now under even more dire threat than they had been previously what with the recent arrival of the extra shore guard and a second black dromond. The graceful lines of the Lonely Star were now offset by the ominous shadows of two flanking warships. With that kind of might hovering over them, ready and poised to attack, Airefalas knew that crew of the Lonely Star would have to move quickly and with their wits about them if they wished to survive should the situation move beyond tense into actual open hostility. Ideally, he would have preferred to have served with Mithadan and the rest of the Lonely Star crew previously so that he could know what to expect of them should events come to a battle, but he was not concerned with their relative valor. They seemed as brave and stout a bunch of men as he had ever sailed with. In fact, he had complete confidence in ship, captain, and crew. What he did not have confidence in was the word of this Lord Falasmir. He had the reputation of a viper and, upon meeting him, Airefalas half-expected to see a forked tongue in his mouth when he spoke.

Stepping off of the gangplank back on to Umbar's territory, Airefalas cast a glance up at the pale blue of the Haradrim sky. The sun was baking down on them with the intensity of a furnace. If not for the steady offshore breeze, it would have been nearly unbearable. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and waited as the three guards who had escorted him and Mithadan from the palace earlier rejoined them for the trip back.

While he had initially experienced some private doubts about Mithadan's intents, fearing that their stalwart captain was going to let them all be slaughtered like sheep in a pen while he made some misguided and futile attempt at diplomacy, Airefalas now saw that his doubts had been rooted in his own ignorance of Mithadan's character. In fact, when he had made a passing comment to Saelon, the Star's second mate, expressing this doubt, Saelon had simply looked at Airefalas as though he had taken leave of his senses, then laughed loudly as though it had been a wonderful joke. Airefalas had laughed along with him and taken his leave, thinking, well, maybe... Then, he had heard Mithadan’s instructions regarding the lamp oil and found himself letting out a breath he had not even realized he was holding. When Mithadan had intimated a few minutes later that they would be leaving in a few days, with or without cargo, he knew for certain that his worries had been unfounded. That knowledge was the source from whence his sense of relief flowed.

Thinking back on his own foolishness in doubting Mithadan’s intent, Airefalas let out a soft, wry laugh. Mahat, the guard on his right, shot him a curious glance. On impulse, Airefalas dropped him a wink.

The guard eyed him cautiously. “You find something funny?”

“Only the heat,” Airefalas replied casually. Without giving the guard a chance to respond, he turned to Mithadan. “The tide will be turning soon and the wind with it. I can feel a change already."

Mithadan nodded. "I, too. Fortunately, Saelon has done a good job in our absence. Once the cargo is on board, very little remains to be done to prepare the Star for sailing."

Airefalas nodded in response and fell silent, letting his attention dwell instead on the route they took in getting from the docks to the palace. He paid careful attention to the closed and shuttered buildings, to where narrow side streets joined the main thoroughfare, and so on. As long as the possibility existed that he and Mithadan might have to fight their way back to the ship, he intended to do his best to make sure that there were no unpleasant surprises along the way.

The banquet scheduled for the evening worried Airefalas greatly. Earlier, he had toyed with the idea of trying to conceal a weapon on his person so as not be completely unprepared for treachery, but, as Mithadan had bluntly pointed out, being caught with a weapon would do nothing but land them both in Lord Falasmir’s dungeons. He saw the truth in Mithadan’s warning and abandoned the idea at once, but found his sense of foreboding regarding the banquet growing steadily throughout the day. He raised one hand to his temple where a throbbing headache had begun to take root.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Rama and Thorn:

The twisted streets of Umbar appeared nearly deserted under the blazing heat of the afternoon sun. Ráma let Kyelek pick his way through the lanes and alleyways at a comfortable gait. She sat astride a silken pad that bore the colors of her house, since Kyelek habitually chaffed against the feel of leather or a tight girth constricting his belly. Since childhood, Ráma had spent most of her waking hours around horses and felt equally comfortable riding with or without a saddle.

As they journied toward the palace, Ráma noted that the streets about her were virtually empty. She could not help but laugh. These citydwellers were a spoiled lot to hide from a little warmth and sunshine! For at least within the gates of the city, there were numerous shady nooks, and a slight breeze blew in from the harbor, lightening even the heaviest of afternoons.

These lazy folk had no idea what it was to ride for hours through burning, shifting sands without benefit of shade or water! Let them remain within their pampered enclaves and leave her clan alone. Hearts bred in cold stone streets would never understand the beauty of a life spent wandering, the varied hues of a pink tinged sunset as the daytime heat gave way to evening chill, or the awe engendered by one of the giant storms racing across the sands from the mysterious lands to the south and east.

How some of the maenwaith could turn their back on such a life, trading in their freedom for cold masonry, was something Ráma would never understand. Not that her own existence had been easy. There were those among her clan who looked askance at a young woman who had not yet shown the slightest evidence of any gift. At times, Ráma had even wondered if it wouldn't be easier to slip away, taking her beloved horses with her, to live among ordinary men and women who possessed no gifts or dreams. But she could not bear to leave her mother who understood her in a special way or ignore the sweet pull of the desert. And never would she give in to Wyrma, that wretched imitation of a leader who understood nothing of the free life. It was better to die a hundred deaths than be dragged off to live in Umbar, a place no better than a fancy prison!

Approaching the broad walkway that led up the hill to the front gate of the palace, Ráma showed her credentials to the guard on duty, explaining that she'd come to check on the stallions Falasmir had purchased and that she would be staying for the reception that evening. The guard grunted his assent and beckoned her inside. Ráma rode Kyelek through a mazelike series of gates and passageways, ones that she remembered from her earlier visits, turning off onto a side lane that led towards the stables and fenced enclosures. She spurred her mount forward at a faster pace as her mind returned to Thorn. She again wondered why he had not shown up at the Cat's Paw as he had promised to do.

Don't let anything happen to him, she whispered a heartfelt plea to the spirits of her clan. In her short life, Ráma had seen too much evil befall those people she cared for, including her own father Liki who had died at the hands of those hating and fearing what they could not understand. Nothing was safe or sure in Harad. She repeated her plea, offering up a bargain just to be safe. ....Anyone else....but not him.

Riding into the stableyard, she dismounted and slipped the bridle off Kyelek's head, turning him into a small field where tender grass grew, carefully cultivated and watered for Falamir's steeds. Ráma walked over to the heavy door and slid it open, peering into the grey recesses of the stables, straining to make out the shadowy figures and forms. She could see the stalls of the three stallions they had recently sold to the palace, the horses' tack tidily arranged against the far wall, but there was no sign of Thorn anywhere she looked. Pushing down an uneasy feeling, she walked slowly and purposefully between the row of stalls, her fingers slipping to the hilt of a dagger she always carried by her side. The heels of her leather boots clicked against the granite pavingstones, resounding ominously through the recesses of the building.

Where was everyone? The stable lads and trainers, the crew responsible for cleaning the stalls, the carters who brought their wagons of supplies into the yard? The entire area looked deserted. She walked forward two more paces and then stopped dead. From the side of the nearest stall came a rustling, as if someone was getting up from behind a hiding place. She heard footsteps coming towards her and turned around to face the sound, standing poised to throw her weapon if there was need.

"Ráma, it's me." A familiar voice called out of the darkness, driving away the chill.

"Thorn?"

The young man stepped out from behind the stall partition and rushed over to Ráma. He was of middling height, with a comely demeanor, and long black hair pulled back into a thong. His eyes beamed out a welcome, but there was no laughter or reassurance in his voice. He placed a finger over his pursed lips in warning and set his other hand on Ráma's shoulder, guiding her towards a small sideroom that served as the smithy's forge.

Once inside, he carefully latched the door. "Ráma, she is here. Wyrma is here in the palace. At this moment, Falasmir's steward is addressing all the servants in the main hall to announce the news. They are ordered to supply her with anything she desires. I stayed here in the stables. I do not think Wyrma would show up at such a meeting, but I could not take a chance."

A thousand thoughts raced through Ráma's mind, all vying for her attention, but she blurted out the one thing that lay closest to her heart, "Thorn, it is too dangerous. You must not stay here. Wyrma knows your face. You stood beside my mother at the last Gathering. She knows Ayar puts her trust in you."

He looked back at her, vigorously shaking his head. "I must stay. I'll be careful. Something's about to happen, and we don't know what. Wyrma says she's come here to be a counselor for Falismar. Perhaps he believes that story, but I do not. If Wyrma's here, she is here for her own purposes. And we must find out what those are."

"Then let me stay in your place," Ráma begged. "Wyrma knows nothing of me, not even that I am one of the maenwith , since I was never given a woman's ceremony to celebrate the coming of my form."

"No, you must return to warn your mother. I will be careful, but even if I was recognized, Wyrma would probably pay little attention to me." He added with a hint of bitterness, "She thinks little of our clan, and believes we pose no threat."

"Still, I do not like it!" the young woman interjected.

"Who likes any of this? But there is another reason you must return to camp. Your sister, Narika...." Thorn's voice dropped as he struggled for the right words. "Ráma, you must promise to watch over her for me."

Ráma turned away hating to hear the message, yet it did not surprise her. Thorn drew a jagged breath and pushed forward again, glad that it had been said. "You should have been a man, Ráma. For you think and act like one. You have the spirit of an Eagle in your body, whether or not you actually wear the form. Narika is different.... She is quiet and dreamy, filled with song and lore, and she relies on you for many practical things. Promise me you will not let her down."

Ráma sighed and nodded yes. She, too, loved her sister. "I will leave soon to do as you say. But I must attend the reception tonight with the emissaries from Gondor. These men mean nothing to us, but I can't afford to draw attention by my absence. When the evening ends, I will return to the Cat's Paw, pack my belongings, and leave early in the morning."

"Good, my little eaglet. And if I hear anything more about why Wyrma is here or what she plans to do, I will let you know. I plan to pay a little visit to Wyrma's and Falasmir's chambers later this afternoon."

"Be careful!" Ráma warned, "I will watch the skies for you and your message." She stepped back a pace or two, being careful not to hug or touch him, and then walked out of the stables, stopping just once to whisper greetings to each of the three stallions standing in their stalls.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 5:06 PM January 13, 2004: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[piosenniel]

Nerindel – Korpúlfr

As the sun baked the quiet midday streets of Umbar, a heavily laden wagon rumbled through the dusty roads flanked by four well armed riders. It was not uncommon for trade wagons to be looted as they journeyed to and from the city, most of the looted wares usually finding their way to a Corsairs ship, to be sold on at some other port of call. The city itself was also a dangerous place to those who were not aware of the cities darker side. Many a novice trader had lost his purse and wares to the pirates and cut throats by taking a wrong turn and straying into the streets of the less desirable parts of the city, but the wagoneer and his escorts were no strangers to the city and knew to avoid such places when ever possible. The wagoneer himself was a short dark haired young man, his dark eyes emphasized by the black kohl that lined them. The fine cut and gold trim of his tunic, the fine silk of his shirt and the four man escort all marked him as one of Umbar's wealthier merchants.

As the wagon rolled steadily along, passing the empty markets and winding it's way up to the wealthier region of the city the young man sat with an air of confidence, but behind that facade he was contemplating, the events of the past few days. It was now three days since he received the invitation to attendant a banquet at Lord Falasmir's palace, to meet with traders of Gondor. Although the prospect of fresh trade meant more profit for him and his clan he could not help but be suspicious, why now after so long, what are they really up too?

"Woooh!" the wagoneer called pulling hard on the reigns of the four horse team, as they neared the large ornately carved wood framed house that was his Umbar abode. Then dropping the reigns he leapt down, but before he even spoke the four riders had dismounted and began unloading the wagon and from the stables they had pulled up in front of, came the stable hands to take the horses. The stable hands were all Haradwaith men and behind his friendly and confident demeanour he always looked on them with suspicion, but it had been necessary to hire local people to insure the pretense that he was a Haradwaith merchant, though nearly all of the in-house staff were of his own clan or those of other clans that he trusted.

"Make sure, they get plenty of water!" he told the nearest stable hand who nodded his understanding, before continuing to unhitch the team. He turned again to those unloading the cart, his escort were all members of his family people he trusted as he and his father insured their loyalty by keeping them in the comfortable lifestyle they had all become accustom too.

"Take the first five barrels and those three chests to the store then load the rest onto the other cart for tonight," he told them.

"But Korpúlfr, are not these our finest goods!" his older cousin, Hasrim exclaimed, a puzzled look crossing his bearded face as he lifted one of the barrels his younger cousin had indicated was to be taken to Lord Falasmir's palace. The young wagoneer smiled wryly and whispered, "My father wishes us to make a good impression on the Gondorian merchants, we may not trust them, but open trade will not only be good for business it will enable us to keep a closer eye on the doings of their King, it is said that he controls most of the north lands, who is to say that he does not think to control the Southland's also?" then lowering his voice further, that the Haradwaith stablemen could not over hear he added, "or if our lord Falasmir himself is not up to something that may jeopardize our new way of life!"

Hasrim nodded his understanding and went back to unloading the rest of their cargo, Korpúlfr turned from the wagon and made his way to the house where he was greeted by his cousin's Isram and Jahr, the two young men who were entrusted to look after the house and the city business while he attended business in their own city, the as yet secret city of the skinchangers.

"Isram, Jahr, how is business, are the wealthy ladies of Umbar still impressed by our fine goods or do they just come for the charm and wit of my cousins?" he laughed putting his arms round the two men and letting them lead him into the house.

"Business is well, Cousin" Isram grinned, "But what news of home?" Jahr interjected hopefully.

"Is this what you look for cousin?" Korpúlfr laughed pulling a sweet smelling vellum parchment from his tunic and holding it aloft.

"See, I told you she would write, brother!" Jahr laughed to his brother as he snatched the parchment from Korpúlfr's raised hand.

"Now, Cousin if you will excuse me, I will leave you and my brother to discuss the important matters of trade in the city, while I see what fair words my lady seeks to impart, good day to you both" and with a short bow he left.

"If he were not my brother I would swear Hestra has cast a spell over him, making him act like a love sick fool" Isram laughed as they continued on to the study.

"But he should be careful Isram, although we both know that Hestra has not the cunning to have any other interest in the handsome young Jahr, her uncle the leader of the scorpion clan would see a gain in such a union."

Isram nodded his understanding as he filled two goblets with a rich red wine, "Now enough of my brother and his recent infatuation." Isram grinned handing one of the goblets to him.

Korpúlfr held the silver goblet for a second waiting for Isram to drink first, he did not distrust his cousin, the action was one of habit, born of his distrust of the Lords and Corsairs he frequently traded with.

"You know why I am here?" he asked absently admiring the engraving of the goblet he held, smiling as a hidden image of a wolf revealed itself amidst the intricate design as he slowly turned it in the dull light of the study.

"Yes! the Gondorian merchant ship that has been berthed in the commercial harbour for several weeks now!" Isram replied taking a sip from his goblet before continuing, "There has been many fellow merchants and their wives at our door wishing to purchase our finest silks for tonight's banquet, weather to impress the foreigners or their Lord Falasmir is yet to be seen."

"Likely both" Korpúlfr yawned

"You seem unimpressed cousin, but perhaps this will interest you, The Gondorian captain and his crew are being escorted everywhere by Lord Falasmir's men" Isram paced the room to stand in front of the window, something clearly troubling him.

"So he wishes to impress by seeing that none of the unwary foreigners get themselves mugged or killed, by straying into the wrong side of town," he shrugged, finally lifting his goblet to his lips, the warm flavour of the spices adding a pleasant edge to the fine quality wine as it smoothly slid down his throat.

"So, their safety is why two Corsair warships are berthed either side of her!" Isram said dryly, turning from the window to regard his cousin.

But Korpúlfr burst out laughing, "The fools have walked into a trap of Falasmir's design." But his laughter stopped abruptly as he remembered why he was here, “Why if he already has them cornered does he continue with the facade, why are we to meet and discuss trade with them?" he mused aloud.

"My thoughts exactly, perhaps you shouldn't go!" Isram counseled.

"Nonsense! Offend our esteemed Lord, by refusing his kind invitation!" he answered sarcastically. "No, I will go, I would like to get a look at these so called traders."

But as Isram began to object he raised his hand, "do not worry my friend I will be cautious as always," he grinned confidently. Now I wish to get changed I promised Tinar I would show him the city."

"You still suffer that young whelp!" Isram snorted, his disapproval quiet clear.

"Now, Now, Cousin that young whelp may one day succeed his mother to be the next Wyrm, we would do well to encourage him on that path."

"Your room has been prepared," Isram said quickly changing the subject.

Korpúlfr nodded his thanks and setting down his now empty goblet he made his way through the house to his room, sure enough the room was readied as promised. Laid out on the bed was his attire for the evening, loose black pant, a light cream shirt and a reddish brown silk tunic, inlayed with fine gold embroidery.

Once washed and changed, he pulled on his light black boots and leaving his raven black hair loose so as it covered his neck he tied a scarf of the same reddish brown colour of his tunic about his head, the scarf was tasseled and four thin gold coins hung across the front, he reapplied the black kohl that highlighted his dark eyes then added a gold stud to his right ear, before making his way to the stables.

The cart he intended to take to the palace was already prepared and ready to leave, both Isram and Jahr were there ensuring all was in order.

"I what stalls set up at tonight's market, father would be pleased if we returned with full coffers, from both the market and the palace!" he grinned relishing the thought of the lords and ladies of Umbar lining the pockets of their soon to be rivals.

"Now have some one take this to the palace at once! The paper work!" he said holding out his hands, into which Isram placed a scroll and a fine quill, quickly scanning the inventory list to insure it was correct he signed it and handed both back to his cousin
.
"Make sure the deliverer stays with the cart until I arrive or until he receives a note of delivery."

"Do not worry cousin I will stay with the cart and ensure that none of Falasmir's men even think to steal from you." Jahr reassured him
.
"You are to take the cart my young friend, then I am reassured, indeed I pity any fool who would try to steal something from your care" he laughed jovially with the young man.

"Well, you men have work to do and I wait for a guest, so... " just then a small brown sparrow swooped by his ear.

[Mithadan]

As Mithadan and Airefalas approached the palace with their escort, Mithadan halted and looked up at the sun. More than three hours remained before the reception would begin, he judged. He turned to Airefalas and smiled. "There is an errand I need to run," he said. "I promised my youngest a present when I return and I would not incur her wrath for failing her."

He spoke to the guards and, after a few moments of reluctant discussion, Mahat and Seft accompanied him to the south towards the markets. He had been there many times already, examining herbs, fine cloths and metalwork which would find a market in Minas Anor. But he also had another task there. He had inquired of all who spoke his language about Bird and her people, the Shapechangers.

Most of the vendors had laughed at his questioning, as had the guards. The Shapechangers were the stuff of fable, he had been told. Monster stories to scare children. But a few had blanched and fallen silent upon hearing his queries, declining to respond. He would try once more... and secure the gift he had promised for Cami.

The vendors at the shops were aggressive, waving their wares before him as he passed. "Herbs and oils, magical and fine!" some cried. Others spread reams of cloth on the ground before him, forcing him to step to the side or pause as they rerolled their goods. He looked into several stands and occaisionally inquired about prices, more for the purpose of educating himself than for buying. Finally, he found himself in a stand full of finely carved wooden figures. He purchased five small figurines for Cami, two men, two women and a dog. As the vendor wrapped them, a small group of carvings caught his eye. They depicted manlike creatures, with arms and legs, but they had the heads of animals. Some were birdlike but had mannish heads.

His guards stood patiently at the tent's flap speaking to a wine vendor. Taking advantage of the momentary privacy, he spoke to the vendor, an old man with dark and leathery skin. "What are these?" he asked quietly.

The vendor smiled, revealing several missing teeth. "Desert dwellers, master," he answered. "The strange ones, animals that can take the form of men."

"They can change shapes?" asked Mithadan. The vendor nodded with a grin. He pulled up the sleeve of his robes and revealed a long scar running up his arm. "When I was young and foolish I went with some friends seeking them, for it is said they have special powers and if captured they can turn stone to gold. We found some, but they fled. One fell and we surrounded him. He turned into a great cat and ran off, but left me with a reminder to leave his people alone."

"They are real?" hissed Mithadan. "The Shapechangers live in the desert?"

"Yes," replied the old man. "Very real. Very secretive and very dangerous. They do not like strangers."

"Where can I find them?" asked Mithadan, but the old man shook his head. "They are nomads, wanderers. They are where they are and stay nowhere for very long."

"Can you tell me more?" asked Mithadan. At that moment, Seft stuck his head into the tent. The vendor shook his head. "I know nothing more." Mithadan purchased a figure of a bird with a woman's head, then turned away after thanking the old man.

"It grows late," growled Seft. "We must return to the palace. Mithadan nodded, cradling his purchases in his arms...

[piosenniel]

Rog

A few hours of sleep brought some respite. Rog woke in the stifling closeness of his cabin, his eyes opening on darkness. The little light Aiwendil had left for him had burnt out, and he did not bother to get up to rekindle it. His thoughts were focused on his stomach, now surprisingly calm, then drifted out to sense the motion of the ship. He could feel the lift of the waves as the ship rode them, but the waters must be calmer now as his hammock swung little as they moved forward.

‘And thank the One for that,’ he thought, rising gingerly from the canvas sling.

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

The flight along the main deck was harder than he’d supposed. Buffeted by the sea breezes, he made short, precarious hops from place to place, his brown moth wings taking a beating. The salt air was refreshing, and as he thought, his moth’s stomach suffered no ill consequences from the rise and fall of the Gull on the waves. His object was to make it aft, without being blown overboard. The captain’s cabin was there – secure from the elements and well lit during the day with natural light from the windows.

The ship was a small one, relative to the others he had seen at the quay in Harlond. A two masted lugger, she was used for trading voyages up and down the coast, from Harad to Mithlond. Hugging the shoreline, she made numerous stops along the route, taking on goods and selling or delivering loads as she went along. Rog flew in a crazy pattern from the hatchway to the rope securing a pallet of stacked barrels. Then, on, in a dangerous diagonal, toward the spar that held the lower end of the main sail, making it just barely . . . one more gusting breeze and he would have sailed helter skelter over the side rail. He waited catching his breath as he smoothed down his wings in the shelter of the rope that bound the sail to the spar. His eye caught the passage of a familiar figure. Faragaer! Leather satchel in hand, he was heading aft, nodding briefly to the figure that stood at his cabin door.

With a determined leap and the mighty flapping of his somewhat tattered wings, Rog dropped down, aiming for the captain. Success! His little feet hooked into the tail of the man’s tunic and he was carried along in a dizzying back and forth motion as Faragaer strode along.

Entering the door to his cabin, the captain made for his chair, motioning his First Mate to follow. Rog’s faceted eyes quickly took in his surrounds and he flew up to a secluded, shadowed corner of a crossbeam, just above the table. He settled in, his brown body disappearing against the darkness of the shadowed wood.

‘What’s that?’ asked Faragaer, seeing the last fluttering of the wings above him. ‘Naught but a moth, sir,’ said Haladan, shrugging his thin shoulders in a dismissive gesture. ‘And not long for this voyage if the gulls spy him.’

Faragaer nodded at the comment as he rolled out the chart for the southern sections of the coast and drew his First Mate’s attention to their stops for this trip.

[piosenniel]

Gondor

Day turned toward afternoon. The mild morning chill that heralded winter in these lands had passed, and now the hours grew warmer as the sun climbed in the sky. Derylin had come to the house, as he did every week, bringing his swords slung in a leather sheath on his back, and news from the city.

The children, their hands still sticky from stolen cakes, assailed him, dipping their little fingers into the wide pockets of his vest. There were always treasures hidden in their depths – bright shiny stones this time, purported to be from Aglarond, a few heart shaped leaves still green with summer that surely had come from Lorien, and tiny whistles cleverly carved from the hollowed bones of little birds some great lord had snared on a bright spring day.

Isilmir was the first to find a whistle, reeling it out of the pocket and into his hands like a prize fish on a rainbowed string. His sisters gathered round, their eyes wide and envious as Derylin guided the boy’s fingers over the little holes and bade him blow gently on the smooth mouthpiece. Their lips, sweet with honey, parted in delight at the pleasant notes that flew from the little pipe.

‘Oh! I need one!’ cried Cami, clapping her hands as she danced up and down on the courtyard stones. Derylin drew out a second one from his upper pocket, this one on a bright green string, and placed it over the bobbing child’s head. Her chubby little fingers mimicked her brother’s and soon she was happily finding her own, sometimes melodious, tunes to play.

‘And what about you?’ asked the man as he crouched down before Gilwen. Her grey eyes flashed with anticipation, but she raised her chin and drew herself up as if to look down on him from some great height. ‘I should think I might like one,’ she said in an even voice. The scene they played would not hold. He winked at her as he placed the silvered string about her neck, drawing peals of childish laughter. ‘My lady,’ he said, catching her up in his arms and swinging her about in a circle. A chorus of giggles attended his actions and pleas of, ‘Next! Next!’ from the other two who had come running up.

Pio shook her head in admonishment at him, as he set the last of them down and sent them all off to play by the fountain. ‘You will surely spoil them,’ she said laughing. ‘Not possible,’ he said, his face a mask of shameless innocence.

They drew away from the fountain where the children played, to a wide, smooth area in the courtyard. In her hand she held her sheathed sword and with a deft motion she wrapped the leather belt from which it hung twice about her waist. ‘What news do you bring from the city?’ she asked, fastening the plain leather vambraces on her forearms. ‘Nothing too much,’ he returned, drawing his blade. ‘Save that I hear it rumored there is to be a celebration of some sort in a few weeks or so.’

She drew her own blade, testing the familiar feel of it as she sliced the air in front of her with a few quick strokes. ‘Celebration of . . . what?’ Derylin saluted her and advanced on her, blade turned to the side. ‘I don’t know, really. Something the King wishes to do.’ She parried and drove him back. ‘There will be many from outside the city, outside Gondor, who will attend,’ he continued, driving the tip of her blade toward the ground with a downward cut. ‘Or so I have heard.’

Talk ceased between them for a space of time as the sound of metal clanging and scraping against itself filled the courtyard. They were sweating, their breath coming hard, when they called off the dance of steel with nods of mutual assent. Pio sheathed her blade and wiped the sweat from her face with the hem of her tunic.

Cook had come out with a pitcher of chilled wine and another of juice for the children. Swords put aside, Derylin and Pio sat in chairs beneath the fig tree, watching as Isilmir, egged on by his sisters, walked backwards and eyes shut round the raised rim of the fountain. ‘This could be the time he makes it,’ chuckled Derylin, his statement proved false by the splash that followed.

‘So, will you be going . . . to the celebration,’ he reminded her. ‘I hope not,’ she said, thinking of dresses and shoes that pinched, and hair coaxed into something more elaborate than the plait that hung down her back. And dueling conversations with smiles held rigidly in place. With any luck, Mithadan would not return in time, and she would have an excuse to beg off. She refilled their mugs, and clinked hers against his. ‘You will be going, of course,’ she said, saluting him with her mug. ‘You can tell me anything of interest that happens . . .’

Cami came walking up to them, carefully carrying a small plate of honey cakes sent out by Cook. She set the plate on the table, then stepped back, her hands behind her back, looking expectantly from one to the other. Pio raised her brows as Derylin offered the cakes for Cami to make first choice. ‘Just one,’ she instructed the little girl, seeing her reach with two hands toward the plate. Cami grinned impishly, as if she’d expected the restriction, and selected one from the bottom of the pile. A large, fat cake studded with plump raisins she had placed there herself. She giggled and curtsied quickly, then ran off, prize in hand.

‘Her mother’s daughter isn’t she?’ commented Derylin around a mouthful of the sticky pastry. ‘Always plans ahead.’

[Estelyn Telcontar]

An almost imperceptible rustle caused Wyrma to open her eyes, instantly alert after a brief rest. Elsta was in her chamber, laying out garments for the evening festivities. The maid held up a cream-coloured silken robe with golden embroidery at the neck, sleeves, and hem, her eyebrows raised inquiringly. Wyrma nodded curtly. The two women needed few words for matters of daily life; after many years in the service of the maenwaith leader, Elsta knew better than to expect her mistress’ praise for work well done, and rarely incurred dissatisfaction.

Wyrma had seen the clothing affected by many of the ladies of Falasmir’s court – intricately worked tunics over wide, gathered trousers. She knew well enough that she would only look ridiculous in such garb and elected to keep to the flowing robes of her people, albeit of finer material and more elaborately ornamented than would have been suitable in their desert dwellings.

Before she could retreat to her bath chamber to refresh herself with cool water, a luxury she valued highly, there was business to be taken care of. “Was your errand successful?” she asked, speaking more quietly than was her wont.

Elsta nodded. “It is as you heard. The Eagle clan has united to thwart you. If they serve as an example for others, the scattered opposition may join and openly arise against you.” The maid spoke in a low, monotonous voice that matched her appearance. She wore a robe of a nondescript grey-brown, and her hair, eyes and even skin seemed to be of the same colour. Everything about her reminded Wyrma of a mouse, and in truth she could be just as inconspicuous in her human form as those little creatures were. This quality, paired with her loyalty and a habit of speaking only when necessary, made her an invaluable help to her mistress.

Wyrma’s fingers drummed restlessly on the desk beside her, a nervous gesture which she would have repressed in the presence of others. “Then it is time to take action. This rebellion must be quelled before it gathers momentum. The leader of the Eagle clan is Ayar; I remember her. When we last met, there was a young man beside her, most likely intended as a successor. Not her son, I think, though I do not recall if there are children…” Her voice drifted off while her mind formed a resolve. Elsta wisely refrained from speaking, knowing better than to interrupt her mistress’ train of thought.

“Ayar must be eliminated,” Wyrma said decisively. “Yet is must not seem that I am connected with this deed, not yet. It might shock the others so that they would only become more bold. It must be done by someone else. And where better to find a paid cutthroat than in this city of Corsairs, brigands, and villains!"

Elsta spoke up. “I have heard of someone who might be willing, if the price is high enough. Would you like to speak with him yourself?”

Wyrma thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No, he must not yet know with whom he is dealing. Let him show first whether he is capable of this task, then he may be useful for more. You know all that is necessary; establish contact and entrust him with the deed. I will give you a purse that is full enough to tempt him, and after it is done he shall receive more. It would be best to go during the banquet this evening; I shall not need you then.”

The maid bowed her head in assent, her face remaining impassive. Only an almost imperceptible widening of her eyes revealed that this task was different than taking care of her mistress’ clothing or tidying her room.

[Ealasaide]

Airefalas watched as Mithadan headed off in the direction of the marketplace, accompanied by two of their three guards, on business of his own. He considered telling the third guard that he, too, had business elsewhere, anything to avoid returning to the palace, but the throbbing headache that had started in his temples as they were leaving the docks had worsened to a degree that he was beginning to get shooting pains behind his right eye. He figured that the day's oppressive heat was beginning to get to him, and, suddenly, the cool and shadow of the palace rooms didn't seem like such a bad idea after all. Even so, he felt no tremendous hurry to return there. He was just a bit dehydrated. That was all. There were none of the telltale chills of heat stroke. If he could just get out of the sun and have something to drink, he would be fine.

Turning slowly, he looked around the closed and shuttered buildings that lined the streets for a pub, or a wine shop, an inn, anything where he might seize a moment's respite from the sun. Behind him, the guard chuckled softly.

Echoing the words of another guard a short while earlier, Airefalas turned toward him. "You find something funny?"

"You northerners. You can't take the sun," answered the guard, slyly mimicking the squint Airefalas had acquired in his right eye from the pain of his headache.

Airefalas laughed despite his discomfort. "Come with me sometime to the north and we'll see how you do in the snow," he answered dryly. He nodded in the direction of a squat, but hospitable-looking building that stood by itself on a corner just ahead of them. A badly sun-beaten sign hung out front that looked terribly much like an inn's sign would look back in Gondor. "The Crescent Moon. What's that?"

"An inn for travelers." The guard looked nervously at the shuttered windows of the inn, then back up the hill toward the palace. Airefalas could tell he was anxious to get back there, but whether for reasons of his own or just to get Airefalas off of his hands, he wasn't sure. "You won't be needing a room," continued the guard. "You have rooms at the palace."

"It's not a room I'm after," quipped Airefalas, turning and beginning to walk in the direction of the inn. "They have a common room, don't they?"

The guard caught his arm. "We won't be stopping there."

Airefalas gave the guard's hand a sideways glance, then pulled his arm away. "Why not? Is it dangerous?"

"It could be for a Gondorian such as yourself. All manner of folk can be found in such a place. Some carry deep resentments."

Airefalas looked at the sign of the Crescent Moon, then back up the hill toward the palace. It looked like a very long way to go, uphill all the way. He decided that he would rather not do it without getting something to drink first. If he didn't, the headache might yet develop into a heat stroke. Besides, there still remained a lot of time to kill before the banquet in the evening. He looked back at the guard.

"Raal, is it?" he asked. When the guard nodded, he continued. "Am I under arrest?"

"No." Raal shook his head. "You know very well that I am only here to protect you."

"Excellent!" Airefalas grinned. "Then protect me. We're going to the inn." A few short steps took him to the door of the inn, which he opened and entered cautiously, followed by the reluctant guard. In the cool semi-darkness of the inn's common room, his headache instantly began to abate. It took a moment for Airefalas' eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight, but when they did, he saw that the common room was completely deserted aside from the sleepy-looking innkeeper who sat polishing glasses beside the bar. The innkeeper looked up at the entrance of the two visitors, but, upon seeing them, showed no sign of interest or curiosity at all, returning at once to his chore of polishing the glasses.

Airefalas approached him and ordered a pint of beer, offering one to the guard, as well, who declined. Once the innkeeper had handed it over and been paid, Airefalas took his beer to a table near the door. It was an Umbarian brew, pale and rather watery in Airefalas' opinion, but superb under the circumstances. With the guard, Raal, standing impatiently at his elbow, Airefalas half-drained the glass on the first gulp. Then, he sighed and held the coolness of the glass against his face. Just a few minutes more and he would be ready for the trek back to the palace. He knew he should be there when Mithadan returned.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 9:27 PM January 20, 2004: Message edited by: Ealasaide ]

[Mithadan]

The slopes of Mount Mindolluin were steep and rugged. The city of Minas Anor occupied the east slope of the mountain and farms and dwellings spotted its lowest slopes and clustered about in its valleys. But the higher slopes were deserted save for the occaisional goat. Even so, as dawn spread over the Pelennor and illuminated the city, some folk were out and about and some few reported in the days which followed that a great brown shape had been seen wandering the mountainside. None had tarried to see exactly what it was.

But as the sun rose towards noon, no sign of the beast could be seen though a goatherd reported finding prints in the soft earth. Prints near as large as a dinner plate with five toes and very large claws, he said. That same morning, through the commotion, ambled a very large man who ignored all who passed, save to inquire of the whereabouts of the dwelling of Piosenniel.

Baran found the house easily enough and entered the courtyard just in time to encounter Cami, who was sitting by the fountain devouring a piece of honeycake. She looked up as he approached and smiled around a sticky mouthful of the treat. Baran could not help but to respond with a smile of his own. Like all of his kind, he had a soft spot for cubs, and this was a particularly charming one.

"You're here!" she cried. "Ammë is inside with Derylin."

He resisted the urge to pat her head and, instead, crouched beside her. Even so, he towered above the girl. She giggled as his beard brushed the ground and it occurred to him that he should make use of the fountain before he entered. "Is Derylin your father?" he asked as he splashed water on his face and scrubbed his hands.

"No," she replied. "My father is the Captain of The Lonely Star, the best ship in all of Gondor. He's away, far away in...uh, Bambar."

Baran blinked at the unfamiliar name, then shrugged. "I'm sure that he's a very great man," he replied a bit uncertainly.

"Come!" she cried. "Let's see Ammë!" She grabbed his hand and led him to the door, which she swung open and entered. Baran nearly banged his nose on the lintel, but remembered to duck just in time. Piosenniel was at the table with a youngish man. Two swords rested on the table between them. Baran nodded to the two and summoned his meager knowledge of mannish etiquette.

"My lady..." he said with a slight bow.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Thorn

Thorn watched with some discomfort as Ráma ran her hand lightly over the stallion's arched neck to offer him her private goodbyes and then headed through the stable door to the outside enclosure where she'd left Kyelek. Ráma's initial intention had been to spend several hours interrogating Falasmir's key trading agent for any clues on the latest developments at court and to see if he’d heard of any major changes in his master's plans. At the last moment, Thorn had managed to persuade Ráma that such a probing inquiry was far too risky, given the enigma of Wyrma's presence. The young Skingchanger had returned to the Cat's Paw to pack up her belongings and secure needed supplies for the trip, promising to make a brief appearance at the evening reception.

Relieved to put this conversation behind him, Thorn emerged from the stables and walked quickly over towards the wing of the palace where Falasmir and his chief advisors maintained their private offices. The Skinchanger veered off the public path in the gardens, pushing through a profusion of fragrant hanging blossoms in hues of purple and orange that were normally maintained by a phalanx of gardeners armed with an abundance of watering cans. He slipped inobtrusively inside a small wooden shed the staff used for storing gardening tools.

A few moments passed. A tiny scuffling noise suddenly sounded from underneath the door as a plump sand rat, not much bigger than a child’s hand, wriggled his way to freedom. The rodent scampered over to the building and, digging through the matted leaves and debris, uncovered a half-buried pipe that belonged to a system designed to carry water and garbage from the kitchens to a distant part of the grounds.

Thorn found the accustomed space between the outside and inside pipe, squeezed his body through the opening, and started to swim. He did not like the water, but the fragrant aroma of discarded vegetable marrows and rotting fruits hit him like a pleasant wave; he fought the temptation and paddled on. Coming to the kitchens, he skipped out of the pipe and immediately headed for the safety of the wall boards. A large broom narrowly missed his head as he ran towards a small hole in the wall tucked in a corner of a dark pantry.

This was indeed a foolhardy venture. Normally, he would have made such an expedition after dark. But he could not afford to wait till evening, since he needed the light of daytime to be able to read the documents he unearthed. He made a brief stop in Wyrma’s quarters, but found little of any interest. The woman was both obsessive and devious; every scrap of evidence had been destroyed or put in a locked box beyond the reach of a small sand rat. Continuing his trip behind the safety of the wall boards, Thorn finally came to the room where Falasmir kept his desk and papers. This particular place had yielded a wealth of information on prior occasions.

This time was no different. Falasmir’s desk was littered with a multitude of letters and directives that were piled up in disheveled heaps. Changing back into human form, Thorn ran over to the door and securely latched it, hoping that no one would disturb him. It was a terrible risk to take, but he had to look at the papers quickly, and this seemed the only practical way to do that. Leafing through the piles, Thorn was disappointed to discover that most of them were routine administrative orders concerned with the running of the estate. Nowhere was there any mention of Wyrma or the reason she had come to the palace.

Tired and exasperated, Thorn quickly slipped back into rat form and jumped down from the chair, landing in the middle of a container used for discarded papers. The basket toppled over and Thorn went sprawling, with a paper falling on top of his head. Exhibiting the natural instincts of a rat, he poked his head out and wrinkled his nose, noticing that the paper had definitely been in Falasmir’s hands in recent days. His curiosity aroused, Thorn managed to leap onto a nearby shelf so he could get a better look at the thing. It was obviously some kind of a letter, and was marked through with revisions in a number of places. It seemed to have nothing to do with Wyrma or the maenwaith, instead focusing on the deployment of two warships. The letter included references to the party from Gondor, some of whom were coming to the palace tonight. Reading it over, he shook his head in disgust.

Thorn did not wish ill on any man, and had no particular grudge against Gondor. But this was what happened when people were foolish enough to stray away from their own kin, and travel to places where they should not be! He filed the piece of information away in the back of his mind and turned to leave. He promised himself to go to Ráma later tonight to see if she had any better luck gathering information at the reception.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 12:02 AM January 14, 2004: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[piosenniel]

Rog

The mention of the gulls made his antennae twitch with a frisson of apprehension. Most of his time above deck had been spent staring downward over the railing toward the waves. He’d forgotten about the ever hungry birds which spent much of their time eyeing the decks and the slops chute that emptied into the trailing waters for tasty tidbits. ‘Muddy Bells,’ he muttered to himself as he stroked the nervous energy from each antenna with his front legs. His frenetic grooming was cut short with the mention of ‘the two passengers’ from below.

‘They’ve said they wish to go to Umbar,’ came Haladan’s reply to something the Captain had said about them. ‘I thought we weren’t stopping there this time.’ Rog crept to the edge of the beam and looked down, watching the first mate cock his head to one side, awaiting an answer.

‘We’re not putting in there,’ said Faragear, moving his finger a little further south of the bay on the chart, tapping, as it came to rest, on a small inlet where the hills tapered down along the coast to meet the sea. ‘It’s here we’ll be going.’ ‘And the two passengers?’ asked Haladan again, picking up and apple from the nearby bowl to chew on. ‘They’ll have a choice,’ came the captain’s reply. ‘I’ll offer them a small boat to take them in - though they’ll need to be able to man it themselves. I’ll not risk any of my crew. Or barring that, they can come south with us. I’m sure one of the traders we are meeting will see them safely north to the city’s outskirts.’ Rog listened for a few more minutes, but the talk between the two men had turned to cargo space, and what the bottom prices were for the goods the merchants in Gondor and further north expected.

The windows were shut in the cabin and the air near the ceiling was warm. Moths being for the most part night creatures, he grew drowsy in the late afternoon heat and a certain level of languor crept over him. His sight dimmed and he hunkered down on his three pair of legs, his antennae drooping. ‘Nice,’ he murmured to himself, wriggling his proboscis out of the way as his body flattened against the wood. The rocking of the ship did not bother him in the slightest in this form, and he welcomed a restful sleep with a mothy sigh.

It was several hours later when he awoke. He could almost feel his segmented legs creak as he pushed his body up from the beam; he had lain in one position so long. The two men were gone from the room, and dusk, filtering in through the small paned windows of thick glass, cast the cabin in semi-darkness. He fluttered his wings, and flitted down to the table top below. The core of Haladan’s apple lay discarded on the surface where he had laid it down and forgotten it when the captain called him to another task.

Rog’s toes, or rather the pointy ends of his feet, twitched in anticipation. He was hungry and the ripe mushy brownness of the apple lured him closer. Finding a particularly soft part, he crawled onto it, tasting the succulent sweetness with his feet and mashing it further into a pulpy liquid. With a shiver of delight, he poked his proboscis into the midst of this tasty mess and slurped it up with an inaudible sigh. The room grew darker as the sun set.

‘Best be getting back to Aiwendil,’ he thought dreamily, as his antennae twitched with the sheer pleasure of feeling good for the moment. ‘Tell him what I’ve heard.’ An imperceptible belch issued from his mouthparts, and he curled up his proboscis, tucking it carefully under his head. For the most part, he did not worry that he had spent so long in his present shape . . . but better to be careful. Too long in one guise might find him fluttering off in search of a mate and ensuing death.

He flew to the lintel of the door, finding the crack he had spied earlier from his vantage point on the crossbeam. Crawling through, he cast about with his eyes for signs of any predators. The birds would already be drowsing, but the men aboard might inadvertently swat at him. The breezes had died down, the flight back down below-deck was straighter and quicker. Once back in the room he shared with Aiwendil, he changed back to his mannish form.

Now all he had to do was wait for the old man to return . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil

Aiwendil slammed the door and stalked into the room, a keen look of irritation etched on his face. He glared over at Rôg and immediately started in, wrinking his nose in disgust, "Where have you been? You smell like a vat of cider! Maybe others wouldn't mind, but I have a sensitive nose."

Without stopping to draw breath, he continued, "I thought you were ill, but I see you have been traipsing over the entire ship, while I sit here by myself in the room." Aiwendil marched over to the porthole, pulled up his hood, and gazed out at the distant waters, staring with empty eyes, "I thought that I woud enjoy this trip--the gentle waves, the birds, the great dolphins and whales leaping up from the surf--but all I can remember is the last time I was on a sea-going vessel. That sad journey took me from a place of great beauty to these ill-fated shores, and it's something I would rather forget."

"The sooner we arrive the better." He looked over impatiently at his companion and servant, "Have you done anything to arrange for our travel and accomodations once we reach the port at Umbar?"

Rôg shook his head and began to explain that the captain was not going to be able to bring the ship into the harbor of the capital city on account of rumors of unrest. He went on to outline the two choices they had: a small boat they could man themselves, or sailing further south and then travelling north with a caravan of traders.

Aiwendil scowled and shook his head, "A small boat? By ourselves? Out on the open sea? That would be folly! I don't like the sound of either option. Those traders may be bandits or thieves for all we know. But we don't seem to have much of a choice. If only we'd been able to book passage on the Star.... None of this would be happening!"

Aiwnedil sighed and made one last suggestion to Rôg, "Perhaps the captain would know some reputable traders whom we could trust to take us north?"

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 2:18 AM January 15, 2004: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[Ealasaide]

Airefalas took another sip of lukewarm, watery beer and looked around the nearly deserted common room of the Inn of the Crescent Moon. While not luxurious by any stretch of the term, it seemed like a respectable enough establishment. It was clean, anyway, and the pattern of blue and white tile work that covered the walls from the floor to the chair rails throughout the room and arched over the doorways was well-maintained and free of the ever-present layer of dust that seemed to cover so much of everything else in Umbar. The innkeeper looked like any other innkeeper in any one of a hundred inns throughout Middle Earth. There was certainly nothing sinister about the place, at least not as far as Airefalas could see. He wondered why the guard had seemed so reluctant to go there.

Feeling immeasurably better from having gotten both out of the sun and something to drink, Airefalas decided to make himself comfortable for the few minutes he had to spend before returning to the hospitality of Lord Falasmir's palace. He sat back in his chair and looked back over his shoulder to where the guard Raal still stood on post.

"Do you follow shipping at all?" he asked in a friendly tone.

"A little," Raal answered stiffly. "Lord Falasmir's black ships are the pride of Umbar."

“As well they should be,” rejoined Airefalas. “The sight of one on the open sea is enough to give any merchant captain pause.” He took another sip of beer. “Have you ever sailed on one of Lord Falasmir’s ships?”

Raal shook his head. “No.’ He hesitated a moment, then continued. “My cousin has crewed on the Black Eagle. He says it’s an amazing vessel.”

Airefalas nodded ruefully. “She’s taken lots of bounty, I suppose.”

Raal grinned wolfishly. “Lots. Whenever they take a merchant ship - particularly a Gondorian one - Lord Falasmir parades them through the harbor, banners flying. It‘s a magnificent sight.”

“I can imagine,” muttered Airefalas, thinking gloomily of the precarious position of the Lonely Star, berthed as she was between the Black Eagle and her sister. Another idea occurring to him, he half-turned in his chair. “Do you see all the seized ships?”

Raal nodded. “Most of them. The ones Lord Falasmir wants us to see, anyway.”

“Ah.” Airefalas nodded. He was thinking of his own lost ship, the Amarantha, that had been seized by corsairs some months earlier. Turning once again toward the table, he debated whether to ask the guard about her. Finally, he decided why not? He leaned back toward Raal. “There’s one in particular I was wondering about. She would have come in a couple of months back, a Gondorian ship, called the Amarantha.”

The guard looked vague.

“Pretty little ship,” continued Airefalas. “Square rigged. Three masts with a nice, high quarterdeck. She would have come in two, three months ago.”

Thinking hard, Raal came around and took the other seat at Airefalas’ table. He shook his head.

“One of her masts might have been broken.”

“Aha!” Raal nodded triumphantly, his memory finally jogged. “Yes! Blue trim along the sides.”

“That’s the one!” Airefalas nodded, his emotions a mixture of joy at knowing what had become of his ship and a lingering anger at how she had gotten there. Well, at least she hadn’t been scuttled, he said to himself.

“Why do you ask?” asked the guard.

“She belonged to my brother.”

“Ha!” Raal laughed triumphantly and leveled a thick finger at Airefalas face. “Umbar rules the seas!“ Airefalas pointed back and laughed rather wryly, not willing to admit that he had been the captain of the unfortunate vessel. Even so, he could see that the guard was beginning to relax some and decided to see what advantage he could take of it.

Raal shot a nervous look at the door, then signaled the innkeeper for a cup of red wine. “You know there is something else about that ship,” he added once he had taken the first sip of wine. “The captain of the lead ship who took her, the Ravenspar was arrested on his return to port. Something about pilfering the cargo. I guarded him for a spell before he was beheaded.”

“Purely for his own protection, I’m sure,” said Airefalas sarcastically.

The guard grinned. “Lord Falasmir’s spies had told him that the ship had left Dol Amroth fully laden, but by the time she got here, her holds were empty. All Lord Falasmir got was the ransom for the crew and the ship herself. Captain El Anouyi claimed he was innocent, but nobody ever did find out what happened to the cargo.”

“Hmm,” said Airefalas blandly. He knew very well what had happened to the cargo. He had pitched it overboard himself in an attempt to run a bit lighter in the water and perhaps gain a few knots of speed. Poor El Anouyi had had nothing to do with it. Nonetheless, beheading was good enough for him. His hospitality had left quite a lot to be desired. By the time the Amarantha’s crew had been ransomed and returned to Minas Tirith, they had been malnourished and half-dead from rowing. Airefalas had not forgotten.

He watched as the guard drained his cup and ordered another. Sensing Raal’s lowering defenses, Airefalas decided to take a chance.

“There is no caravan, is there?” he asked abruptly.

The guard’s expression closed like the door to a prison vault. “There is a caravan,” he said stubbornly. “It approaches from the north.” Pushing away the second cup of wine, untouched, Raal rose to his feet. He nodded toward the door. “It’s time we were going.”

Airefalas nodded and rose to his feet as well, knowing that he had pushed his advantage as far as it was going to take him. Raal may have had a fondness for wine, but he obviously wasn’t stupid. It was time they were getting back to the palace, anyway.

[Mithadan]

At the urging of Mahat and Seft, Mithadan set out for the palace. But at the outskirts of the market he made one last stop at the stand of a vendor of spirits. There, he ordered three casks, two large and one small, of a potent local liquor made from fermented berries. These he had delivered to the Lonely Star together with a note instructing that they not be opened.

When they arrived at the palace, Mithadan had an hour and a bit more to spare before the reception was to begin. He washed away the grit and sweat of the day and dressed quickly in his best outfit; grey breeches and a white shirt with a royal blue jacket. He was shining his boots when Airefalas entered. His face was a bit grim.

"You've not left yourself much time," Mithadan commented with raised eyebrows.

"I was enjoying some time at a local Inn with Raal," Airefalas responded. "He likes his wine very much and his tongue loosens a bit when lubricated. It seems that our hosts are very proud of their skills as pirates preying upon the ships of Gondor." He went on to relate the story of Falasmir's involvement in the seizure of his last command, the Amarantha. "But Raal insists that there indeed is a caravan approaching."

Mithadan sighed and shook his head. "We are here under Falasmir's own protection," he said. "We must assume that he has no ill intentions towards us. At least we must give the impression of trust, even if we keep our eyes wide open for any threat that may arise."

"Walking open eyed into the spider's web is not my idea of a good situation," Airefalas grumbled as he prepared to bathe. "And it is not of much solace to me that our King will object if we are taken for oarsmen aboard a corsair."

Mithadan waited as his mate readied himself for the dinner. He reappeared soon enough, dressed and rubbing his hair with a towel. "Was your trip to the market profitable?" asked Airefalas.

"Good enough," came the reply. "But we must consider our meeting with the traders."

"What do you wish to purchase?" queried the younger man as he sat beside his captain.

Mithadan considered this question for a moment before aswering. "Furs, fine cloth, herbs and spices...light goods." He passed a purse heavy with gold and silver coins over to Airefalas.

"The wines here are excellent," Airefalas responded. "And they have an exceedingly fine oil pressed from the green fruits of a tree. There would be a good market for such items in Gondor."

Mithadan shook his head and raised his eyes to meet those of his first mate. "I want to travel light on our return," he said. Airefalas nodded as his captain stood. "We will have opportunity to buy such goods next time...if we come back."

At that moment, there came a knock upon the door. Seft entered with a slight bow. "The reception begins," he said. "Come with me, please."

The area around the fountain in the courtyard had been cleared and the many potted plants which had been there were replaced with tables and chairs. Lanterns hung from brackets on the walls and from poles that had been raised around the fountain. The tables were laden with food of every description; meats and fish, breads and fruits, and platters of vegetables and spreads. A harpist sat in the corner strumming and plucking at his strings.

As they entered, a servant handed them each a goblet of chilled wine, golden in color like springwater reflecting the morning sun. A squat balding man in red robes approached as they sipped appreciatively.

"That wine is made from grapes which grow on the coastal lands just north of here," he said as he shook their hands. "There is a red wine which is easily its match in flavor. It will be in great demand in the north I think."

Mithadan nodded with a smile and complimented the color and savor of the drink. Airefalas inquired about crops and seasons even as other traders approached, some accompanied by servants bearing chests from which to display their goods. As they chatted, Mithadan's hand dropped into his pocket. His fingers found the carved wooden figurine of an eagle with a woman's head...

[piosenniel]

Gondor

"My lady..." he said with a slight bow.

Derylin rose at the entrance of the mountainous, dark haired man whose great ham fist swallowed up Cami’s tiny one. ‘He has a wild look to him,’ he thought. His eyes, tracking the big man’s movements, were hard and grey, and the tips of his fingers stayed on the table top, near the hilt of his sword. But Piosenniel had risen also from her chair, and tapped him lightly on his tensed forearm.

Smiling, she nodded to Baran, as he bowed to her. ‘No need for such courtesies in this house, my dear Baran! You are my guest. Please, seat yourself, and be at ease.’ A sturdy oak bench was pulled near, and introductions made. Derylin first – a family friend and her blade-work partner. ‘And sometimes she lets him win,’ whispered Cami, who leaned against Baran’s great thigh, fingering his wondrous beard.

Pio picked up her youngest, and laughed as Derylin arched one brow at her, then winked at Cami. ‘And this is Cami, whom you’ve already had the pleasure of meeting. My youngest daughter.’ Cami wriggled down from her mother’s arms and curtsied to him. ‘And this is Gilwen, my older daughter,’ she continued, placing her hand on the young girl’s shoulder as she came to stand by her mother’s side.

Baran nodded to each as they were introduced, then inquired, ‘And your son?’ He looked around expectantly, recalling the young boy who had asked if his mother was going to kill Baran in the Inn.

‘Oh, here I am!’ came Isilmir’s hurried response. He was running out of the house, an old leather journal of some sort in his hands. He planted himself in front of Baran, and composing himself bowed slightly. ‘Welcome,’ he said, then stepped back a pace, and looked the man up and down. ‘Just as I remember, but much larger closer up,’ he murmured, as he stepped back beside Gilwen, thumping her once on the side of her leg with the book.

‘They’ve been trying to look you up,’ confided Cami, who had slipped in again beside the man.

Another round of cakes was brought out, a bottle of honeyed wine, and juice once again for the children. Derylin stayed for one last glass and a little polite conversation, then begged off, saying he must get back to the city. The children, their curiosity appeased for the while, drifted off to other games and schemings.

Pio refilled Baran’s glass, then leaned back in her chair. ‘You mentioned Imladris when I met you in the Inn,’ she said, setting her own untasted glass on the table beside her. ‘And that you brought tidings.’

She leaned forward slightly, studying the man on the bench. ‘May I ask what they are?’

[Mithadan]

Baran smiled broadly. "Well now," he said. "You are hasty, aren't you. I told you why I was seeking Bird while we were at the Inn. I was hoping to find word about the Maenwaith from her. It has been a long time since I left the lands of the Beornings, nearly seven years. I passed over the Misty Mountains, where I discovered that Orcs and Trolls yet live, though they are a bit more shy than they used to be." He grinned in an almost feral fashion at the memory.

"Then I wandered for some time in the land known as Eriador, where I found no sign of Bird or my distant kin. Then I eventually passed into the north where I came upon The Shire, the home of the renowned Bilbo Baggins. It was there that I found the Green Dragon Inn and at last had news of Bird at least. News that was years old, but at least I knew that she travelled to Gondor in the company of you, your children, and your husband (none could recall his name). But none could tell me precisely where Gondor was.

"I headed back east at the advise of several Hobbits and reached what the locals called Buckland. There I was introduced to one Meriadoc Brandybuck, who knew both of you and Gondor. He showed me a map, which he said had been made by Bilbo himself long ago, while he lived in Rivendell, or so I was told."

Baran sipped as his wine and paused to serve himself some more cake. Then his eyes narrowed as he continued. "Gondor was on that map," he said. "And something else. Do you know what was on that map?"

Piosenniel shook her head politely. Patience was not high on her list of virtues. But Baran seemed intent upon telling his story his own way and in his own good time. "What did you find on the map?" she asked, attempting to prod the Beorning along.

"In the far south," he continued. "Well south of here even. In a land called Harad, there was an inscription on the map, even at the very edge of the parchment. It read, 'Here There Be Dragons'!" he concluded triumphantly.

He smiled broadly and spread his arms wide as if those words explained everything. Piosenniel blinked twice, then counted to ten under her breath in an attempt to regain her patience. "So?" she asked in a strained voice. "What does that mean?"

"You don't know?" asked Baran almost increduously. "Bird never told you? Legend has it that the greatest of the Maenwaith, only the most skilled of their leaders, can take the form of the dragon!"

Piosenniel spluttered in frustration and annoyance. "That?" she cried. "That is your great, all so important news? An inscription on a map?"

"Here, here," said Baran with a frown. "I wouldn't get so worked up about things were I you. I know what I'm saying. You see, Merry doubted me also. He suggested that I stop by Rivendell, Imladris you know, and ask there rather than heading right off to this Harad place. So I did! I spent nigh on a year there in their library. Nearly ate them out of house and home." He laughed for a moment. Piosenniel remained silent, keeping her thoughts prudently to herself.

"It took a long time, but I found it," he continued as he reached into his rucksack and removed a scroll. "The tale of the were-wyrms of the Last Desert. It seems some Elves traveled far south long ago, an age or so ago. They set up a camp on the edge of a desert in a pleasant enough area. But after a month or so, some men appeared. Wild, they were, short and olive skinned. They told the Elves that they didn't belong there and that they should leave. The Elves refused.

"Three times this happened, then the men did not return for some time. A few months later, they returned. Many of them. They surrounded the Elven camp, but made no hostile move. Indeed, they bore no arms! Then, in the middle of the night, they lit fires and stood as if they were waiting for something. And something came. A great red dragon. It swooped down on the Elven camp and set fire to some of their homes. Then it landed near a group of the men, out of range of the Elven bows. The men walked down into the camp and said 'Leave now or the Wyrm will drive you away.' Then the men and the dragon disappeared. The Elves returned to the northlands; they left the next morning in fact. Their leader, one Silmir, wrote this scroll before he set off into the West..."

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 5:05 PM January 16, 2004: Message edited by: Mithadan ]

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Thorn

After leaving a message at the Cat's Paw, warning Rama in their clan's curling script, for he perceived the tension might grow in Umbar regarding the Gondorians, Thorn returned to the palace, spending the rest of the afternoon scuttling about, trying to gain more information where he could. And after having spent quite a while in the kitchens and servant’s quarters hoping in vain for any crumbs of information to be let slip from Falasmir’s staff, he departed planning to wait for Ráma, hoping that she might have learned something of use to them. For little had been said by the servants, busy in preparation for the evening’s banquet. And now as the guests where arriving, he feared for his safety in any form he chose to cloth himself in, whether from being trampled or drawing attention to himself, to being recognized.

Carefully moving down the corridor, thankful for the potted palms that had been brought in to adorn the hallways, something caught his eye. The gauzy and blowing curtain reminding him once again of the guest’s quarters that the intricately patterned fabric screened from the more public areas of the palace. Quickly darting under the curtain before the guard receiving the invitees at the door caught sight of him, Thorn ran toward Wyrma’s room.

Now that the reception had begun, he had hopes of finding the chamber empty and Wyrma occupied elsewhere, so that he might have a second look, but as he neared the place he had to scurry for the dark dusty corner of an adjacent doorway. For he had heard a voice that struck a note of recognition in him, and suddenly a plainly dressed woman quickly exited the room tucking a weighty purse in among the folds of her robe. Too weighty indeed, to have been her own, given her appearance.

Pushing a dusty cobweb from his face and whiskers in an off-hand way Thorn pondered her briefly as she made her way down the hall. What purchase would Wyrma require that she would send her woman out into the streets of Umbar at night, weighted with gold? And when Falasmir had instructed his staff to see to her needs, as well. Something of interest may lie behind this, and at present it afforded him his best opportunity of the day.

Racing down the hall, Thorn found the woman just as she was pulling a side door to, behind her. Trying to fit under it, he found that he could not, but after a moment’s thought was forced to scale the door and squeeze through the gap between wall and roof tiles. Impatient with the delay and wobbling as he balanced the weight of his small body, he slowly made his way to the ground and down the path to the city behind the woman.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 1:27 PM January 18, 2004: Message edited by: Hilde Bracegirdle ]

[Nerindel]

After excusing himself from his cousins Korpúlfr casually made his way towards the house his hands clenched behind his back in thoughtful contemplation as he crossed the court yard, his excursion with Tinar offered up many possibilities, but also offered him a good excuse to go down to the harbour and have a look at that Gondorian ship. Stepping into the ornate hallway of his Umbar house, the little brown sparrow that had flown past him at the stables now flapped impatiently about his head.

"So your ready to see the sights of the great city of the Cosairs" he laughed dryly. The sparrow followed him down the hallway to a small library at the back of the house, the room was especially designed and situated so that none of the Haradwaith staff could witness the secret comings and goings of his clan. Closing the door behind them he crossed to open the shuttered window, then turning he shrank down into his own bird form, A raven. The blue purple iridescence of his sleek black feathers and the dark brown of the birds sharp eyes marking the similarities to his base form. With a shake of his shaggy throat feather he spread his wings and took to the sky closely followed by the young sparrow, an unusual sight to be sure but not one that the self involved people of Umbar would take notice of.

"So where too first Kor?" the young Wyrm asked between wing beats.

Korpúlfr surpressed a cringe he hated Tinar's use of the abbreviation of his name, but he tolerated it, he needed to become the young mans friend and mentor if he was to attain his own goals and ambitions, even if it meant tolerating the rumours about his father. Stretching his wings wide he glided on the warm air currents to allow the smaller bird to keep up.

"How about the harbour, the life line of Umbar's trading?" he suggested casually, "Then perhaps by the time we return the trading will have begun and we can take a walk through the market streets."

"Sounds good to me, isn't that Gondorian Merchant ship in port, I think I too would like to get a closer look!" Tinar peeped and Korpúlfr caught the sly glint in the young birds beady eye.

With slow wing beats Korpúlfr circled and glided around the many towers and spires of the wealthier area of the city, pointing out the more prominent buildings to Tinar, they passed over the broad arc of the market and swooped down to meet the fresh tang of the sea air were the currents changed from warm to cool through his feathers. Korpúlfr withheld his usual arielbatics infront of Tinar the freedom and exhilaration of his raven form something he wished to keep to himself.

The white sails of the Gondorian merchant ship stood out against the black of the two three masted, Corsair war ships berthed either side of her. "The Black Eagle the pride of Lord Falasmir's fleet!" Tinar proudly announced as he again caught up to the larger bird, Korpúlfr grinned the young man like himself had obviously had the sense to find out more about his host before coming to the city, though he himself was no stranger with the palace, he dealt mostly with the ladies of the court or the palace staff, very seldom did he meet the lord himself and he wanted to be prepared.

"And the Black Hawk her sister ship!" he finished, circling the second ship. There was a sense of relaxed tension from both ships, as though they were waiting for something.

"I want to take a take a closer look!" Tinar exclaimed as they flew above the Gondorian ship, but before he could protest the small sparrow effortlessly flew down weaving in and out of the rigging, with a shake of his feathery head and a click of his beak he perched himself above the crows nest. A crew man on the rigging gave him a cursory look to which he gave a raucous caw and moved of to a lower sail arm. The crew of this ship were more restless and on edge and nearly every man kept a suspicious or nervous eye on the two ships that flanked them, oh they all seemed busy and unconcerned, but to Korpúlfr who all his life had to hide his true feelings and concerns, to maintain the illusion that he was no more than on of the very people he hated, the signs were clear.

"I've seen enough, I wish to leave now!" Tinar announced as he returned from sweeping the ship, Korpúlfr realised that it had been sometime since they left the house and that the young man must have been struggling to keep his present form, so he nodded his assent but as they flew from the ship, he began to regret his father decision to trade they best wares, narrowing his eyes and looking back at the three ships he couldn't help wondering if his goods would not some how find their way on to one of lord Falasmir's merchant ships!

"Did you hear anything interesting?" he asked his young companion, trying to abate his suspicions.

"No, not really, they are eager to set sail and return to their own lands, the sooner the better I say!" the young man laughed casually, but behind him Korpúlfr frowned and cocked his feathered head pondering if Tinar was hiding something from him or if he was really as blind as he was making out, it was more than evident that that ship was going nowhere soon!

As they reached the market Korpúlfr flew ahead leading the son of the head wyrm to the roof of a fair sized shop, at the rear end of the building was a hole only just large enough for him to fit through, once inside Tinar immediately shook of him bird form and reverting to his base form, his black curly hair shaking as he shook his head. Korpúlfr flew down from the roof beam, but instead of the scratch of claws on the hard wooden floor of the dusty loft, there was a soft thud as Korpúlfr's boots hit the floor. Fixing his tunic he threw open the loft door and climbed down stairs, Tanir close behind him.

"Master, how good to see you!" the startled shopkeeper said as they entered the shop front, then he hurried himself to greet them, Korpúlfr stopped him with a raised hand. "I'm just giving my friend here a tour of the city and what would a tour be without visiting the Raven's Nest, eh?" the two men laughed. Korpúlfr turned to see Tinar run his hand over a rich cinnamon silk .

"There's no finer silks in all of Harad." he grinned confidently.

"I'm sure" the young man laughed.
A small bell rang as he opened the front door, "Now stay close the market can be a dangerous place" he warned .

"I'm not a child, I can look after myself!" Tinar growled, a slight hint of disdain in he eyes, but it past and was replaced by an eager smile. "Come on!"

Korpúlfr lead Tinar through the busy market, past food vendors, rival spice traders, jewellers, potters, and many other wonderful trade stalls, but always heading in the direction of the palace and only pausing when something caught the young mans eye. Korpúlfr stood next to the tent of a local carver, grinning as Tinar tried to haggling over the price of a gold dragon armlet, he was just about to intervene as the trader grew insulted by Tinar's low offers, when a palace guard swept past him sticking his head into the carvers tent.

"It grows late, we must return to the palace!" he heard the guard growl then an instant later a tall, fair skinned man exited the tent his arms laden with purchases, stray strands of dark hair could be seen under the white cloth he wore on his head. So this is one of the foreign traders! he thought, watching the tall man pass, but something in his hand caught his eye, the small carving of a bird with a womans head. Frowning he waited till the foreigner and his escort were out of sight then he entered the carvers tent. He scanned the finely carved pieces till he found what he was looking for, picking up the figure of a man with a wolves head, he feigned a puzzled frown.

"What are these?" he asked.

"Skinchangers, animals that can take the form of men" the old man replied.

"Skinchangers, they are only bed time stories used to frighten children, I'm no child old man!" he laughed.

"Believe what you will young man, but I tell ye they are real and dangerous!" the old man warned

"Who would believe in such things?" he asked mockingly.

"The foreigners! that's who, as a matter of fact there was one in here a minute ago asking about them!" the trader went on, clearly offended by his mocking tones.

"Thank you," he grinned tossing a few copper to the old man and leaving with the wolf head figurine. Slipping the figure into his pocket he walked over to Tinar and informed him that it was time they were leaving, the young man quickly settled a price and followed him towards the palace.

After leaving Tinar, he went to the quarters assigned to him. His quarters were small and not as fine as those he knew Tinar and his mother would be furnished with, but they would suffice after all he didn't plan to stay long. His cousin Jahr was there waiting for him.

"What kept you there is little under an hour before the banquet begins?" But he barely heard his cousins words as he paced up and down, rubbing at his temples as he tried to make sense of all that he had learnt that afternoon.

"What's wrong?" Jahr asked concerned, Korpúlfr looked up but said nothing instead he pulled out the carving and handed it to his cousin. Jahr gasped, "Where did you get this?"

"A trader in the market" he answered absently, "But he is old and no one would believe his stories as anything more than just that, but what does concern me is the fact that one of the Gondorian's asked him about our people!" he said shaking his head.

"I don't have time to puzzle this just now if I am to be ready on time, pushing his concerns aside temporarily , he freshened up and made his way towards the opulent banquet hall.

[Ealasaide]

As Airefalas followed Mithadan and the guard, Seft, down the stairs to the courtyard where the reception was to be held, he found himself thinking about faith, the stalwart belief in something that bears an utter lack of proof. As a sailor from the tender age of nine, when his father had first sent him to sea to make of man of him, Airefalas had an abundance of faith. All sailors did: faith that their vessel could bear the stresses put upon her by the open sea, that fair winds would follow foul, and faith that the stars that led them out of port would remain in their tracks to guide the seafarers home again at journey‘s end. What he had not expected when he signed on for this particular journey was how much his faith would be tested. In addition to the usual demands on his faith, he now found himself faced with several he had not foreseen: the faith that Lord Falasmir would treat them honorably; the faith that Mithadan had a plan should Lord Falasmir prove false; and the faith that he, Airefalas, would live through the evening.

He let his gaze fall on the tall figure of Mithadan ahead of him. He found it disconcerting the way Mithadan played his hand so close to the vest, telling Airefalas only what he needed to know to function in a given moment but not much else. A lifelong chess player, Airefalas liked to plan for contingencies in advance, to think things out several moves ahead, and to have a secondary plan of action in mind should the first not work out. He was more than capable of thinking on his feet and making the split second decisions that were sometimes necessary for survival, but he had always been of the mind that a little preparation could go a long way in a pinch. While it was clear to him that Mithadan did have some kind of plan in mind should things go awry, his captain had intimated to Airefalas very little in terms of what that plan might be. He didn't know whether it was because Mithadan had not yet decided whether he could fully trust his new first mate, or whether it came simply as the result of a lifetime of self-reliance on the part of the captain. Either way, Airefalas felt slightly adrift and very much reliant on his sailor's supply of faith.

It didn't help matters, either, that Airefalas suspected Mithadan of having a secondary purpose there in Umbar, as well, one that had nothing to do caravans, traders, or even Lord Falasmir. He had no idea what it was, though it was obviously some personal matter. On a few rare occasions, he had tried subtly to draw Mithadan out on the subject, but had always been rebuffed; pleasantly and politely rebuffed, but rebuffed all the same. Finally, he gave it up, acknowledging to himself that to pry into Mithadan's personal affairs was none of his business, anyway. It was certainly beyond his duty and station as first mate. He wished he could approach Mithadan on a even footing, as captain to captain, but he knew it could never happen. The simple fact was that Airefalas was no longer a captain in his own right. He was a first mate and, he reminded himself, it would serve him well to remember that. Even so, questions gnawed at the back of his mind. He couldn't help but wonder how much this other matter was influencing Mithadan in his dealings with Umbar. Or if it had any bearing at all.

Sighing, Airefalas tried hard to put it all out of his mind. Faith. He felt the weight of Mithadan’s purse in his pocket and reminded himself of the confidence his captain had placed in him to deal with the traders. That was something he could do, and do very well. Taking the wine that was offered him as he entered the reception, Airefalas moved confidently amongst the assembly of traders, talking crops, growing seasons, and prices. Always prices. He enjoyed the endless dickering and negotiations immensely. He had a talent for it, which he supposed he had inherited from his father who had started his business with a single purseful of borrowed money and one rickety ship. By the time he had died, an old man, he had had in his possession a small fleet of ships. Of course, they all belonged to Avarlond now, Airefalas’ older brother, fourteen years his senior. As the second son, all Airefalas had gotten from his father, in the end, was his father’s good looks and a knack for making his way in the world. Airefalas breathed in the aroma of flowers as he bent over a sampling of delicate saffron threads that had been carried in from the lands far beyond the Great Desert.

“Saffron,” said the attending merchant, a small, birdlike fellow, dressed in robes the color of the spice he sold. “Vegetable gold. Look closely, sir. You will see only the red of the female stigmas, no yellow. ”

Airefalas nodded, bending forward to take a closer look. It was indeed saffron of the highest quality. It would be prized like gold in the nobler kitchens of Gondor. As he entered into negotiations with the little man for the purchase of his saffron, he saw Mithadan standing nearby, his hand in his pocket and a faraway look in his grey eyes seeming, for at least that instant, many miles away. Watching him, Airefalas felt suddenly confident that though things may not go as planned or even as hoped, he and Mithadan would not be dying that night.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 5:41 PM January 17, 2004: Message edited by: Ealasaide ]

[piosenniel]

Rog

His companion was in a fretful mood. Aiwendil's last words to Rog were spoken in an uneasy tone, almost, as if things were slipping away from him and he could not see his way through this problem. ‘If only . . .’ he had said in a wishful way. With a sigh, the old man had recollected himself a bit and suggested a solution, though left it for Rog to carry through on it.

Not that Rog minded doing this. He had been doing just such for his companion during the course of their acquaintance and travels. But lately it seemed Aiwendil had become less sure of himself. And now as they traveled further into areas unfamiliar to him Aiwendil seemed less skilled in meeting the unplanned for situations which arose. Rog wrote it off this time as the fretting of an old man. ‘Rest yourself,’ he said in a kindly manner. ‘I’ll speak with the captain.’ He stepped toward the door. ‘And tea. I’ll bring us both back a cup. The galley always has a kettle on the boil.’

The passage to the stern was easier this time. To his surprise and delight, his stomach did not betray him in this form. Faragaer was standing near the helm when Rog approached, and motioned him up to where he stood. ‘Keep her steady,’ he advised the helmsman as he invited Rog to take a seat in on the bench outside his cabin.

Faragaer was interested in how Rog knew they would not be entering the Haven of Umbar, since he could not recall discussing it with him. Rog shrugged it off saying he had heard it mentioned in passing by some sailors as he hung over the ship’s railing. ‘My companion wondered if there were some traders well known to you and trustworthy who will be at the cove you do intend to anchor in, and who might let us travel with them to the city.’

The captain wrinkled his brow, considering the merchants who were meeting him. ‘Yes, there is a small group of them, I think who will be heading back north to Umbar – the ones who are picking up the crates of quail. Good men, and fair. I’ll ask them to see you safely to your destination.’ Rog thanked the captain, asking just how many days of land travel he thought it would be from their landing place. ‘Two at the most – they travel quickly with horses and wagons,’ Faragaer replied. ‘And we should reach the cove later tonight.’

‘This is good,’ Rog thought to himself as he made his way back to their cabin with two steaming cups of tea laced with honey. ‘We can slip into the city unnoticed in the midst of the trading caravan, pick up a few supplies, and be on our way south.’ He pushed open the door to his cabin with his foot, calling out Aiwendil’s name . . .

[piosenniel]

Gondor

‘Bird never told you?’ he said, a frown puckering his brow. ‘Legend has it that the greatest of the Maenwaith, only the most skilled of their leaders, can take the form of the dragon.’

‘I knew it!’ she chortled to herself. She gave her mental image of Bird a poke in the side. ‘I was not wrong to think that she could do this, to push her, as it were.’ Pio shook her head in wonder. ‘But what of this legend that the most skilled of their leaders are the ones to do this?’ she murmured, as Baran finished this explanation. His voice had drifted off; he went no further. In a moment of exasperation she snapped at him, wanting more information, more proof.

‘By the One!’ she thought, as he went on. ‘If only we had had this information from the start. Bird and I could have followed it to its source.’ She looked hard at the mountain of a man who had now picked up his tale and was chuckling over some reference to food and Rivendell. ‘What other tidbits of information might he have stored away in the nooks and crannies of that great skull of his?’

Her attention was drawn back to his words with his reaching into his rucksack and the withdrawal of a scroll. ‘Copied,’ she wondered, ‘or “borrowed”?’ She couldn’t tell from where she sat. ‘It took a long time, but I found it,’ he was saying, ‘the tale of the were-wyrms of the Last Desert.’

She listened closely to the Elvish retelling of the incident, the lines between her brows deepening. Bird was the only Skinchanger she knew, and all her understanding of them was based on her long friendship with the woman. Small, and olive skinned – that she could reconcile with her knowledge of Bird. But the attack on the Elven houses, though the scroll mentioned no one was killed, she could not see Bird doing that. Not unless the Elves had done something that could be construed as evil or horrendous. Bird would have thought of something else – organized great swarms of gnats to bedevil them or quick and sneaky fleas to terrorize their tender flesh until they left in frustration. Pio followed her own line of thought about the dragon – had it been her, and she felt her ‘homeland’ threatened, then perhaps she would have brought the dragon. But not to just drive the Elves away – she would have left no survivors to carry the tale away with them.

Another line of thought niggled at the back of her mind. A map she had once seen at Sam’s house in the Shire, when she had gone there with her friend, Cami Goodchilde. A Dwarven map (http://home7.swipnet.se/~w-70531/Tolkien/dragon/worm.GIF) – there were mentions of dragons on it, near some great mountain east of the Hithaeglir; east of Thranduil’s forest, as she recalled, and then again north – in some place referred to as the Withered Heath. Seeing her interest, Sam had let her read some of what had been written in the old red leather book. The Last Desert – that was where she had heard that phrase before! And some reference Bilbo had made to the Were-wyrms. He had been talking to the Dwarves who had come to enlist his aid. ‘Tell me what you want done,’ she recalled him saying, ‘and I will try it, if I have to walk from here to the East of East and fight the wild Were-worms in the Last Desert.’

'East of east' – and now here was Baran telling her there were olive skinned people and dragons with them in the south.

Baran’s face was looking at her in expectation, his voice now silent. From the corner of her eye she saw Cook motioning to her. She nodded at Cook, then spoke to Baran. ‘You have brought me more information than I can digest at this moment. Will you stay for supper,’ she asked, standing up from her chair. He stood also, towering above her by a number of inches. She could not tell from his expression if he meant to go now that he had spoken with her or would stay a while longer. She had, after all, said nothing yet about Bird, or where she might be.

‘The meal will be nothing fancy,’ she continued, hoping he would follow as she stepped toward the dining room. ‘And I will apologize beforehand, there will be no meat. Except for the occasional offering from the river or sea, I prefer not to eat it. But there will be plenty to fill your appetite. Cook’s good loaves of whole grain breads, and honey and thimbleberry jam from my neighbor, cheeses also, and fruits, as we can get them at this time of year. And thick bean soup spiced with herbs to drive away the evening’s chill. Will you come?’

He hesitated, then stepped forward. She chatted with him as they walked along, drawing him out on other topics of interest to her.

‘Please, if you listen at all to a skeptic’s pleas,’ she thought, as they all stood by their chairs at the table and faced West for the brief, silent moment before the meal began. ‘Let him have “borrowed” the map, also.’

[Nerindel]

Korpúlfr confidently strode through the banquet hall to the open courtyard were the reception was to take place, he was pleased to see that Jahr had not only set out his samples, but made sure that various dishes had been prepared so that their potential buyers could sample his goods and see how they might be used to full effect.

Smiling satisfactorily he lifted a goblet from a passing servant. Circling the goblet thoughtfully in his hands, he raised it to his nose and inhaled, the distinct sweet, woody aroma of the cinnamon that complimented the sharp fruity flavour of the aged red wine within, bringing a knowing smile to his thin lips. It had been he that had convinced the local wine merchant that his fathers cinnamon would complement the sharpness of the aged red, though he knew the old man would never admit as much, but it mattered not to him, for as long as the beverage proved popular; which it did, especially at Falasmir's court, he would profit considerably.

Korpúlfr's father had spent the last fifteen years building their family business and establishing them as the finest traders of spices and silk in all of the Southland's. So much so that they had run many smaller traders out of business. Taking a sip of the sharp red he grinned to himself. He couldn't wait to pull Umbar's most profitable trade out from under their very noses! As soon as their people were united and they established their own cities, he intended to do just that.

He positively loathed having to pay Umbar's trade taxes each month, handing his peoples hard earned gold over to the lazy, weak minded fools of Umbar who claimed lordship of the city and the out lying areas and now with the thought that his goods might fall into Falasmir's hands he loathed them more. But he was a disciplined young man and held his thoughts in check, soon he thought, very soon!

As he carefully set down his goblet he glanced around the busy courtyard, every respected Merchant of Umbar was gathered to show off the very best that Umbar had to offer. But the question that now played on his mind was why? He was more than certain that their gracious host was going to seize the Gondorian merchant ship, So why go to so much trouble to impress?

As he pondered that thought his gaze fell on the tall dark haired man he had see in the market, but with him was another man, darker of skin, slim of build, but just as tall. He watched with growing interest as the two men were assailed by various merchants trying to impress with their knowledge and wit.

Like Vultures around fresh meat he mused to himself.

Always let them come to you my son! his father always told him and sure enough it was not long before the darker skinned foreigner approached to examine his wares.

"Saffron" he said, watching as the man examined the threads he had on display.

"Vegetable gold. Look closely, sir. You will see only the red of the female stigmas, no yellow." he boasted proudly, it was that which made this spice the most sought after in all the Southland's.

He smiled, pleased as the Gondorian negotiated a price for several crates of the spice. Korpúlfr quickly became glad that he had began the bartering overly high as it soon became apparent the foreigner was accustom to the skill of barter and would not be easily duped. But Korpúlfr still managed to settle on a price that was profitable to him.

"The names Korpúlfr! It has been a pleasure doing business with you." he grinned warmly extending his hand in a friendly gesture.

"If you seek to lighten your purse further, you and your friend may be interested in seeing our fine selection of hand spun silks, popular with the fine ladies of court." He continued, motioning them to another table filled with various hues and textures of the fine material. As they spoke he kept a curious eye on the older man, the one who had openly asked about his people in the market! Distrust and suspicion growing in his mind.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ráma

Ráma had dallied at the Cat's Paw as long as she had dared. She had tried on two different gowns for that evening's reception and then packed away the last of her provisions anticipating an early departure in the morning. With considerable reluntance, she left the Inn and, mounted on Kyelek, headed back towards the palace at a slow lope, taking as long as she could manage to find her way across the city.

Showing her credentials at the gate, Ráma readily approached the reception area, observing that the main hall was already spilling over with guests. A throng of traders crowded around the strangers, attempting to impress the men from Gondor with the quality of their wares. The first thing Rama noticed was that she was virtually the only female in attendance. All of the onlookers were men, most of them wearing the heavy robes that were reserved for the members of Umbar's wealthiest guilds. In this situation Ráma felt doubly out of place, both as a woman, and as a member of the desert tribes whom the established merchants regarded with little favor.

Dozens of male eyes turned greedily to the entrance as Ráma ambled from the outside courtyard towards the center of the hall. The young woman shifted uncomfortably and stared down towards the ground. Male or female, no member of her own clan would willingly draw public attention in such an open fashion. There was always the risk that someone from outside might inquire too closely as to who she really was.

Ráma tugged nervously on the edge of her embroidered vest, reflecting that she should have dressed more soberly, since there were so few women or desert dwellers in attendance. The Men of Umbar were protective of their wives and daughters, discouraging them from attendance at official functions. Undoubtedly these strangers from across the seas had similar restrictive customs. Thank goodness, her own people had more wisdom than that. Strict separation of the genders made no sense when both men and women were equally capable of taking on the most powerful forms.

At least she did not have to worry about pushing her wares. The men of Gondor probably had little appreciation or knowledge of horseflesh and would scarcely want to bother with crafting a stall on their ship for the comfort of her animals. And, frankly, she would not want to sell them to strangers. It was bad enough having to trade her beloved stallions to the aristocrats of Umbar. Sending them far across the seas to a distant, unknown land would be even worse.

Resigned to spending an evening of boredom, Ráma carefully avoided those few merchants attempting to engage her in conversation. Instead, she quietly retreated to a small balcony that jutted out over the palace gardens. Perched on a chair beside the stone balustrade, she stared up at the stars, counting the minutes till the reception ended when she could resume her journey homeward and be reunited with family and kin.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 12:08 AM January 19, 2004: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Heads turned as Falasmir entered the hall. Wyrma and several of his ministers were close behind him, and a group of younger and less important courtiers, among them Tinar, followed in their wake. The tradespeople bowed low as their ruler passed, momentarily silent.

Wyrma noted the buzz of renewed conversation behind them. This was her first appearance with Falasmir at an official function, and she knew that many curious eyes gazed at her. Looking around, she realized that the curiosity apparently had more reason than the mere fact that she was a stranger. As far as she could see, she was the only female in the room! The Umbarian traders were all male, as were those of the various desert peoples.

So, they hide their women from the northern strangers? she thought wryly. Suddenly it occurred to her that the only reason she had seen the women of the court was because she herself was female. Still, the women here were not normally completely isolated, though they usually veiled their faces in public places.

She did not flatter herself by thinking that the stares that encountered her this evening were in admiration of her appearance, but a foreign woman at Falasmir’s side in an official function was bound to raise questions in the minds of those who saw her. If they only knew, she thought, but her true nature was hidden, and she preferred to have it that way.

She was not here to trade on this occasion, but noted with approval that several of her people, among others her son’s friend Korpúlfr, were presenting their wares. The city-kingdom of which she dreamed would need merchants with contacts to neighbouring countries. Would they also profit from contact with the great northern kingdom? She gazed at the tall captain and his first mate, wondering how their fate would affect that of her people.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ealasaide’s post

As Airefalas completed negotiations with the saffron merchant, he felt pleased. The price had not gone quite as low as he had hoped, but it was still lower, several times over, than the price the spice would fetch at market in Gondor. Mithadan would be able to turn a very handsome profit. He smiled as the merchant extended his hand.

"The name's Korpulfr," the man said warmly. "It has been a pleasure doing business with you."

"And with you," answered Airefalas. "I am Airefalas."

"If you seek to lighten your purse further, you and your friend may be interested in seeing our fine selection of hand spun silks." Korpulfr gestured toward another table that was strewn with various hues and textures of the fine material.

“Thank you.” Airefalas followed the merchant’s gesture with his eyes. He had already purchased a few bolts of silk at Umbar’s marketplace, including one for his fiancée Isabel in the exact shade of blue that matched her lovely eyes, and one in deep green for his mother. Upon seeing Korpulfr’s offerings, he wished he had waited.

He looked around for Mithadan, repeating to himself like a litany, “Furs, fine cloth, herbs and spices...” The silks would definitely qualify. He had just begun to move in the direction of the colorful fabrics when a fanfare sounded at the end of the courtyard. The doors swung open and Lord Falasmir himself appeared, accompanied by a host of attendants and courtiers. Finding Mithadan amongst the crowd of merchants, Airefalas moved in his direction and took up a position just behind his captain’s right shoulder. As for what happened next, he would wait for Mithadan’s cue.

He watched as Lord Falasmir made his way down the courtyard, greeting with a smile each of the merchants with whom he already shared a personal acquaintance, passing by those with whom he did not. It wasn’t until some minutes had passed that Airefalas noticed the squat, older woman who walked at Lord Falasmir’s right hand. Her iron-gray hair was pulled tightly back from her square-jawed face, upon which lay an expression of austere determination. All about her rested an aura of power.

Airefalas whistled under his breath. “I’d hate to have her for a mother-in-law,” he said softly to Mithadan. “Who do you suppose she is?”

Silently, Mithadan gave his head a slight shake, communicating to Airefalas either that he didn’t know or that Airefalas should be quiet. Since Airefalas wasn’t quite sure which Mithadan meant, he fell silent.

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

Child’s post – Rama

The great fanfare of horns announcing the arrival of Falasmir momentarily lured Ráma a few feet out of her hiding place. She stood against the wall on the far side of the room, staring across at the entourage which was making its way to the center of the floor. For one moment, her eyes fixed on the regal Lord who was surrounded by a bevy of admirers, some bending low, others respectfully inclining their heads. Ráma's direct dealings with this gentleman had been few, and she intended to keep it that way.

Quickly surveying the advisors who now stood at Falasmir's side, Ráma felt her heart thump furiously against her chest. For, next to Falasmir, just a little to his right, stood the one individual whom Ráma truly hoped to avoid. Yet she should not have been surprised, since Thorn had warned her of Wyrma's presence earlier that afternoon.

Seeing the familiar ramrod features, Ráma instinctively pulled back to the safety of her porch. A host of memories flooded through her mind. A clan gathering long ago, when she had been but a child..... Her mother had taken her by the hand and pulled her to the side of the crowd where she could get a clear look at the great Wyrm. And then Ayar had leaned over, whispering in her ear, Do not let her see you, child, for someday your safety and even that of our clan may depend on it. But press the Wyrm's face into your mind, and do not let it go. Then Ayar had led her out through a secret passage at the back of the tent and explained that neither she nor any other Eagle would be returning to this place again.

That was the last time Ráma had seen the Wyrm. But the face had seered into her brain, and still haunted her dreams at night, and now they both stood in the same room again. All thoughts of trying to find out why Wyrma had come speedily fled. Ráma abruptly turned about and began walking towards the door, intending to leave the palace and retreat to the safety of the Cat's Paw, perhaps even packing up her belongings and leaving the city in the middle of the night.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 12:42 AM January 21, 2004: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[piosenniel]

Rog

A sliver of moon hung low on the eastern rim of the sea. The waves picked up the yellowed light, throwing it from one to another in a widening, rippling pattern until it faded out against the side of The Gull. Rog leaned on the railing watching the illusion as the moon and ship moved south in tandem.

‘Are you feeling ill, sir,’ came the quiet voice of the sailor on watch as he passed by. Rog smiled, his back to the man, as he heard the familiar scrape of the bucket across the deck. ‘No, Arallas, but I thank you for your concern. For now I’m feeling fine.’ He fumbled with his hand for the small lantern he had hung on the upright post to his left that held the railing. ‘Do you have a light for this, by chance?’ he asked, as the man made to move on. Rog had brought his satchel up to the deck with him, intending to make a few notes in his journal before they arrived at their so called port.

‘No lights, sir,’ said Arallas, ‘by the Captain’s orders.’

Rog had wondered why the usual lamps were not lit fore and aft when he’d come up. Now that he looked about again, there were none of the crew smoking either. And a look back toward where the shoreline should be showed him they had pulled further out to sea. ‘No lights?’ he asked, waiting for further explanation.

‘None at all, sir,’ came the quick reply. ‘We’re running dark past the Havens tonight. The Captain wishes to draw no attention to our passage.’ Rog declined the man’s offer to see him below deck and to his cabin. With a nod to him, Arallas moved on, continuing his rounds.

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

The moon moved further up the night sky, obscured at times by the thin bands of scattered clouds. Several hours had passed and still the darkness found Rog looking out to sea, though by now he had traded his leaning against the rail for the comfort of a small crate pulled near to sit on.

The Gull, once past the cluster of lights that marked the city at the head of the bay, now veered in a southeasterly direction, back toward the coastline. ‘Land soon!’ he thought to himself, eager to have a firm, stable surface beneath his feet once again. His eyes strained to see where the ship might put in.

From the helm, the order rang out to ‘heave to, lads’, and Rog watched with growing bafflement as the ship’s sails were adjusted and the movement of the rudder felt. They were stopped a ways off shore, and now as he stood and peered toward the strand he could see a small covey of various sized boats coming out through the surf to meet them. Ten in all, they came abeam, and a number of the crew of each came aboard to meet with the Captain and First Mate.

Business was soon done; goods and monies exchanged; the traders eager to get back to their companions on shore. In exchange for a small cask of honeyed mead from the northern horselands, a group of traders led by Mas’ud, agreed to see Aiwendil and Rog north to the city.

‘Come, come,’ urged the thickset merchant as he climbed down the rope ladder to the waiting skiff. His two sons, Qasim and Umar, had already gone ahead in the larger boats, the crates of quail with them, cages secured with ropes. All were expected to help row the small boat back to shore.

Rog’s palms chafed against the thick oar as he pulled against the sea’s swells. For one moment he considered how easy it would be just to wing his way inland, but his eye caught the movement of Aiwendil as he bent into the rowing, his gnarled hands firm on the tightly wound, rope grip. With a heavy sigh, Rog pushed himself to continue the rhythm of his strokes.

‘If the old fellow can do it,’ he thought, biting back a barely suppressed groan as the wet rope bit into his skin, ‘so can I . . .

[Mithadan]

Mithadan and Airefalas bowed before Falasmir, and accompanied him as he introduced them to those in his party. Most were ministers of Falasmir's government or lords of Umbar. But one caught Mithadan's attention. The only woman present, she was introduced as the ruler of a desert people. This would have interested Mithadan, save for her demeanor. She was dark skinned and short, but her dark eyes seemed to sparkle with contempt, as if he were utterly unworthy of her notice.

Having weathered the receiving line, Mithadan and Airefalas turned away and began to mingle again. Airefalas was corraled immediately by a squat trader in coffee, but Mithadan evaded his attention and made his way back towards the door where servants carried trays of wineglasses. He snared a goblet of fragrant red wine and turned away only to collide with a young lady who was hurrying through the crowd.

"Excuse me," he cried as he conducted an impromptu balancing act with the goblet whose contents sloshed alarmingly before settling.

"I'm sorry," she responded with averted eyes. She attempted to step around him and make her way to the entrance, but at that moment a troupe of jugglers entered and began performing before the door. She quickly stepped back into the crowd and stood by a tall potted plant. Mithadan, at risk of being drawn into the midst of the performers, backed away as well.

"It seems that we are going nowhere right now," he said with a slight grin.

"I was going to get some air," she replied curtly. "I'll try the terrace." She made her way towards the wall and turned towards a broad arch. Mithadan looked up and found the wine dealer bearing down upon him. He hurriedly followed the woman out into the open air.

A cool breeze cut through the receding heat of the day, bringing a touch of the sea tang with it. Mithadan breathed deeply, then spoke to the woman, who was now leaning lightly against a stout marble pillar. "I hope you don't mind if I join you," he said. "It was getting a bit stuffy in there. I am Mithadan of Gondor."

"I'm Rama," she replied shortly.

"Are you the daughter of one of the traders?" he asked.

Her eyes flashed. "I am a trader," she replied with annoyance.

"I'm sorry," he answered. "All the others are men, so I thought... Well, I'm sorry. What do you trade in?"

"Horses," Her eyes met his in challenge as if daring him to make further comment.

"Well," he laughed. "I love horses, but that is one thing I'm not interested in buying right now. My ship is too small. It would be cruel to transport horses over sea in cramped quarters. I have too much respect for the animals. My wife and I have five horses. Actually, three and two ponies for the children."

Rama blinked in surprise. This was not the response she had expected. In a few minutes, they were chatting animatedly about training and care of their animals and Rama was extolling the virtues of her desert-bred steeds.

"You are from the desert?" he asked. She nodded. "My people roam the lands, usually on the fringes of the desert, though sometimes we traverse the sands for weeks at a time."

"I am looking for a friend," he said carefully. "She has been missing for some time, but she was in Harad when we last heard from her. She was searching for her family. We miss her greatly and would appreciate any news of her that we could find. Her name is Bird. She is olive-skinned and slight, with dark hair that bears a white streak."

"I've not heard of her," replied Rama. "I'm sorry."

"Then perhaps you have heard of her people," he continued. "They... have a skill... a mastery of...shapes."

Rama frowned and her eyes narrowed. She took a step away from Mithadan. "They do not exist," she hissed. "They are the tales of liars."

Mithadan was taken aback by Rama's reaction, but forged on nonetheless. "They are real," he answered. "I've seen her use her talent. Maybe you would know her by her name in her people's tongue. She is known as Te' sorthene Dester' edra."

[Child of the 7th Age]

Rama

At first Ráma said nothing. Stunned by the words she was hearing, the desert woman shook her head and glanced away, trying to mask her confusion. Her people jealously guarded their secret tongue and would not casually share such words. Even more to the point, no master of shapes would willingly give out a true name to anyone beyond their immediate clan, certainly not to an unknown outsider.

She refrained from peppering Mithadan with hasty questions, holding her tongue and quickly sorting through the possibilities. Perhaps this was some new ploy Wyrma had devised. Yet Ráma did not think so. To maintain her disguise within the palace, even the Wyrm depended on the traditional veil of secrecy, a secrecy not merely of shapes and forms, but even of the words and names that were sacred to their people.

Once, her mother had spoken of a distant age when evil men from outside routinely kidnapped children and forced the maenwaith to divulge secrets, under the lying pretext that the little ones would be set free. But that explanation also seemed unlikely. Long ago, her own people had decided it was better for innocent children to die at the hands of their own families rather than being forced to do a stranger's bidding their entire life. More importantly, Ráma could not believe such a heinous thing of Mithadan. The man had been so clearly proud when speaking of his own daughters and son. He did not act like someone who might torture little ones merely to gain some practical advantage.

As unlikely as it seemed, perhaps this stranger was telling the truth. She knew of no one who went by the name 'Dester' edra, sister-of-the-wind. But, for parents to choose such a name, they must have been certain that their child would master one of the great flying shapes. The wind-sister might even be an Eagle. And Te sorthene ......the northerner might not understand the true meaning of these words: that it was he who was seen as the "friend of the heart" to his maenwaith sister.

Like a bird winging through the skies, Ráma heard Mithadan speak, as if from a great distrance.... Ráma, are you alright?

She quickly reined in her thoughts and replied, "Yes...yes... I was just thinking about your words. I can not help you." Then she hastily shifted to another topic, since this was not the place to be discussing secret things.

After several moments of harmless conversation about how unseasonably warm the weather had been, Ráma noticed Wyrma walking in their direction. Her voice halted in mid-sentence and she abruptly interjected, "I must go now." She extended her hand, gripping Mithadan's tightly in her own and dropping her voice to a whisper. "Umbar is a dangerous place. Do not trust Falasmir or the woman who walks beside him. Keep your eyes open at all times. I will soon return home, but you may always leave a message for me at the Cat's Paw. I have friends there... And, you? Where do you stay?" Ráma's eyes strayed nervously towards Wyrma but she stood her ground to listen to Mithadan's response.

"I hope to be back on the Star soon and sailing home. But for now, my mate and I have been given chambers at the palace and guards who guide us wherever we go."

She leaned over further and again lowered her voice, "Take my advice. Learn how to lose your guards. Your safety may depend on it." Then she straightened up and, briefly inclining her head, walked quickly towards the doorway.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 2:03 AM January 21, 2004: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil:

As they made their way around the great port, Aiwendil stood near the rail, watching the distant lights of Umbar fade away. The istar paid little attention to the exchange of goods or the friendly bartering that was soon being played out on the deck of the vessel. Yet once the captain gave the signal to be off, he'd quickly come aboard the small skiff and put his hand to the heavy oar with a degree of enthusiasm and anticipation that far exceeded his usual manner.

For some unknown reason, he felt more alert and awake than he'd done for some time. Aiwendil pushed his shoulder into the task, and felt his muscles ache in response -- a good, healthy twinge that reminded him he was actually doing something productive.

The moon's pale glow spilled over onto the coast and afforded just enough illumination that the wizard could make out the shoreline and the landscape that lay beyond it. To his right, hugging the water's edge, he could see the shadowy outline of a far range of mountains that curved inland and disappeared somewhere to the south. Straight ahead and further north, he observed no signs of habitation, only the endless blowing sands, barely discernible in the dim grey shadows.

Outwardly, this dry piece of earth looked nothing like the gardens he'd tended back home: all brown, and parched, and stretched, with no greeness about it. Yet somehow those endless sands reminded Aiwendil of the place from which he'd come in a way that he'd almost forgotten. They were more beautiful and wild than anything he'd seen in Middle-earth, even the rugged forests near the Anduin. The tawny hills rolled on forever almost like the Sea, carrying along a quiet hint of the endless ages that had already passed and those that were still to come.

Aiwendil laughed at his own reflections. Strange that he should be thinking of Valinor; such things had not crossed his mind for longer than he could remember. With a final heave on the oars, the small boat came running into the tiny natural harbor, nestling down beside its larger neighbors. The istar stretched out his legs and tried to stand up, still wobbling a bit from the transition to dry land. He caught hold of Rôg's arm and steadied himself, stepping out onto the sandy shore.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 9:33 AM January 22, 2004: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[piosenniel]

Rôg

The prow scraped along the sandy bottom as the boat rushed through the shallow waters leading to the strand. Rôg had rolled his breeches above his knees and shoved his boots into his leather pack before they cast off from the Gull. The surging water swirled about his lower legs, stinging them with its salty coldness as soon as he’d jumped from the boat. Pushing against it as it rushed back from the shore, his arms strained to pull the boat further onto the beach as his feet struggled to find purchase on the shifting sand beneath them. Qasim and Umar, their own ketch secured from the waves, ran out to help. And soon the boat was brought firmly onto land, and Aiwendil and Mas’ud assisted out.

Others, waiting on shore, had already loaded the birds and other goods onto the waiting wagons. And others still had a small fire going and there were kettles of hot, strong tea sweetened with honey to refresh the merchants’ spirits and hold off sleep. They would not be spending the night here, intending to set off once all the wagons had been loaded, and then to head northeast toward the city and its bazaar.

Rôg had no need of the tea, though he took a cup as it was passed to him, inclining his head graciously to the one who had set it in his hands. Still barefoot, he sat on a rock watching the shadows of the merchants as they moved about their wagons seeing to the cargo. They had declined his help, the firelight glinting off their white teeth as they smiled at his offer, saying thank you, but we are almost done, and you are our guests.

His toes dug luxuriously into the warm sands as his gaze took in the shadows of the mountains against the night sky, and he wondered for a brief moment what creatures there were who lived above the desert floor in the craggy places of the distant ridge. Perhaps the old man and he would find time to go there as they traveled south.

Rôg’s woolgathering was cut short as Qasim called them to his wagon. They would ride with him – Aiwendil on the seat in front with Qasim and Rôg in the back, his legs left dangling from the rear of the wagon bed. Their wagon was last in line, and the horses stamped their hooves against the packed sand eager to be off. Rôg could hear Qasim urging them on with a flick of the reins and a few soft words. The iron bound wheels crunched against the sand as they started, and the small lantern which hung from wagon bed threw crazy, swinging patterns of light on the passing sandy hillocks as they rolled by.

[Ealasaide]

As Lord Falasmir and his attendants moved down the reception line toward them, Airefalas stepped into place beside Mithadan, his gray-green eyes studying the face of the approaching Umbarian lord. Ordinarily people didn't carry duplicity upon their faces like a moustache or a beard, especially not those who were well-versed in deception, but as Lord Falasmir moved nearer, Airefalas found himself studying the man's face for just that...some hint of his true disposition. So far, aside from the threatening position of the two warships in the harbor and the palace's ever-present guards, Airefalas had seen nothing to support his strong feelings of discomfiture and foreboding. Glancing at Mithadan's cool confidence beside him, Airefalas began to doubt his own instincts.

Then, his eyes fell again on the woman who walked beside Lord Falasmir. Something about her eyes and the stern set of her jaw set all of his nerves on edge. This was a dangerous woman. But whether or not she proved dangerous to him and Mithadan remained to be seen. As far as Airefalas was concerned, he would just as soon stay out of her way. Bowing respectfully to her and Lord Falasmir as they reached him, he felt distinctly grateful once they had passed. Meeting them had done nothing to set him at ease. The sense of foreboding still raged in his heart, despite his doubts.

Turning away from the reception line once they had passed, Airefalas had every intention of returning to Korpulfr and his silks. Unfortunately, he was immediately taken in hand by a rather officious coffee merchant, who grabbed him tightly around the elbow and practically dragged him over to look at his selection of coffees. Casting a sardonic glance over his shoulder in the direction of his captain, Airefalas saw Mithadan in close conversation with the only other female in attendance aside from Lord Falasmir's companion. If ever, thought Airefalas, there was a difference between two women, this was it. It was like comparing a rose to a block of granite. He found it interesting that the only two women present should represent such a contrast to one another.

He had noticed the younger woman when she had entered the courtyard some minutes earlier, his eye having been caught by her unique beauty, but had instantly lost track of her. He had been at the height of his negotiations with Korpulfr over the saffron when she came in and had felt compelled to keep his focus on his business where it belonged. Now, listening patiently to the sales pitch of the coffee merchant, he found himself wondering what she and Mithadan had to discuss. She did not seem to have any wares to peddle like the rest of the vultures in attendance. In fact, she seemed somewhat troubled, almost angry, which stood out in sharp contrast to the annoyingly unctious demeanor of so many of the other merchants. She had the appearance of a desert dweller, too, which was also unusual for the evening. He decided to ask Mithadan about her later.

Airefalas startled and drew back sharply as the swarthy face of the coffee merchant suddenly filled his field of vision. Sensing that the Gondorian was not paying attention, the merchant had taken it upon himself to insert his face between Airefalas and whatever it was that did interest him. He held up a handful of coffee beans, which he thrust under Airefalas' nose.

"Smell the rich aroma, sir!"

Not having much choice to the contrary, Airefalas did as the merchant suggested.

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Mogru could not sleep. Over the past few nights he had been troubled by bad dreams that left no memory other than a vague sense of dread that would often keep him from rest until dawn; and now another of these had driven him back to wakefulness. It was as dark as pitch in his room and so still that he could hear the sounds of the house, which creaked as it settled itself. 'Even the house is sleeping,' he mused, and for a moment he was irrationally afraid that he would wake the ancient building, as though it were an old man who would berate him peevishly for disturbing his rest.

The house belonged to Mogru's father, who had built it when he first found wealth on the seas. Mogru had wondered how a man might find gold among the waves, for surely it would sink to the bottom. Certainly his brooch had done so when it fell into the river as he played, and his father had been angry at the loss. His father was often angry, and Mogru knew better than to trouble him when a ship was overdue or when he had been drinking with the other merchants. When he was old enough, he had been promised, he would sit and take wine with the men, for his father had said that this was how business was done. Mogru was not so certain that he would like business, for his father was often unhappy or angry when he had been talking of it; but he had been told that he would be a merchant when he was grown. He did not argue with his father when he said such things, although he hoped that business would not involve Nazam. His father was always angry when he had seen his fellow merchant; Mogru did not like him and he smiled like a snake.

Mogru tried again to sleep, but half-remembered images from his dream returned when he closed his eyes and it would not come. He was becoming thirsty now, and he took up the ewer that stood on the table by his bed. It was empty again: the servants often forgot this task and he was loth to trouble his father with it when he was so busy. At this time of year, several ships would be at sea at once, and he was often at the docks when he was not at the guild-hall in the town. When Mogru had last told him of the empty jug his father had been angry again and he had received a buffet for his pains.

Even so, Mogru's thirst was becoming insistent. Although the servants were asleep he knew where to find the well, and he was sure that he remembered how he had seen water drawn from it. Father often spoke of the foolishness of their servants, so he was sure that it could not be difficult to do this. His father was not awake to berate him for doing their work, and the bucket could not be heavy for the maidservants could lift it with ease. He had not felt its weight himself.

Moving as quietly as he could, Mogru left his room and made his way towards the main staircase. A little pale light entered from the lamps on the gate outside and he could see enough to make out where he stood. To reach the stairs, he knew that he must pass his father's room; and he must be careful not to wake the merchant: he would be sure to be beaten if he were to be caught 'sneaking about the place' at this hour. Each movement he made seemed weirdly loud, as though the house itself were trying to bring down punishment on him, and he saw now that the door of his father's room was ajar. If the merchant was awake he would have to be especially careful if he was to escape his wrath.

As he drew level with the door, Mogru suddenly caught a flash of movement within, as though some heavier shadow had moved within the darkness. Mogru froze, not knowing what he should do. If his father was not asleep then some trouble was keeping him so, and this could be dangerous. For a moment he thought of returning to his room, but he was as likely to be caught returning as he was leaving: if he was to be punished, he would like to have his drink as well.

As he stood shivering in the cold darkness, there came a movement from inside his father's room. Suddenly, silently the door swung open and a man walked through, taking as much care as had Mogru himself. The man seemed huge, but Mogru could tell that he was not as tall as his father; he was dressed all in black and wore his black headscarf across his face so that only his eyes showed. Mogru did not like those eyes: they were gentle, even kindly; but they were also vacant, suggesting that nothing lay behind them save the same darkness that was woven into the man's clothes. Frightened as he was of his father, Mogru knew that he must cry out: this man should not be here, and surely something was very wrong. He opened his mouth to shout.

The man's arm moved. At first Mogru thought that he was striking him, but the hand passed just in front of his face. He felt something brush across his neck and then strangely his chest began to feel warm and his throat filled with choking liquid. Suddenly he felt very tired, and although he knew it was ignoble to sleep on the floor he could not seem to resist the desire. His legs gave way and he fell to the ground in a pool of something wet. He felt ashamed that his bladder was out of his control, and surely his father would punish him for something so unmanly. The light from outside grew dimmer, and then suddenly it grew dark. Mogru slept.

***

Hazad left the house silently by the same window through which he had entered. Concerned that the boy's fall might have been heard, he moved swiftly, but his motions were careful and smooth. It was as important to escape cleanly as it was to approach unseen, for there would be no gold for dead men. The retainer whose task it had been to guard this entrance lay in the shadow of a wall, where he would be unseen until later in the day. By then, Hazad hoped to be back in his room near the road and inside a clean suit of clothes. He knew that he would see darker stains on the satin he wore when he stepped into the light. Drawing a cloth from within his shirt, he wiped his knife clean and returned it to its sheath. The boy had been inconvenient, but there was no danger of discovery now: if the worst happened he could escape in the confusion. Swiftly he moved into the shadow of some out-houses and began to make his way back to the inn. He must be in bed before the servant came to wake him.

Hours later, warm in bed and with his bloodied clothes consigned to the bottom of a saddlebag, Hazad thought again about his client. Nazam was an impatient and venal man, and there might be some trouble in claiming his fee. This gave him no great cause for concern, since he would choose when he accepted payment himself, a condition to which all his clients must agree. Still, it might be wise to change his place of residence, and to arrange the meeting somewhere far from it. The docks were usually a good place to hide, and he could leave the horse in a stable nearer the centre of town. It was unlikely that Nazam had any servants with the skill to follow a professional, so he could probably afford to accept one more contract before leaving Umbar. Driving such concerns from his mind, Hazad lay back in the pre-dawn light and fell into a dreamless sleep.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 8:05 AM January 26, 2004: Message edited by: The Squatter of Amon Rûdh ]

[Estelyn Telcontar]

The atmosphere in the Great Hall of the palace was hardly different than that of a bazaar, and the cacophony of sounds and smells and sights was almost overpowering to Wyrma. Voices grew loud as they praised their wares and haggled over prices; samples of spicy wine, steaming coffee, juicy dates and figs were proffered; silks, wools, and linens were held out to be touched; the scent of spices was ever-present, a heady, pungent mixture; and a lively dance of colours and movements whirled about with an energy renewed by the cooler temperatures of the evening.

Wyrma found herself almost wishing that she could be outside under the bright stars of a desert night, feeling the exhilarating chill of the nocturnal air. She pushed those thoughts aside firmly, reminding herself that this was the price to be paid for city living, and concentrated instead on the faces of the people she passed.

Amidst the liveliness of temperamental southerners, the quiet stance of the two northern guests was conspicuously obvious. Wyrma looked at the captain and his companion with some curiosity, though her face remained impassive. Tall they stood before her, making her feel smaller than usual, despite the fact that she stood very upright, with chin lifted high. As she looked into the captain’s grey eyes, she recognized authority and a strong will beneath his calm demeanour. This was a man to be reckoned with, one who commanded respect even without a court of followers surrounding him. She felt a slight tug of regret; her people had no quarrel with the kingdom of Gondor, and this man would have been a valuable ally.

However, Gondor was far away, and Umbar was near; she must needs choose her connections to serve her own purposes. Interesting though it would be to find out more about the cities and lands of the north, she could not seek conversation with those whom Umbar considered foes. She fell back from Falasmir’s side briefly, motioning to her son. “Speak with the northern captain if you can, or with his first mate. Find out all you can about their cities and their people,” she whispered to him.

Happy to receive an assignment that coincided so well with his natural curiosity and gregariousness, Tinar pushed his way through the crowd. By the time he had reached the guests, the captain has disappeared, but his second-in-command was listening to the enthusiastic praise of a coffee tradesman. He waited politely until the man turned away with a look of seeking escape in his eyes. Tinar smiled his most infectious smile at him, and the northerner grinned back.

“Do you wish to buy coffee?” he asked, wondering who the youth might be. The richly ornamented clothing showed that he was obviously well-born, but he did not remember being introduced to him.

“No,” Tinar answered. “I am not a trader, but I am eager to speak to you and learn more about your home. Tell me, are there mountains there?”

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 12:15 PM January 22, 2004: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

[Nerindel]

Korpúlfr

Korpúlfr was just directing Airefalas towards the fine fabrics when the fanfare sounded announcing the arrival of Lord Falasmir and his attendants, the northerner excused himself and joined his captain, promising to return and negotiate a price before the night was out. Smiling warmly, he nodded and watched the two Gondorian's as Falasmir's procession made its way down the courtyard.

Korpúlfr had no love for Umbar's lord and made no effort to push himself forward like the other merchants, fighting to gain their lords attention and approval, he needed nor wanted either. But Falasmir and his entourage inevitably passed his way. He bowed respectfully both to Falasmir and Wyrma the leader of his people, showing no sign that her new position surprised him in the slightest, he had heard the rumours and having inconspicuously questioned Tinar he had gained the truth, though he was not entirely sure weather Wyrma's youngest son had known of his slip.

"Master Korpúlfr," the lord of Umbar addressed him accordingly, "the women of my court speak very highly of your fine wares, I pray that you have not yet sold all to our new guests," Falasmir commented running his hand along a soft red silk which was finely inlaid with gold thread.

"Not as yet my lord, but an interest has been shown." He replied pleasantly, but behind his pleasant facade he felt almost certain that the older man was toying with him in some way.

"Very good, I would never hear the end of it if I returned empty handed." Falasmir laughed, then clapping his hands a short, squat, balding man stepped forward.

"This is Tahrim, he will see to my needs," then with a dismissive hand he continued down the line of waiting merchants.

Korpúlfr's dark eyes almost narrowed with the malice and contempt he felt at the lords insult, but a sharp look from his leader, reminded him of the importance of the facade they maintained. Putting on a well practised smile he turned to Falasmir's negotiator "Now to business!" he laughed heartily. But his smile did not remain long, Tahrim took but only three bolts in the end, but three of the best and at a price that was more insulting than the lords impromptu dismissal.

As he watched the old man ordered servants to take the bolts away, he lifted another glass of the rich red wine with which to quell his burning anger. "Lord Falasmir wishes to impress his guests, with what his Merchants have to offer, you would be advised not to disappoint!" the old man warned with a sly grin, Korpulfr almost choked on his drink, but managed to supress his anger and nod his understanding, but as the old man turned away a grin pressed his lips, His merchant! if only he knew the truth! he thought with renewed satisfaction.

Looking around the courtyard his thoughts again turned to the sea captain and his interest in their people, The Northerner Airefalas had seemed cautious, but pleasant enough, even his captain seemed to have a non threatening air about him, But Korpulfr knew only too well how much outward appearances could be deceiving and the northerners interest in his people concerned him deeply. The type of men who generally sought their kind where never to be trusted, greedy manipulative people thinking to use their peoples skills to their advantage.

Suddenly his last memories of his mother flashed into his mind. It was mid afternoon when they came, the young men of the tribe where out hunting, leaving only the women, children and elderly tending the day to day chores in their camp. a mild breeze whipped among the tents when suddenly the ground rumbled, Korpulfr was with his cousins drawing pictures in the sand with a dried twigs, when a large cloud of whipped up sand approached fast from the west, there was screams and he was snatched up by his mother fear gripped him this was not the first time the large dark men had come, burying his head in his mothers shoulder he began to cry.

"hush little one, everything will be fine" his mother whispered trying to comfort him as they ran, but the thunder of hooves still pursued them.

"To the forest!" someone yelled and his mother made for the cover of the dark trees, but once in the forest their pursuers divided them and he and his mother ended up separated from their tribe, his mother exhausted faltered and stumbled, he could hear men's voices close behind them. His mother looked at him, her large, round eyes filled with fear and sadness, her hand strayed to her belt where a small knife lay, but with a tear she stayed her hand and put him high into the branches of a large tree.

"Hush now little one!" she said kissing his forehead, "You must not move or even make a sound, no matter what you hear, do you understand!" she said sternly. he nodded slowly as she smiled and ran her soft hand down his cheek moving aside a stray lock of raven hair.

"I will always love you my little Raven" she whispered, turning away from him as the dark men broke through the trees to circle her. Filled with fear Korpúlfr clung to the tree and closed his eyes. As a loud howl rang out he opened his eyes and cautiously looked between the dark leaves. Below he could see the form of a large brown and cinnamon wolf, its lips pulled back threateningly revealing sharp dangerous looking teeth, Suddenly the wolf leapt towards the nearest Haradwaith warrior, Korpúlfr heard a whistle sound and closed his eyes as an arrow pierced the wolves side, when he opened his eyes the wolf was gone but to his horror his mother lay still on the ground Surrounded by the dark skinned warriors.

"Our lord will be most pleased!" one of the men laughed pulling a dark arrow from his mothers side. Throwing his hand to his mouth to suppress the sick feeling in his stomach he turned away. The dark men took his mothers body upon one of their horses and rode back from whenced they had come.

Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth he pushed the memory aside, only evil wicked men looked for our people!he thought bitterly narrowing his eyes in the direction of the sea captain, it was then that he noticed the man's new companion a short yet attractive young woman, it was unusual to see women traders in the city, but he had dealt with a few desert trader that were women, but this one he did not know. pretending to be examining the other merchants wares he made his way slowly towards the sea captain and the desert woman.

He had just got close when the young woman walked quickly from the terrace towards the door bumping his shoulder in her haste, she turned and hastily apologised, their eyes lock momentarily, before she again moved towards the door. Something about the young woman's warm gold flecked, brown eyes seemed familiar, but he had never seen her before of that he was quite certain.

With a bemused shake of his head he turned back to the terrace but seeing one of Falasmir's more loyal Merchants now heading toward the captain he moved in the opposite direction, wondering what the desert woman and the northerner had discussed. Perhaps he would seek out Tinar and see what the young son of their leader made of the captains sudden interest in skinchangers and desert people. But just now he had business to conduct. Seeing the stout Umbarian wine Merchant he headed in his direction and began plying his trade, even negotiating prices for the mans fine wines and spirits, making sure that he positioned himself were he could keep a close but guarded eye on the Foreigners, If they were hunting for his people he would make sure they found one! one that would most definitely fight back making sure they troubled his people no more.

[piosenniel]

Gondor

Dinner was done. The last of the dishes cleared away by Pio, with the aid of Gilwen and Cami, soon found themselves scraped clean and soaking in a tub of hot soapy water. ‘Wash or dry?’ asked Pio of the two remaining diners, holding out the sponge in one hand, a towel in the other. Isilmir looked up at Baran, offering him first pick.

‘The towel, I think.’

‘Good choice,’ returned Isilmir, pushing a tall footstool toward the sink. He was followed close on by Cami with a chair from the kitchen table. She was not all that proficient at cleaning plates, but was quite good at squishing the suds through her fingers, a pastime her brother did not mind indulging.

Pio lit the lamp on the kitchen table and pulled it close to where she sat. The scroll that Baran had brought was laid flat on the table in front of her, and her finger followed the lines of script as she re-read them. A dragon in the southlands. Real or Skinchanger, she wondered. As far as she could recall, Bird knew nothing of this . . .

The sound of laughter drew her eyes up from the puddled light on the vellum. Isilmir and Cami were playing a guessing game as they washed the dishes.

‘I’m thinking of something in this room . . .’ Isilmir had declared, a look of bland innocence on his face. ‘Is it animal?’ asked Cami. Isilmir smiled and shook his head ‘no’. ‘Vegetables?’ she asked, her face hopeful as she eyed the bowl of apples nearby on the counter. ‘No,’ returned her brother laughing. ‘And the category is “vegetable” – like plants.’ Cami furrowed her brow in thought, and made a few wild guesses.

Gilwen had come in by now, the few table scraps and crusts of bread left over from dinner devoured by the ravenous flock of chickens in the back yard pen. ‘Mineral, then,’ she piped in, looking smugly at the both of them. ‘And I’m guessing the spoon you’re holding in your hand.’ ‘No and no’, came his swift retort. An argument ensued, with Gilwen declaring he was unfair as he was thinking of nothing. ‘You’re just trying to fool us!’

A low, rumbling chuckle pulled their attention toward Baran. ‘She’s right,’ he said to the boy. ‘Isn’t she? . . . in a way at least . . .’

Cami and Gilwen looked hard at their brother, who stood squirming under their scrutiny; and then looked back expectantly to Baran. ‘Well . . .?’ asked Gilwen, prompting him.

Baran chuckled again, a deep sound that seemed to echo somewhere in the great cave of him. ‘Clever cub!’ he said, winking at Isilmir. He grasped his towel and fanned them briskly. ‘The towel!’ screeched Cami, clapping her hands at having guessed. Her face fell when he shook his head and patted her on the head. ‘Nay, little one . . . it’s “air”.’

Isilmir’s face split into a wide grin. Seeing the look on his twin’s face, he jumped down from the stepping stool and ran for the door. Cries of, ‘You cheated!’ followed him as did his two sisters.

Baran lowered himself onto one of the chairs at the table. It creaked a bit, but being of sturdy build, it held. Pio held the scroll up to him. ‘It is unclear, is it not – whether this dragon is maenwaith or simply a dragon of some sort which associates itself with these olive skinned men.’ She rubbed the back of her neck and frowned. ‘Of course, there is your tale of skinchangers becoming dragons – their leaders, that is.’ An incongruous picture of a silver and black dragon flew through her thoughts, a lopsided crown on her head. Chuffing frantically as her great wings flapped, the dragon could not escape her “followers” . . . Tucking the absurd image away for now, Pio’s attention snapped back to Baran. She’d watched him through dinner, as he interacted with the children and with her, and sensed nothing hidden away . . . perhaps he could be trusted, to a point.

‘Make yourself a mug of tea, if you wish . . . and one for me also, if you please.’ She waved her hand in the direction of the kettle and the small crock that held the tea leaves, as she stood up. ‘Over there is the tea pot, and the mugs, as you know, are in that cupboard. I will be back soon. I just want to find my letters from Bird, and maps I have.’ She shook her head slightly at him before she turned to go. ‘Though I am afraid you may be somewhat disappointed with what I have to offer you . . .

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Surinen

Their work done and the well finished, Narayad and Surinen relaxed in the shelter of the small tent. It was the only manmade shape, along with the well, that could be faintly seen under that portion of the night sky, two black anomalies in a black and deserted landscape that lay quite far from the Eagle Clan's present encampment. And the outriders’ voices sounded small, lost in the vast expanse around them. Only the scrub betrayed that another form of life might exist in the dim light, under the watch of numerous stars.


It was a well-practiced habit of Ayar to send her outriders ahead, checking on the situation of the next camp, and along their route. It had been on one of these expeditions that the collapsed well had been discovered, long before their full numbers descended on this fragile place. And a fortunate practice it had proved on more than one occasion.


And while there where other places to find water, all sources must be kept in working order to sustain them as they passed though, moving in search of the subsistence for themselves and their animals. Even a well that produced a little helped to support some few of them. And there was no knowing, at anytime they might be scattered and forced to depend on these lesser-known and less dependable supplies. And so the wait began. It might take a single night; it might take several for the water to slowly find its way into their newly dug work. All they could do was wait so that they might know what to expect of it in the future.


Narayad was anxious, as he usually was during this interval. He had a keen sense for finding water, but Surinen knew his friend would not be at ease until the water was seen to be rising up the sides. He had witness the transformation several times over the years, as the water either arrived early or late, but always arrived, and his friend’s spirits rose with it.


Surinen, on the other hand, was weary as Narayad rattled on, and taking a deep breath he tried to stay awake. It would be a long night, he thought to himself as he tried to focus on what Narayad was speaking of and realized he had no idea what it might be. His thoughts had wandered once again.
Something about his sister? He was asking a question. What had he asked?


“Mirya? She is well from what my father mentioned. But I know little more than that,” he said devoid of emotion, not wishing to give Narayad the satisfaction of seeing him ruffled. It was an untidy spot in his life, this conflict between siblings, and one that didn’t show much hope of a resolution. His friend knew that. Why did he have to brooch the subject with him and not with the gossips, for wouldn’t they talk of it more readily?


Narayad began speaking again, but Surinen was far away remembering the day he had chased his sister away, a flitting lark high above the desert. Suddenly he saw a Raven flying also, chased by songbirds. It landed on the side of the new well in the afternoon sun. Surinen went to draw water for the birds, but the raven had fallen into the well, and only the songbirds remained sitting on the rim. Peering inside, there was nothing there, no bird could be seen and no water also, but looking up an eagle glided high in the air above. How strange for Narayad to have dug a dry well, he thought amidst his dreaming. “Only a little water is there,” he heard Narayad’s voice announce softly. “Soon,” he replied. “It will arrive soon.”

[Ealasaide]

The coffee merchant was beginning to wear on Airefalas' patience. For one thing he stood too close to Airefalas for the northerner's comfort, placing his face within inches of Airefalas' nose when he spoke. For another thing, his breath stank. To top things off, his merchandise was of questionable quality, while being offered - very stubbornly - at an extremely inflated price. Feeling a touch nauseated from the man's rancid breath, Airefalas tried for about the tenth time to break away, but found himself blocked yet again. Clinching the muscles in his jaw, he was just about to reach out and physically put the man out of his way when he noticed a very richly dressed Umbarian youth watching him. When he saw that Airefalas had noticed him, the young man smiled infectiously. Hoping to unload the obnoxious coffee merchant on to him, Airefalas grinned back.

"Do you wish to buy coffee?" he asked, trying hard to keep the irritation out of his voice. He almost added, please, but in the end just raised his eyebrows hopefully.

"No," answered the youth. "I am not a trader, but I am eager to speak to you and learn more about your home. Tell me, are there mountains there?"

"Yes!" answered Airefalas with a little more enthusiasm than the question warranted. He edged quickly around the coffee merchant, who had dropped back a step out of deference to the newcomer. Gesturing with a nod for the obviously well-born young man to accompany him, Airefalas moved swiftly out of the range of the coffee merchant. When he thought he had reached a safe enough distance, he snagged a glass of red wine from a passing servant's tray and turned his attention back to the boy. He let out a deep breath.

"Yes, Gondor is quite mountainous in the north and the area around Minas Tirith, where I come from," he answered. "In fact, the White City itself is cut out of the side of a mountain. Why do you ask? Do you come from the mountains?"

"I am fond of mountains," answered the young man rather evasively. "And Minas Tirith," he continued. "Is it a great city? As great as Umbar?"

"Every bit as great as Umbar," answered Airefalas. "Greater, if you will pardon a man's affection for his homeland." He smiled at the young Umbarian and watched as he mulled the last bit over. Airefalas went on: "Minas Tirith hasn't the heat or dust of Umbar. On a clear morning, the spires of the citadel sparkle."

"I should like to see that someday," said the youth. "I am named Tinar, by the way. And you are...?"

"Airefalas, First Mate of the Lonely Star." He gestured vaguely in the direction in which he had last seen Mithadan. "My captain, Mithadan, is here somewhere."

"Yes, I saw him," answered Tinar. "I should like to meet him, too, before the evening is up. But for the moment -" he bowed politely "- I am pleased to meet you."

Bowing in his turn, Airefalas grinned. "Not nearly so pleased as I am to meet you. I shall be forever in your debt for your timely appearance at that pestilential coffeeman's booth. If he comes at me again, I think I shall be obliged to kill him." Seeing Tinar's shocked expression, Airefalas winked at him. "Either that or kill myself. One of the two. I don't think I could bear another session with him."

Seeing the joke, Tinar laughed. "Yes, he was a bit rank. Now, what you were saying about the citadel..."

From there the conversation returned to the topic of Gondor and Minas Tirith. Airefalas found the boy curious and very bright, asking all sorts of questions, some of which had never even occurred to him. He felt a bit uncomfortable talking so much about his homeland to someone who had been until recently - and possibly could still be - considered the enemy. With that in mind, he made certain to reveal nothing that wasn't ancient history or couldn't be learned from the deck of a ship on the Anduin, deftly turning the topic whenever the young man's questions grew too probing. Even so, he enjoyed the conversation very much. Finally, when Tinar seemed to run out of questions for a moment, Airefalas decided to ask a few of his own.

"Tell me, Tinar," he said. "Are you a relation of Lord Falasmir? I seem to remember you coming in with his entourage, though I know we weren't introduced at the time."

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 7:17 PM January 23, 2004: Message edited by: Ealasaide ]

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Thorn

Exhausted from his sprint down hill, the desert rat was relieved to find that the journey’s end was at an inn bearing the sign of a crescent moon that lay close to the base of the hill, and not further. As he skirted the building looking for an inconspicuous place to enter – for it did not look the type of place to entertain rodents – he found himself wondering what move the Wyrm had in mind and how might it be frustrated. For the other clans must hear that they need not follow this one who had no regard for the traditions that had kept the people safe though he ages. And they must see that it was possible to resist her leadership, choosing instead the ancient ways of their kind.

The Eagle clan were not a tame people, nor would they ever be domesticated, no matter how tempting a prize might be set before them. Surely they would sicken and die if they were to be penned in a city such as Umbar, living side by side with the unfortunate ones who had not their gift, nor the understanding of it, but endlessly built and struggled to fill this small patch of ground, with the wealth that would some day crush them under its weight. And one cannot easily fly free, encumbered with such burdens.

Yes, the leader of eagles can see far ahead, he thought to himself, and her sight is clear…. Ah, and there at last, I see my way into this promising package! He scurried to where an open gutter ran along the street, and following a narrow trench leading from it, Thorn disappeared under the greenery planted beside the trench, entering the kitchen of the Crescent Moon through a drainage hole in its wall. The whole floor slanted gently toward the dark and damp corner room where he appeared among the dirty vessels waiting to be scrubbed. The floor was slippery as he made his way among the jumble of large clay pots of water lining the wall, searching for the right moment to make a dash for the doorway, and the common room.

But when he finally rounded the corner he saw that the common room stood nearly empty, and a worker was polishing the tiles. Turning away from it, he headed for the darkened hallway, and paused sitting up to sniff the air. She was here somewhere, he thought to himself, but how to find her? Just then an attendant approached, bearing a tray in one hand and a lamp in the other. Thorn quickly hid in the shadows as the man walked by and following him, he watched as he stopped at a stout wooden door and rapped on it lightly. The door opened from the inside, and the guest, one of the Haradrim, sent the attendant away, for he had not ordered food. Thorn could see in the dim light, the room was a sparse sitting room, and on one side of a long low table sat the plain woman he had followed to the inn.

When the hall was safely dark again, Thorn crept up to the doorframe and listened. The guests inside seemed to be discussing some point of business dispassionately in low voices, of which he could hear little of the man’s brief replies and queries. But he did hear the sound of the coins, as the purse containing them was placed on the table. After a long pause the man said, “Who is it that you speak of?”

And clearly as if he had himself been standing in the room, Thorn heard the woman respond, “Ayar. Ayar, leader of the a desert clan.”

Thorn sunk down as if his heart had melted within him. What trap were they constructing? He must learn of it, and go as soon as possible to warn Ayar, for something was being planned against her. And Narika, what would become of her?

Suddenly the scent of danger ran strong in the air, and the light of a lamp reflected on the wall at the end of the hall. He saw the attendant turn the corner, lamp still in hand and in the other a lean and hungry cat. Thorn ran immediately as the cat was quietly placed down on the floor and the lamplight shone in his direction. He must get out. At all costs he had to get out!

[piosenniel]

Rog

Bump . . . thump . . . whump . . . an endless, wheelish litany . . .

‘So much for catching a few winks on the road,’ he muttered to himself.

Rog shifted uncomfortably on the back of the wagon. Despite the stack of folded grain sacks he’d wedged under himself as a cushion, the jolt of the uneven back wheel shot up his spine with a rhythmic regularity. And now his head was beginning to pound. Moth or bird, it made no difference, the ride pummeled him in any form. ‘What a homecoming this is proving to be,’ he groaned as the wheel thumped once more on the packed sand.

Jumping off the rear of the wagon bed brought some relief to his own back side, but now the drifting cloud of sand and dust stirred up by the retreating vehicle made his eyes sting and his nose run. ‘I give up,’ he muttered, sneezing into the folds of his sleeve. Pulling up his hood, he turned his back on the wagon.

He remembered the desert star patterns as soon as he looked up. Above him wheeled the great Drinking Gourd and round it, drawn to its promise of water, were the Bee, the Moth, the Rat, the Lizard. And there, lurking at the edges of the horizon the Eagle, the Warrior, and the Dragon. So bright they hung in the sable sky, unobscured by the sea of trees that flourished in the north or by clouds of those colder climes.

The smells came next as he stood there. Dry, sandy scents with the whispers of night-blooming plants clinging to them. The scent of olive trees from the north and date palms to the east, heavy with ripening fruit. Sharp tang of a desert rat as it scurried from burrow to burrow, marking its territory with its singular scent. And the faint promise of water, beckoning in the dry air.

Now the sounds washed in. The skitterings of tiny feet across the sand. The silken, undulating rustle of the snake in motion. Deep calls of those who hunted in the night and the short, sharp cries of their prey.

The swaying lamp on the wagon had become a small gleam by now. ‘They won’t miss me,’ he reasoned. ‘The old fellow is probably drowsing by now and Qasim will be nodding as he lets his team follow the wagon in front. I can be back before they know I’ve gone.’

His senses surrounded by the familiar, the changes seemed easier.

~*~*~*~

The small, brown bat flapped hurriedly eastward toward the foothills, rising up as high as it dared on its little wings; its large ears paying close attention to any possibility of problems in its path. Had anyone looked back from the departing wagons, they would only have noted the swooping flight of the little insectivore, apparently bent on seeking out his next meal.

~*~*~*~

Even at night, there were thermals that flowed up from the mountains’ side. Wings extended, the vulture caught them, letting them buoy him up as he moved swiftly through them. ‘Much better,’ murmured Rog, as his great wings pulled him along, carrying him to the other side of the hills. Clumsy aground, this form was a lovely one for flight. Built for long lazy circlings in the air, it was ideal for taking prolonged looks at whatever caught his eye.

~*~*~*~

It was a good-sized encampment that did catch his interest. Many tents. And pens, he noted, dropping nearer . . . large ones, filled with the strikingly beautiful horses of the desert . . . smaller ones holding in the flocks of goats, moonlight glinting here and there off their long silken hair. To one side were tethered the imperious ships of the desert, the camels. Wary of them, he gave them a wide berth as he dropped lower - his feathers had at one time been thoroughly drenched by a large gobbet of spit from one of the beasts with whom he'd had the misfortune to argue.

His now bat talons grasped for purchase on a pole of the larger tent near the center of the camp. It was cooler at night and people were awake, taking advantage of the respite from the heat. Around the fire pit, with its small crackling fire, were an assortment of men and women, with children leaning against them or snuggled close in laps, listening to a woman telling stories.

She had a lovely, deep voice. The cadence of her speaking drew him in, and he sidled clumsily across the surface of the tent toward a pole nearer her, his head turned toward her, straining to catch the features of her face. ‘Blind as a bat, indeed,’ he muttered, her profile a fleshy blur splotched by lighter hues of flame and moonlight.

Amidst the shadows of the tent he hoped he would not be noticed. The now small hawk bobbed his red splotched head round the pole, his clear eyes fixing on the storyteller as she moved her hands to emphasize a point. A strong, lovely face, its aquiline features thrown into relief by the flickering of the low flames. She laughed, a clear, ringing sound as the story ended, the voices of her listeners joining hers in chorus.

Rog, ever one to appreciate a good story, though he had not heard it all, let a thin, shrill whistle escape his beak. A dog, one of the many that lay comfortably near the ring of listeners, heaved itself up, lazily alert to the new sound. And one of the children clapped and pointed as the small hawk launched itself skyward in a noisome flurry of flapping feathers . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ráma

By the time Ráma arrived back at the Cat's Paw, the front door of the Inn had already been locked and barricaded for the night. Despite Falasmir's assurances to the citizenry that all was well in Umbar, the streets of the city were still full of danger. It was not unusual for the proprietor of a respectable establishment to bolt his doors at night and reopen them only in the morning.

Leading Kyelek towards the stables where a welcoming lantern still glowed in the window, Ráma placed him inside an empty stall and tipped the man in charge, a burly fellow with arms almost the size of barrels who agreed to keep an eye on the horse until her return. Tonight she planned to meet with Thorn, and ride out of Umbar early the next day, either with Thorn or by herself, returning to her mother and clan.

As she walked down the path that swung around to the back of the Inn, the events of the day continued to weigh heavily upon her mind: Wyrma's presence at the palace and the uneasiness she'd sensed among those attending the reception, a palpable fear that was carefully hidden behind masks of diplomacy and pretensions of trade. Nor did she know what to make of the captain from Gondor who claimed to be close with one of her maenwaith sisters. Mithadan had not said where or when he'd met his friend, but Ráma did not know any of her kin who would voluntarily journey to distant lands, certainly not to places in the far north.

Yet even beyond Wyrma's threat and Mithadan's puzzling words, there was something she found more personally painful. Try as she might, she could not erase the memory of her conversation with Thorn. Rama had known Thorn since she'd been a child; he had watched the twins grow up, almost like the big brother that the two girls had never had. If Ayar had her way, Thorn would become leader of the Eagles when the older woman chose to retreat to private life or journeyed beyond this world to join her ancestors. Sometimes Ráma wondered why Ayar had not brought either of her daughters before the council as possible leaders of the clan. Despite their youth, such future promises were not unheard of. At heart, though, Ráma trusted in her mother's judgement and would accept whatever she said. Still, the girl had reasoned that, at some point in the future, she would stand beside Thorn as his wife, and the two of them would jointly provide for their clan. She had pondered this enticing image so long that she had failed to notice how Thorn's eyes often strayed to her gentle twin Narika whose gift of story and song rivalled even that of Ayar's.

Now there could be no more pretending. Thorn had made his preference clear, probably speaking first to her mother, who had gently suggested he let Ráma hear the news directly from his mouth. Soon the young couple would have their wrists bound together in front of the clan and there would be a great celebration and feast in their honor. And when that happens, Ráma promised, I will be the first to offer the couple whatever support and protection I can give.

Leaving the stables and heading to the rear of the Inn, she pounded on the heavy wooden door, the entrance used during the day for wagons making deliveries to the kitchen. As she had hoped, the massive gate creeked back an inch or two and familiar eyes peered out through the crack. A large woman with tight black curls and skin as dark and rich as mahogony greeted her with a hug. There were few in Umbar whom Ráma trusted, even among her own folk. Too many of her kin had been seduced into giving up their freedom in exchange for empty promises. And, despite her conversation with Mithadan, Ráma had always made a point to avoid outsiders as much as possible.

With Lena, it was different. The woman had come from a tribe of free desertdwellers and had criss crossed the great sands many times, going further to the east and south than even her own clan had journeyed. When Lena's husband and children had been killed during the troubles of some thirteen years before, the woman had reluctantly agreed to settle within Umbar, purchasing the Cat's Paw and acting as its Innkeeper.

Lena was no Skinchanger but Ráma would trust her with her life. They had never spoken of it, but the older woman had once seen Thorn change from a sand rat into his human form. Lena had quietly accepted what had happened and made no fuss about it, keeping the secret to herself, for which Ráma was extremely grateful. Releasing the girl from her arms, Lena looked Ráma up and down, afterwards shaking her head in disapproval and prodding, "What has happened? You look as if you had swallowed a prickly cactus."

"Things are no better at the palace. In fact, worse! Falasmir has taken on a new advisor.....and she does not look to be any improvement over what was there before. And these traders from Gondor are too trusting. I fear they will end up with their throats cut in a ditch unless they are more careful."

Lena looked over at her friend and laughed, "Since when does a desert dweller care what happens to one of the strangers from over the sea?" The older woman continued in a teasing manner, " This one must have a face of extraordinary beauty for you to be so concerned."

"No, he is old," Rama responded without a trace of humor. "He has a wife and three babes of his own, and they please him well. But at least he appears to be a gentleman which is more than I can say of many others in that palace."

"Then I hope his fortunes fare better than you fear." Lena pushed her hand into the pocket of her skirt, and latched onto a small envelope, handing it over to the girl. "This came for you early this evening, after you'd already left. One of the messengers from the palace...."

Ráma thanked her and tucked it inside her belt, explaining that she would be leaving in the morning. She drew out her purse and offered to pay. "There is no charge," Lena quickly countered. "The horse you gave me your last visit will earn you a stay here whenever you need it." Then she looked hard at Ráma and lowered her voice, "I think there is something you are not telling me. But in this city, it is sometimes safer not to know. Please, be careful. And if you ever need help, I am here." With that, the two women parted, and Ráma withdrew to her chamber, unfolding Thorn's note on the table in front of her and reading:

My dear sister-to-be,

Something has come to my attention today which I feel impelled to share with you. For I fear that Falasmir's blind ambitions are about to destroy the fragile peace that exists in this city, and I do not wish to see you in the middle of it. To put it bluntly, Falasmir has stationed two Corsair warships next to the Lonely Star, a vessel from Gondor that stands berthed in our harbor. His intentions are to seize the ship within two days' time as well as all its men, selling the crew and its captain Mithadan into slavery.

While these strangers personally mean little to me, I pity them such a fate. More importantly, when you receive this letter, you must flee immediately for I do not know what further actions, if any, are planned. Do not speak of this thing to anyone, but ride out on your own as quickly as you can. Who knows what else Falasmir has in mind, especially with Wyrma now beside him? I pray that these troubles remain within the walls of this accursed city.

I will meet with you again late tonight. For now, I am off to do a bit of exploration in the palace.

Till later,

Thorn

Ráma flung down the letter on the table, her mind whirling in confusion. Without understanding or knowing what he was doing, Mithadan had approached her under one of the clan's most sacred obligations, that of offering friendship and shelter to those few who have been like a family member to one of the maenwaith. Yet Thorn had ordered her to flee on her own. How could she ignore either command? The girl sat hunched at the table, her head clutched in open hands, as she desperately tried to reason out what tradition demanded of her. She kept gazing out the window and down again at the floorboard hoping to see a small rat or bird made its way into her chamber. But an hour passed, and then two, and there was still no visit from her kinsman.

&lt;font size=1 color=339966&gt;[ 10:27 AM January 27, 2004: Message edited by: Mithadan ]&lt;/font&gt;

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 9:25 PM January 27, 2004: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil

His eyes half closed and drowsing, Aiwendil gazed sleepily at the panoply of stars parading across the darkened skies. A brown bat darted off into the night, spiralling upward, and then headed east towards the mountains of sand. One flash and a whir, a steady beating of wings, and Rôg had flown beyond even Aiwendil's sight and hearing.

A feeling of sadness, akin to envy, swiftly enveloped the wizard. The young man could take off whenever and wherever he pleased, while Aiwendil sat chained to the seat of a bumping wagon. Back on the ship, he had hoped things might be different here. But however he tried, he still could not penetrate the curtain that blocked off his inner sight. Behind that barrier lay the knowledge he needed to accomplish the goal that had been laid down for him.

That would be difficult, since the old man could not even remember why he had been sent. His knowledge of what had come before and many of his other skills had faded away during the long years he'd dwelled in Mirkwood. Yet his outer powers of observation--his eyesight and hearing--had not dimmed. Despite his befuddled appearance, very little escaped his attention. If anything, these faculties had sharpened. For he'd spent endless hours searching for small creatures and birds, seeking to capture their images and engrave them on his heart. They were a small blessing in a trying world. For even when bad fortune befell them, they did not complain or come begging for help. One moment they were here and the next gone, and others of their kind came to take their place.

With Man, it was different. Men had a great deal to say about why they felt they were here, and exactly what should be done to improve their plight. When he had first arrived, Aiwendil had been shocked to see such naked sorrow and want. So many people with so many needs, and each with a dozen different ideas about how to make things better. It was more than he could bear. He had gone off by himself and, without realizing it, began to adopt the same attitudes and behaviors as other Men: complaining about his situation and speculating on how the world might have been arranged differently for his own personal benefit.

In the midst of these reflections, the istar slipped over from a state of waking to that of sleep, his body slumped against the side of the wagon. He saw himself walking down a beautiful path in a garden that seemed hauntingly familiar. At the end of the path stood a figure of authority who hastened to his side, explaining why the istari were being sent, and what they were meant to do. It was as if time had rolled backwards and everything was being played over again.

Aiwendil glanced at Manwe and spoke what was in his heart, "I do not have the compassion of Olórin or the skills of Curunír. My power and wisdom are as nothing next to theirs. I am not suited for this task."

Manwe shook his head and responded sternly, "Aiwendil, I do not ask that you do this thing on your own. Only that you make some effort to help your elder brothers. For many years, you have been a gardener and a tender of beasts. Now, you must learn to teach others the things you have mastered, both in the mending of the earth and in helping them to discern the path of goodness. You are not to do these things yourself, but to teach those about you how to do them!"

Manwe fixed a sharp eye on the Maia, "Do not forget! No man who runs off by himself can teach. You must pay close attention to what others tell you. And until you fulfill these duties, you will not be permitted to return to Valinor." Then Manwe went on and spoke at length about the specific tasks appointed to Aiwendil. The old man strained his ears, but could not make out all the details. Yet a few words came floating up that seemed to make no sense. Something about 'wyrms' and 'eagles' and 'maenwaith' and that eventually Mordor would need a good gardener; there would be no need to rush his return, since the end of time was still very far away.

The rear wheel of the wagon momentarily slipped off the hard packed trail and sank into the softer sand piled up beside the path. Without warning, the wagon lurched to one side. It took a moment for the wheel to find solid ground again. In the meanwhile, Aiwendil was tossed roughly forward, hitting his head on the hooped canvas roof. He was instantly yanked back from the pleasant gardens of Lorien into Harad of the Fourth Age. The istar sat up and wistfully rubbed his eyes, wishing that he could will himself back again to hear more of what Manwe was saying. It was the first time in long years that he'd had a tiny peek through the shadowy curtain and caught a brief glimpse of what lay beyond. Regretting his abrupt awakening, Aiwendel looked about for Rôg and, realizing that he was still absent, grumbled a few sharp word beneath his breath.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 5:03 PM January 28, 2004: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[piosenniel]

Rôg

. . . flap . . . flap . . . flap . . . hack . . . cough . . .

Muddy bells! What had he been thinking, flying so far? And now some chitinous flying form had wedged itself in his cheek. His mouth was so dry he could barely work his tongue to push the offending morsel out. Or at least the parts which hadn’t glued to his beak when he crunched down on the insect in reflex.

‘I need a drink!’

The hawk flew a little lower, looking for a likely place to slake his thirst. He hadn’t been in the south for years. Beneath him rolled the vast expanse of the desert, a sea of blacks and greys under the night sky. Smooth hills of sand and their valleys fled by, breaking up the vast flatness of the land. And here and there clumps of scrubby growths struggled valiantly on the parched landscape.

‘What’s that?’ Rog’s eye caught some anomalous shape ahead. A tent . . . and a round dark hole not too far from it. Blessed be the Great Winged One! His birdy heart skipped a beat as the faint scent of water from the well hit him. Down he plunged, changing, a small dark shadow into the greater blackness of the inviting vortex of scents – water and mud and wet sand . . .

The little bat’s claws found no purchase against the sandy sides of the well. He slid, tumbled, down into the depths, tail over snout.

Splash!

Rog’s wings flapped frantically in the deepening water, getting him nowhere. ‘Slow down,’ he cautioned himself. ‘Just swim like you do in the air. His hands reached forward, curving themselves about a small section of water and pushed his body forward. Several more attempts brought him snout to dirt with the wall of the well. Too slippery by half. He could not climb up nor could he fly up with his sodden wings.

Above, he could hear the outriders’ small, soft voices as they spoke to one another; the sound of them bouncing back and forth against the curved sides of the well. He was growing tired, his little muscles paddling his body round and round in the confined space. With a groan, his human shape returned - the cold of the water creeping along the length of his legs, numbing him to the waist. He dog-paddled to keep himself afloat, looking up to the circle of dark sky and brilliant stars framed by the well’s rim.

‘Haloo-oo-oo!’

Rog’s voice echoed as it rose to the top and escaped into the dark expanse beyond. ‘Anyone there?’ His question was met with an unnerving silence, broken only by the rippling sound of the water as his arms and hands paddled through it. Mustering his hope, he called up loudly once more.

‘A rope . . . a rope would be nice . . .’

[Mithadan]

Mithadan

The questions which leapt to Mithadan's mind as a result of Rama's warnings went unanswered as he watched the young woman's back disappear into the crowd. Her words echoed in his head. Do not trust Falasmir or the woman who walks beside him...Learn how to lose your guards. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. Rama had seemingly confirmed his suspicions. Yet he was here, in part, as a diplomat on behalf of his King and under the protection of Falasmir. How could he respond to these warning without betraying Elessar's interests or insulting the lord of Umbar?

He straightened himself and scanned his surroundings. Why would Falasmir hold such a reception if he intended to harm Mithadan or his crew? Yet there was the answer to his earlier question. His first responsibility was to his ship and the men who trusted him -- his crew. He nodded almost imperceptibly and waded back out into the crowd of traders and dignitaries with his jaw set.

He was approached quickly by a middle aged man. Thin and less well-dressed than most, the trader pulled a length of cord from his pocket. "Captain," he said. "I am Belegas. I have for you a sample of our finest rope, made from the fiber of a vine which grows here. See how strong it is?" He drew a knife and sawed at it. The strands of the cord bent and gave under the blade but did not part easily. "I can deliver to you lengths of rope, or nets if you prefer, bouyed by cork at the edges. Wonderful for fishing. I have hooks of all descriptions as well..."

Mithadan smiled politely. The seafarers of Gondor, of course, had little need to buy nets and ropes from Umbar. He had no nets aboard the Star; his was no fishing vessel... But perhaps... He nodded and withdrew his purse as he began to haggle...

The evening concluded pleasantly enough. Falasmir offered a toast to "future relations with Umbar's brothers to the north." Then Mithadan and Airefalas retired to their rooms to review the invoices and bills of lading they had obtained that evening. Airefalas had done well indeed. Silks, bright cloth, spices, other light goods, all of which could be stowed easily.

"All will be delivered tomorrow?" asked Mithadan. Airefalas nodded. "Then we will visit the Star and have the crew ready to load the cargo swiftly. I want to prepare to get underway. All leaves will be cancelled so the ship leave port at the earliest chance."

"That will be good news for the men," replied Airefalas. "They are eager to be gone and have had their fill of Umbar."

"They are not alone," said Mithadan as he rubbed his eyes wearily. "I will welcome the open sea and to be on our way...safely."

"Surely my captain has not had his fill of Falasmir's hospitality?" Airefalas commented with mock surprise. "And will you not miss the company of Seft and his mates? For our protection of course..."

To his surprise, Mithadan replied with a colorful curse concerning the likely ancestors of their guards. Then he seized a cup of wine and drained it in a gulp before slamming the vessel back down on the table. "May the Valar protect us from our protectors," he growled.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Tinar had listened to Airefalas’ account of his home city with an enthusiasm that went deeper than the mere curiosity he used to reach his goal. When he had impulsively said that he liked mountains, he had surprised himself – his only actual sighting of mountains had been long ago, on a flight with his mother. Somehow, they must have impressed him so much that the memory had remained with him, though he had not realized that until now.

However, that did not distract him so much that he answered heedlessly when Airefalas asked him about his identity. As the youngest of Wyrma’s sons, he had learned early that it was not prudent to reveal all that he thought or knew. His three brothers usually treated him with the amused tolerance that older lions might show a little cub, but he observed the embittered rivalry between them. They sought out each other’s weak points with the doggedness of a hunting hound and used them to humiliate and defeat one another. He would not give a stranger, friendly though he might be, any information which might give him an advantage over him.

“No, I am not related to Lord Falasmir,” he answered. “I am here to visit for a time and come from a people who live farther out in the desert,” he continued rather vaguely. At that moment, he was relieved to see his mother motioning to him to return. Apparently Lord Falasmir was leaving the hall with his entourage. He bowed politely, saying, “May you have a safe journey back to your home; perhaps I shall see it one day!”

“I would welcome your visit there,” Airefalas returned warmly. He watched as the young man was swept away with the courtiers and their Lord, noticing that he spoke with the stern woman. What could their connection be? he wondered idly, but soon forgot the incident.

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

Now Tinar was sitting in his mother’s room, telling her all about the city of the North. He felt a boyish delight at having her all to himself and listening to him so intently. It did not occur to him to wonder why she would be so interested in a city far away that had nothing to do with them. Perhaps she was only attempting to learn more of city life; he knew how important the young desert settlement was to her. And she might be desirous of trading with the Northerners – if they were indeed no longer foes.

When he finally went to his own quarters, he was tired, yet elated after a day that had been more eventful than most that he had experienced before. He tried to remember all that had happened, but soon fell asleep. His dreams were filled with foreign lands, towering mountains, walled cities, and a white-sailed ship…

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 11:32 AM January 29, 2004: Message edited by: Estelyn Telcontar ]

[piosenniel]

Gondor

There was a steaming mug of tea waiting for her when she returned. Pio pulled the jar of honey toward her and spooned a generous helping into her mug. A few sips, enjoyed in silence, and then she pulled the thin leather satchel she’d brought from her room up from the floor beside her and began pulling out the sheaves of papers within.

Some were folded, tied in discrete piles with thin leather thongs. Letters from Bird for the most part, though some were from the librarian in Rivendell – responses to inquiries she had made. Others were loose notes, from research she’d done in the library in Gondor, and from travelers she’d spoken to when she’d visited the docks and the inns near them. Last were the maps she’d copied or borrowed or bought in her search for detailed information on the southern lands.

With each year that had passed, the stacks of letters had grown thinner. Their plan, made long ago on the deck of the Lonely Star, for Pio to research leads on the whereabouts of the Skinchangers and Bird to do the legwork had started with great enthusiasm. Bird had dutifully followed up on the information she’d gotten from Pio and written back often on how it had panned out. And to be honest, all of it seemed to lead only into blind alleys.

Pio smiled, knowing that even though Bird always had tucked in the back of her thoughts her desire to find her Skinchanger kin, her mind was a lively one. And often other more immediate and interesting pursuits would capture it and draw her in different directions.

In the early years, Bird would travel once or twice a year to Gondor, she told him – making her appearance as Auntie Bird to her adoring nieces and nephew, bringing interesting and exotic gifts from the bazaars of the south, and taking her share of the Star’s profits to fund her travels. ‘But in the last two years there have been no visits, and I have received just this one letter from her,’ Pio said, holding up the slim folded paper. ‘It is the one that the Innkeeper from the Seventh Star gave to me when first I met you. Bird writes of growing unrest in Umbar; says she will be lying low for a while. There is no mention, though, of any contact she has made with her kin, or any further leads she has found.’ Pio rubbed the back of her neck, worrying once more, what sort of trouble her friend might have gotten into. ‘I had hoped,’ she said, ‘to have gone south on the trading mission with my husband, Mithadan. And while there to make contact with her.’

To change the subject, Pio reached for the roll of maps and untied them, spreading each out on the table. Most were pen and ink drawings of various parts of the southern lands, some more detailed than others showing landforms and the ever important places in the desert areas where one could find water. Her newest acquisition, the ship’s journal, gave details of the southern coast – coves, inlets, shoals, water depths, and other information of importance to mariners seeking safe passage from the Bay of Belfalas to areas well south of the Havens of Umbar.

‘What’s this?’ asked Baran, fingering a small grayish colored map of some odd material. It was rolled up separately from the maps on vellum and had an odd feel to his fingers as he touched it.

‘Ah! That was a find of mine in one of the less reputable taverns in Minas Anor. An old friend had gotten it from some folk passing through. Olive-skinned men, as I recall, who spoke in a language he had not heard before. They were somewhere from the south and east of Gondor, or so they indicated with maps crudely drawn on the table top. One of them had a very limited grasp of the Common Speech and indicated this was drawn on mumak hide. It was one of the items my friend received from them in payment for meals and drinks.’

Pio untied the skin and flattened it on the tabletop. It was a worn map drawn in now fading blue ink on the greyish colored hide. An indecipherable script in faint red ink edged the irregularly shaped regions drawn within its boundaries. ‘Look at these,’ she said, pointing to the intriguing symbols drawn in black. Scattered about the regions in discrete groupings, were cross-hatched areas. In the middle of each area was drawn a crude stick figure, each with the drawing of a different animal, insect, or bird where their head would be.

‘We could find no one to tell us what this script was or what it might say. And no one who knew exactly where this place in the south is.’ She moved her finger from stick figure to stick figure. ‘These, too, remain a mystery to us. Bird shrugged them off, saying they might only be places where the hunting is good, or might represent outlandish gods of some sort. A wise old fellow we both knew thought that perhaps the Ithryn Luin had a hand in the making of this map. He thought he noted the Tengwar marks for Pallando and Alatar worked in along one of the boundary lines along the edge. He also said that this script, which he could not translate for us, looked to be of the Haradic writing style.’ She shook her head and pushed the skin to one side, near the pile of papers that were stacked in front of Baran. ‘In the end, we decided it was of no use to us. But still, I find it intriguing.’

Baran’s mug sat empty by him as he picked through her meager store of information. Pio picked it up and held it along with hers. ‘I am having another cup. Would you like another mug of tea, also . . . or something of a stronger persuasion?’

[Ealasaide]

As the banquet drew to a close, Airefalas actually felt optimistic for the first time since his arrival in Umbar. With the banquet that he had dreaded so fiercely all day long fading into a safe and rather uneventful past tense, he found himself in reasonably good spirits for the first time in days. Unaccustomed to idleness, he had enjoyed the working part of the evening, dickering with Umbar's merchants, seeing what they had to offer, both in the way of goods and skill at bargaining. Both were, for the most part, not disappointing. Unfortunately, his good spirits were not to last. No sooner had he and Mithadan left the banquet hall than he saw the familiar faces of Seft, Raal, and Mahat, their guards, waiting to escort them back to their rooms. Instantly, his old sense of foreboding settled back into place. Airefalas walked back to their rooms in a stony silence.

Later, after he and Mithadan had gone over the business of the evening, the two of them sat down for a final glass of wine before retiring. Mithadan commented on his eagerness to leave and, without thinking, Airefalas let fly with some kind of sarcastic rip about the guards. Frankly, he was tired of them, tired of Umbar, and well ready to see open ocean again. Apparently, so was Mithadan.

Airefalas’ jaw dropped in surprise as Mithadan responded with a colorful curse regarding the likely parentage of the guards. Then, as Mithadan drained his cup and slammed it back down on the tabletop, he growled, “May the Valar protect us from our protectors.”

“Hear, hear,” murmured Airefalas and drained his cup as well. It was the first time he had seen Mithadan even come close to a display of ill temper since arriving in Umbar and it did nothing to set Airefalas’ mind at ease. In fact, it had been Mithadan’s composure and confidence that all was going at least somewhat according to expectation that had given Airefalas what little sense of security he had. Mithadan’s loss of patience, he thought, was not a good sign. For a long instant, Airefalas frowned at the table top. Then, coming to a decision, he looked at his captain.

“We do have a plan, don’t we?” he asked.

Mithadan, who had been deep in thought himself, glanced up. “Excuse me?”

“If Falasmir decides to spring the trap he’s set,” persisted Airefalas. “We do have a plan for our defense, eh? As it currently stands, we are at his mercy to be seized at any moment. I, for one, don’t fancy spending the rest of my days rowing.”

“I have taken some precautions,” answered Mithadan, not evasively, but still looking as though his mind was occupied elsewhere.

Remembering Mithadan’s instructions to Saelon regarding the purchase of extra lamp oil, Airefalas nodded. “Well, that’s something, I suppose. Any chance of letting me in on it? I’d breathe easier and I’d certainly be of more value to you if I knew what we were about a little in advance. Right now, I feel like I’m sitting in an enemy camp with a sack over my head.”

He reached out and poured himself and Mithadan each a fresh cup of wine, thinking to himself, well, now I’ve put it all out on the table. He’s either got to trust me or not.

[Nerindel]

Korpúlfr

Korpúlfr raised his glass with the others as Lord Falasmir made a toast to "future relations with their northern brothers." If he had not seen for himself the two corsair ships berthed either side of the Gondorian Merchant vessel, he would have believed that Falasmir's words where sincerely meant, but as it was he believed that nothing could be further from the truth , but just what the ambitious Lord was up to he was not Certain. His suspicious nature had initially lead him to believe that Falasmir planned to seize the ship once it was fully laden, but now he was not so sure.

As he had went about the merchants and lords plying his wares and procuring goods for his return to the growing Maenwaith city, he had listened to a great many rumours and suspicions regarding the nature of the Gondorian ship and it's crew. Some of the lords still seemed to bear ill will towards the Gondorian's and believed that Falasmir should never have permitted the ship to berth, some even thinking that it's crew where spies posing as merchants, but most of these lords were young, brought up on tales of the rich land of Harondor that the Gondorian's stole from them, He too had been raised with these tales and lead to believe that the men of the north were greedy power hungry dictators, But if Airefalas was a Gondorian spy then he was a good one, his friendly manner and knowledge of price negotiation had him convinced that the man was a competent trader. But there were a few that believed that trade with the northerner's would be profitable and even he could not deny this, even with his suspicions of the sea captain and his interest in his people. Then there was Wyrma! did the leader of his people have a hand in Lord Falasmir's intent, surely she too could see the gain trade from the north would bring?

Korpúlfr shook his head as he realised he was questioning the validity of his leaders decisions before he even know what they where, looking up from the red liquid in his glass he noted that Falasmir and his party had left and as he looked around to see if Tinar was still present he saw the Gondorian captain and his first mate join their guards to be escorted back to their rooms, it was then that he noted that a number of the servers in the room watched the two men and relaxed as they were escorted away by their guards, "More guards!" he wondered. Walking in the direction of one such server he deliberately bumped into him as he passed, for an instant the server glared at him then remembering his position he bowed low "My humble apologise sir, please forgive my clumsiness." Korpúlfr nodded curtly and continued on as if the incident was entirely the servers fault and that he accepted the mans apology, but the bump had confirmed his suspicions, he had felt a blade concealed beneath the servers wide loose pants and as he looked around he noted that the real servers all gave the impostors a wide berth, this had not been noticeable in the packed hall but as the room slowly emptied he counted at least fifteen such servers, were they Falasmir's men or was there another factor at work, one of the lords many rivals perhaps? No the men had relaxed as the two northerners left in the care of their guards, either they where there to protect the captain and his first mate from those that still bore ill will towards Gondor or Lord Falasmir was interested to find out what the two men discussed and what they purchased during the function.

Draining his glass and handing it to a passing server he decided that whatever Lord Falasmir was up to Wyrma in her new position would already know of it and would be making sure that it had little or no effect upon their people or their planned advancement, but what she might not be aware of, is the Northern captains interest in their people, a matter that did not sit well with the young merchant.

"Korpúlfr are you still here, I would have thought you would have had your fill of the palace by now, I know I have?" Came the jovial voice of his young cousin, cutting through his thoughts.

"Jahr, Just the person! I need you to do something for me!" he grinned patting the young mans shoulder and leading him to the stand were he had been displaying his wares all night. Searching through the piles of invoices and bills of sale, he found a blank piece of parchment, dipping a white feathered quill into a nearby ink pot he began to write a quick note asking Tinar to meet him at his house first thing in the morning, before he made his delivery to the Gondorian ship, telling him that he had some important information that he might find interesting. Then once signed and the ink dry he carefully rolled it up, tying it closed with an iridescent black ribbon and handed it to Jahr.

"See that Tinar gets this at once, then return to the house. I want you to take a message to Hálfr, I will explain more when you return" he whispered with some urgency. Jahr nodded without question and went to deliver his cousins message.

Kórpulfr then turned back to the room, the hall was now all but empty a few merchants and their servants remained to pack up their wares and the palace servants silently went about clearing up the remnants of the banquet. He stopped two passing young servants and offering them a few coppers he persuaded them to help him pack up his things and take them back to his cart. Once the cart was loaded and hitched to the horses he paid the lads and lighting a lantern he gladly made his way out of the palace and back towards his own home where he intended to write a message informing his father of his suspicions, that if any Gondorians did find their way to the city they would be prepared.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ráma:

From the earliest days of her childhood, the thick sands and endless open vistas had molded Ráma’s personality and her general approach to life. The desert was not an easy teacher. With one hand, it offered an outpouring of wild beauty and freedom that those dwelling within city walls could scarcely imagine. Yet, there was also constant hardship and the imminent threat of danger that could challenge the very existence of the clan. When the winds of the storm season howled and great sands swirled across the canyon floor, neither Ráma nor her kin had time to sit and ponder choices. Rather, they had to decide what to do and immediately act.

This night was no different. Within a few moments of reading the note, the girl had made her decision. Although Mithadan’s tale of befriending a maenwaith woman in a distant land sounded farfetched, there was an underlying resonance in his words and voice that reassured Ráma he was telling the truth. Given this fact, her decision was simple. Not even Thorn’s command could tip the balance in another direction. Mithadan had helped one of her people, quite probably someone with great need; she now owed him equal respect and generosity.

What that might entail was not exactly clear. Certainly, she would warn the Man from Gondor of the hidden danger that awaited his crew and ship. Although only nineteen years old, she could use a sword and dagger with finesse and was not afraid to fight against the attacking Corsairs, should that be their best option. If military action failed and the two Men needed to flee to save their lives, she would supply provisions and point them in the right direction so that they could cross the great desert leading to ‘South Gondor'. Beyond that, she was uncertain.

Once the initial decision had been made, Ráma never questioned or looked back, but began immediate preparations for the dangerous road that lay ahead. Her first act was to pound on Lena’s door, enlisting the help of her older friend. Lena agreed to care for Kyelek and to hold two camels in reserve should Ráma need these for flight across the desert. The girl’s own pack sat waiting at the door; alongside it, Lena added bundles of extra blankets and generous gifts of food, plus a number of older weapons that had belonged to her deceased husband and sons. These were plain but sturdy iron daggers and swords that Ráma planned to bring to the Men within the palace, since she guessed that the two travelers had probably left their own weapons behind on the Star.

As the women finished gathering supplies, Lena cautioned her friend to be careful. Ráma nodded her sober assent. She did not wish to be a hero, only to do what was right and manage to survive.

Whatever else happened, the girl wanted to make sure that Falasmir’s agents could not use her to trace their way back to the Cat’s Paw or to the Eagle encampment. She had been especially cautious in her remarks to Lena. Rama trusted the woman without reservation, but she did not trust Falasmir’s agents who might track Lena down and question her. While the girl confided a few sketchy pieces of information, she did not reveal the details of her plan.

To further safeguard the Eagle clan, Ráma thought it best to conceal her identity. She yanked out a silver dagger from her belt, handing the blade to Lena. “Here,” she barked, grimly gesturing towards her hair, “Go ahead. Cut…”

Lena had initially recoiled at the thought of sheering that luxuriant mass of raven curls, but a second glare from Rama prompted her to act. Within a few moments, a pile of black curls lay discarded on the floor. Ráma had changed into the tattered garments of a young male slave, using the ashes from the grate to dirty her face. The last thing she did was to load a small wagon with scrub brushes, water pails, and old bed sheets. The weapons were carefully hidden under a bed of straw and the draped sheets.

When she had finished, she said her goodbyes and hurried out the door into the coutyard. Pulling the old wagon behind her, she disappeared into the maze of darkened streets and alleyways, heading towards the palace.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Surinen

“Halloo-oo! Is anyone there?” came a peculiar voice with a peculiar accent, sounding thin and hollow from outside the tent.

Almost as soon as Surinen realized that he had once more drifted off to sleep, and was pleasantly bobbing at the surface of his slumber, someone pulled him up to consciousness, and that rather roughly. “Get up, get up!” Narayad hissed grabbing his arm. “We’ve company, someone is outside, hurry!” Sitting up, Surinen shaken and bleary-eyed, immediately looped the cord that held his knife over his shoulder and followed Narayad out of the tent and into the open air.

“A rope…a rope would be nice…” the voice reflected rather loudly in the night, apparently from inside the well. Both of the outriders ran over to the rim of the opening and carefully crouching down, peered into the darkness it held. They could see nothing, but heard the unmistakable sound of water and something splashing about in it.

“The water’s in,” Surinen whispered rapidly in the dialect of their people. And after another moment added, “And it looks that you have caught a very large frog already!” Narayad frowned in the blackness about him. It was not a time for jokes and they did not know who this was, only that is was obviously someone from outside.

“Hey there,” the well began again. “If you would be so kind as to help me to get out, I would be most grateful.”

“Ah, a talking frog, Narayad!” Surinen continued, smiling. “Perhaps we should take it back to our lady Ayar and make a present of it. What do you say?”

“Enough friend. What does he say?” The other outrider asked, for he had no understanding of the stranger’s language, but knew that having worked among families who spoke several languages as well as their own mother tongue, Surinen might understand.

“It seems he is stuck,” came the reply, “and is need of our aid. But how he came to fall in our well in this vast desert and without our hearing his approach, I do not know. It is quite puzzling.”

“Halloo! Are you still there?” the man in the well queried.

“Yes, yes! We are still here.” Surinen said suddenly breaking into common speech. “Do not worry, we will get you out.”

“Ah! Thank you.”

“Quickly, running back to the tent, Surinen returned with a long length of rope and his grey shawl thrown over his shoulder. Lowering the one end carefully into the dark he asked, “Do you see the rope?”

“Rope? Rope! Yes, I have it now.” And after a few minutes and a great deal of scuffling and splashing a man emerged, his dark hair the color of a raven, reminding Surinen uncomfortably of his dream. He wondered vaguely what might have befallen the songbirds, and if he had been chased by them into the well. Stepping forward he wrapped the shawl around this stranger to protect him from the chill of the evening air. “Are you alright then?” the outrider asked sincerely, clasping him around the shoulders.

“Yes, I am much better now,” the man replied.

“Very good! Come, come!” he said gesturing toward the tent. “You must take coffee with us to get warm again. Should my friend here look for your horse…er camel?” he said fishing for a clue. He had noticed that his guest had not so much as a water skin with him, and looked tired, but not haggard and so he had concluded his mount must have simply wandered away. “So sorry, excuse my boldness!” he said after the man looked at him as though he had asked him to recite some notably bad piece of Haradrim verse backwards. “It is not my business, is it? Very well. I am Surinen, and this strong fellow here is Narayad.” Recognizing his name Narayad bowed slightly, still looking at the stranger darkly. “We just finished digging the well you fell into today. It is too bad that you had not happened by earlier in the week, and so avoided such unpleasantness.”

“Yes, it was an odd chance wasn’t it? But still I am glad to have had your help, and had I been a little earlier or much later, I would still be in the pit wondering how to get out. I am Rôg,” the stranger said and offering no further explanation, much to Surinen's dismay, he followed the others, walking to the small tent a stone’s throw away.

[piosenniel]

Rog

Rog’s eyes took in the interior of the simple tent with delight. So long, so long, he thought. He loosed the grey shawl somewhat as they entered; the small space was a little warmer than the outside and the chilly breezes were blocked. Surinen lit a small lamp that threw a soft, yellowed glow about the small space as Narayad crouched down to light the spirit lamp for making coffee.

Coffee! One of the many things he missed in his time in the northern lands. The smell of the beans as the man crushed them in the grinder filled him with anticipation. Memories of his mother and sister in the morning, busy about the making of the first light's meal, pulled at him.

‘Sit, please!’ he heard Surinen urge him in the common speech, drawing him back to his present predicament. Rog did as he was bid, wriggling into a comfortable, cross-legged position on one of the woven mats. Surinen and his companion worked in comfortable silence together, and Rog took the opportunity to look more closely at them.

Outriders, he guessed. Seeking a water source for their tribe’s migration. Young men, of a similar age. Perhaps half his age, or just a little older. The one called Surinen looked to be some sort of Haradrim shepherd – loose tunic and breeches, an intricately woven belt at his waist. Across his shoulder on a sturdy cord a curved desert dagger in its sheath. He could just picture him with some sort of staff in his hand, marshalling the flocks. Taller than him, he estimated, remembering the ease with which the man had put his arm about his sodden shoulders. And more muscular. Rog chuckled at this thought, flexing his ink stained fingers. No doubt the man wields weightier things than quills and journals! Narayad, too, was firmly muscled – looked to be the sort that had dug many wells in his time.

A fleeting moment of puniness assailed him, allayed somewhat by the fact that so far they had been quite kind to him.

And their speech . . . Surinen spoke passably in common speech. But between them they spoke one of the tribal dialects. The same, he thought, as he’d heard earlier that night, from the story-teller.

‘Your coffee . . . Rog,’ said Surinen, breaking in on his thoughts once again. With a nod to his host, Rog took the metal cup in his hands, waiting for the others to pick up their own. The steaming liquid made the rim of the cup quite hot, and the three blew their breaths across the surface of the dark liquid in an effort to bring it to a temperature tolerable to their lips. It was an old game he’d played earlier in his life. Offer coffee and see who would or could take the first drink. A test of sorts. One’s quotient of manliness went up if he were first to drink. He saw the dark, twinkling eyes of the two men as they watched him over the rims of their drinks.

He drew in a great cooling breath and touched the rim of the cup barely to his lips, drawing in a mouthful of the scorching liquid and swallowing it quickly. Rog could feel the blisters forming and he blinked his eyes once to drive away any tears that might follow. ‘Good!’ he croaked in a raspy voice, sounding much like the frog he had heard them joking about as they stood at the rim of the well.

‘So, tell me, my good hosts,’ he said, after a moment, in common speech. He sat his mug next to him on the mat. His voice had cleared somewhat, and his curiosity come back. ‘What brings you so far south to dig a well?’

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Hazad crouched in the shadow of a dune and went over his equipment one last time. His blowpipe seemed large and clumsy with its outer casing in place, but to a casual observer it resembled a cheap flute: an added precaution, since this work would have to be done at dusk. He opened the small case in which his darts were kept and counted them again. There were five there, just as there had been five when he had prepared them that morning, and when he had checked them again just after noon. He had coated them with a rare plant venom, slow-acting and just as slow to dissolve, but in the heat of the desert who could tell what might be? He extracted a roll of linen from a pocket and unwrapped a small phial, from which he allowed the merest drops to fall on the tips of each of the tiny missiles. The liquid had cost him a king's ransom, bought from a sardonic apothecary who called it 'the elixir of life'. The man's words came back to him as he worked: 'It brings one to eternity by the long road, sure but slow. I know of no cure.'
Hazad smiled. He had smeared the points of his darts with a many-times lethal dose, but even that would not kill for three or more days. Days of sleepless agony in which he would make his way far from the tents of the Clan of the Eagle and collect his fee.

The encampment was away across two rows of dunes, and he would not approach until the twilight that confused the eyes. He dare not leave it later, since he must catch his target in the open; but to attack in daylight was to invite disaster. As the sun westered he began to make his way toward the perimeter, moving slowly and carefully, freezing at the slightest sound or movement. Eventually he found a good place in a hollow on the opposite side of a dune to the camp. He tested the edge of his dagger and placed it loosely in its sheath, then he sat down and waited for the sun to sleep.

***

As the flames of the sunset died away and twilight fell, a dark figure moved around the shadow of a dune and into the long, pale shadows of the Eagle Clan's tents. They were watchful, of course, but many years had taught him to move in silence, and he had watched the sentries for close to an hour before making a single move. He made for the large tent on which the camp seemed to focus, keeping always to the shadows and avoiding any tent that showed signs of occupation. People still moved around the Matriarch's dwelling and it would not do to be caught. 'The music my flute plays would not be to their liking,' he mused; and his smile was thin and cold.

A number of figures were sitting about a fire near their chief's tent. Some were already drowsing as they listened to the strains of a pipe played by one of their fellows. Keeping his eyes from the fire, Hazad crept to the edge of the group, where several people had fallen asleep. He lay near two of these and watched the open door from which he hoped that his target would emerge. If she did not then he would have to do this again the following night; if not then, the risks would be too great to permit a third incursion. After three days of preparation, he was not prepared to spend any longer in the desert than necessary. 'Show yourself, Eagle,' he thought calmly. 'It is time for your wings to be clipped.'

At that moment she came. Walking between two clansmen, taking the air as he had been told that she would. Many of his targets would vary their routines to thwart just this sort of attack, but clearly this one was taking no such precautions here in her own encampment. He hardly dared breathe as he took out his pipe and the flat box of darts, placing one of the missiles into the end of the tube. They were cunning work: scored half-way up their length so that they would break off, leaving in the flesh what seemed a mere splinter or thorn. The sharp pain they caused was so often thought an insect bite, even by the targets themselves, that sometimes the idea that his victims had been murdered was never voiced. This was the purest form of his art: discrete, silent and unobtrusive; the surgeon's extraction of a being from the world while it slept under the knife.

As he watched, the small group was making its way towards the fire, which was more than he had dared hope. The easiest to kill were those who kept the common touch, for they were often among their people; but he seldom had such fortune as this.
The chief and her companions passed within twelve feet of him, and his dart flew straight and true. He had aimed it at the back of her neck, and it struck only a little lower than he intended. She started, the movement of her clothes dislodging the flights from the dart as Hazad had intended. One of her attendants turned towards her, concern in his face, but she shrugged off the attention. They continued on their way and Hazad's work was complete.

He waited until a group of people left the fire and followed them at a discrete distance, taking care to pick up the discarded flights of his dart as he passed. As they dispersed he made his way into the shadows of a line of tents, and from there he reached the edge of the camp. He skirted the watchers with care, although now that darkness had fallen he was silent and near-invisible in his black silks and satins. He put a line of sand dunes between himself and the encampment and then broke into a gentle run, making for the camp where he had left his horse. He would make the most of the time he had given himself and return to the port. Once he had collected his fee it would be time to move on: he had already been too long at Umbar. 'It is time that I visited my dear homeland,' he mused wryly. It was also time to pay another visit to the apothecary.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 12:46 PM February 01, 2004: Message edited by: The Squatter of Amon Rûdh ]

[Mithadan]

Mithadan refilled his cup of wine and stared down into it as if it might impart to him some insight or nugget of wisdom that he had missed. He swirled the dark red liquid around before sipping at it. Then he looked up at his first mate. He spoke slowly as if testing the truth of his words even as he spoke them.

"I hope that there is no need for concern," he began. "I would like to believe that Falasmir bears nothing but good intentions for us. But the guards and the corsairs and the delays have caused me to doubt him. Yet I can perceive no good reason for him to hold an elaborate banquet in our honor..."

"But...?" prompted Airefalas.

Mithadan nodded. "We are at his mercy," he continued. "Berthing ships of war on either side of the Star and posting guards on the docks is a threat and nothing less. And the girl... Rama, you may have seen her, dark skinned and dark haired, slim and fair enough. She is a trader, one of the desert people. I asked her about a friend of mine who has gone missing in Harad. She warned me not to trust Falasmir and the woman who stood by him. The older woman, Wilma was her name I think. The corsairs alone gave reason for concern. But the warning... she spoke the truth, I could see that in her eyes as she spoke. She believes there may be some threat."

"Is that not enough?" asked Airefalas.

Mithadan shook his head wearily. "It is enough for me to tell Falasmir that we will leave in a matter of days. Our duty to King Elessar and Umbar's hospitality require that at least. And we will weigh Falasmir's response carefully. Also we will leave earlier than we will say. The evening two days hence, I think."

Airefalas' eyes widened and he stood abruptly. "That is your plan?" he said sharply. "To tell him that we are leaving, when the threat is clear?"

"Sit!" replied Mithadan with flashing eyes. "The threat only seems clear. That is my plan if we do not perceive any immediate threat. But if it seems that harm will come with certainty, I have thought of that as well and we will depart less politely."

He rose and took his first mate by the arm, pulling him into the sleeping quarters. Once the door was closed, he outlined his plan deliberately and with great detail. Airefalas nodded as he spoke, but his face remained serious. "Dangerous," the younger man muttered. "Very dangerous, yet I can think of no better way. It will give us at least a chance."

"A chance is the best we can hope for," the plder man replied. "Our ship lies at port in the heart of Falasmir's kingdom. We can do not better than to trust chance..."

[piosenniel]

Gondor

‘What’s ammë doing now?’

The plaintive whisper was hushed at once by a growled shh! from Cami’s right. Isilmir pulled his little sister close to him on the hearth and drew her in near to the fireplace opening. The fireplace in the dining room abutted the small one in the kitchen, and shared a common chimney. With the dampers open, the children discovered they could hear conversations in the adjacent room.

Gilwen leaned in close to Cami, trying to satisfy her sister’s curiosity. ‘She just got up from the table. I think she’s getting more tea for herself. And she asked Baran if he wanted some.’ Gilwen nudged her brother on the arm. ‘Did she put it away?’ she whispered. ‘Not yet,’ he murmured, shaking his head. ‘I think Baran is still looking at it.’ They could hear the faint rustle of paper as some maps were looked at and rolled up again to be stowed in their leather tube.

‘She didn’t notice, did she?’ Gilwen pulled Cami onto her lap, settling her in against her. ‘I don’t think so,’ said Isilmir, a guilty grin stealing onto his face. ‘And you’re lucky she didn’t,’ he added, reaching over to pull at Cami’s hair. A loud ‘Ow!’ ensued, followed by a brief scuffle and a round of hushes and thumps.

‘I didn’t mean to do it,’ sniffled Cami, one fat tear trailing down her cheek. Gilwen hugged her close, glaring at her brother. ‘Oh, it’s alright,’ he said scooting closer to pat her on the leg. ‘But next time, don’t use ammë’s colored inks to paint on her maps.

‘Shhhh!’ hissed Gilwen. ‘They’re talking again . . .’

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Surinen

Surinen watched Rôg closely over the rim of his cup, as it cooled beneath his breath, his eyes glittering in the light of the oil lamp he had lit to better observe the stranger. He wondered who this person might be that had appeared so suddenly upon the very edge of their camp. Where he was from, Surinen could only guess, and of what to do about him he was also unsure. It was against the dictates of hospitality to deny help to someone found adrift in the desert, as this one doubtless seemed. Yet the man, Rôg, avoided saying how he came to be in such a situation. And that presented a problem to the outrider, for times were not as they were in the past, and strangers were no longer as well tolerated as they might have been it times past, particularly if they were not forthcoming about their business. If the outriders were to bring a stranger such as this one back to the encampment, they would risk their people’s existence, and if he did indeed prove a benign presence, than Narayad and he would still have greatly compromised their position. It was a chance that they would not take.

Surinen’s coffee had almost reached the point were he could safely drink it, and he smiled with the anticipation of being the first, when quite unexpectedly their guest took a sip, and with blinking eyes pronounced it good. It was a show of bravado that would not sit well with Narayad, who Surinen saw was already glaring at Rôg and draining his cup fully, shook the empty vessel out briskly afterward as a sign that he wanted no more, before setting it aside. This fellow clansman did not seem pleased, and Surinen’s smile faded rapidly, as he quickly sipped his coffee and set it down in front of him.

“So tell me my good hosts,” Rôg said after a moment. “What brings you so far south to dig a well?”

Surinen shot another glance at Narayad, thankful that he did not understand Rôg’s speech; and who seemed to be harboring an ill temper despite the success with the well. “One must always have water,” he said, “and a place for the flocks to forage. It grows crowded north of here.”

“Of course. What animals do you tend then?” the stranger inquired, seeming to be sincerely curious.

“Oh, many,” Surinen replied, a bit surprised by the question, for most of the desert people kept the same. “Sheep, goats, camels and very fine horses, slight and swift they are, and beautiful to the eye. My people have many of these things.”

“And very fine coffee also.” Rôg said, evidently enjoying his mug of the drink. Surinen leaned across their circle, filling his guest cup again, and reaching around to open a small wooden box containing some stale flat bread, he placed it before Rôg pouring a small portion of a salty powder onto one corner.

“Eat.” he said.

“What is this?” the guest asked, pointing to the bright red concoction.

“Very hot, but good, chilies, salt, garlic, spice. You will be warm, and it takes away hunger.”

Just then Narayad began speaking rapidly to Surinen, asking many questions, most of which Surinen found he had no answer for yet. “Who is this man? Where is he from? What questions is he asking of you? Be careful of you answers, Surinen, for I do not trust this one who wears gold in his ear.” He declared, wagging his finger dramatically as he cautioned his friend.

“Perhaps he is just a tattooist, lost while traveling to some Haradrim ceremony,” Surinen countered, observing the callous and stain on Rôg’s finger, as he gingerly held the steaming hot mug. “I have not yet learned who he is.”

“Your friend seems upset. Is anything wrong?” The guest inquired.

Shrugging off all the questions raining down on him for the moment, Surinen turned he attention to Narayad and poised his own. “What would you have me do with him then?” he asked with a furrowed brow and punctuating his speech by bobbing his head sharply, as he talked. “We cannot take him with us, not all the way back, for he seems overly curious as to why we are here. You know I would welcome any useful suggestions!”

“We could kill him,” Narayad suggested. “And then worry about him no longer.”

“I can not do that,” Surinen said. “Though he is not open with us, I’m not sure that I would be either in his position.”

“Bind him and leave him then,” Narayad offered.

“Perhaps we could lower him into the collapsed well, along with what he would need to escape. By the time he was to find his way out, we would be gone and he could go his own way, having a little better chance then when we found him.”

“This is agreeable to me, but we can’t afford to leave much,” Narayad stated. “A few days supply at most.”

“It is better than nothing. I will give him a full water skin and my rations,” Surinen said nodding to the decorated wooden box. “He will be alright with that for a few days. And hopefully he will have wandered off long before the rest of us arrive. We can ride out again to make sure of it.”

Surinen turned again to his guest, who eyebrows were raised, no doubt, the outrider thought, in anticipation of an answer. “Narayad was asking who you are and were you are from, Rôg. But you have said that you are Rôg, and do not seem to say more. We will not press you, for we are not a rude people, and your business is your own, as is ours,” he said, the smile returning to his face. “Eat!”

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ráma

By the time Ráma made her way through the streets of Umbar and reached the outskirts of the palace, the stars in the night sky were beginning to fade. Already, the servants in the better houses were up and about their business: lighting fires in kitchen grates, preparing and baking the flat bread that formed the staple of the southern diet, and starting their rounds of cleaning and scrubbing, chores that had to be endlessly repeated in a city surrounded by piles of sand. Slaves toting mops and scrub brushes were lined up at the public well just outside the palace, filling pails with water and wearily toting them back inside. A hoard of servants crowded into the public square, not only those of Falasmir's household but others from nearby villas situated in the wealthy sections of the city.

In the grey shadows of early dawn, Ráma had little difficulty blending in with the others. Several of the waiting servants pushed wheelbarrows or tugged at carts and wagons that looked similar to the one Ráma had brought. A guard stood nearby to make sure the slaves did not escape, but he was absorbed in memories of his carousing from the night before and paid little attention to the movement of the servants as long as they stayed within the square.

After filling her waterpail and heaving it onto the wagon, Ráma resumed her place in line and trudged back with the others. The slaves entered the building through a broad gate, walking down a shallow incline that led to the lowest floor of the compound. Here there were no beautiful halls or stunning works of art. The tunnels were black and gloomy. All about her Ráma could see rats, cockroaches, and other vermin apparently attracted by the food that was stored in the closets and larders off the main corridor. It was only a large contingent of cats that kept things minimally under control. These lithe and fierce beasts freely roamed the lower halls within the palace as well as many other wealthy establishments. Adept and devoted hunters, they were not only tolerated but encouraged to do their job.

Intrigued by the sight of so many feral cats, Ráma halted to watch a regal tabby pounce delicately upon a fat mouse and toy with it for a moment before cheerfully devouring the remains. The girl was rewarded with a sharp curse and the flick of a whip about her knees as the guard on duty reminded her to get back to work. Ráma looked away and responded with a muttered curse under her breath, then continued searching for the stairwell that would lead to the main floor of the building. Once she found it, she hurried up to the second floor, continuing through the gilded hallways towards the wing where Thorn had told her that high-ranking visitors were normally housed. She had no trouble finding the right room. There was a circle of soldiers stationed at the door ostensibly for the protection of their guests. Ráma wiped the budding smirk off her face and approached the sentry in charge, gesturing towards her pail and wagon.

The Man dismissed Ráma with a scornful glance, seeing only a young male slave who had come to do routine chores. Taking a key from a metal ring that hung suspended about his waist, he hastily unlocked the door to let her in, preparing to close it again and secure the lock. Before he'd finished, he barked out an order, "Pound on the door when you're ready to leave." Ráma nodded in agreement and noted that it could be some time till all her work was finished, since these Men of Gondor were such pigs. Then she slipped inside.

The girl was relieved to see that she had come to the right room. She recognized a few articles of clothing haphazardly tossed over the back of a chair that Mithadan had worn the night before. The inner door to the sleeping quarters was still shut tight. Apparently, the Men had not yet awoken.

Ráma had intended to arouse them the minute she came into the room. But, first, she took a quick look around. Over on the side directly under the window sat an open travel satchel with a stack of official-looking documents poking out the top. She hesitated, then walked forward and grasped the edge of one of the papers with her fingers, slowly easing it up. She bent down to get a closer look. After all, she was risking her life for these Men whom she didn't even know and, more importantly, the lives of her family and friends.

Like many traditional maenwaith , Ráma was inherently cautious and hesitent to trust her fate to strangers. She pulled out several sheaves of vellum and began scanning the pages hoping to gather more information about who these men really were. From across the room, she heard the slightest noise as the knob of the inner chamber slowly turned. Almost instantaneously, the door inched open and a half-crouching figure slipped through the crack into the room, a Man whom she had never met before. Their eyes momentarily locked as Ráma uncurled her clenched fingers and the papers floated harmlessly to the floor.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 7:34 PM February 04, 2004: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[Ealasaide]

Airefalas couldn't sleep. Shortly after he and Mithadan had gone over the strategies Mithadan had in mind should events take a turn for the worse, the two of them had decided to turn in. It had been a long day and the following day could well prove to be an even longer one. They would need all the sleep they could get. Even so, Airefalas found sleep hard to come by. The air in the room was too still and close. And it was too quiet. He missed the steady lapping of water against the hull of a ship, the chime of the watch bells. For a long time, he lay in the dark, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, listening to the deep, steady breathing of Mithadan in his bed on the other end of the room. Eventually, Airefalas drifted off, too, but the sleep he found was thin and fitful, fraught with dreams. For several hours, he faded in and out of slumber. Finally, as the first rays of sunlight began to drift across the ceiling from the window, he gave it up.

Rising, he dressed quietly, so as not to wake Mithadan. He intended to go into the front chamber to organize the invoices and bills of lading they had accumulated the evening before, but, just as his fingers closed around the doorknob, he heard the quiet jingle of keys. Seconds later, the outer door opened and closed. Someone had entered their rooms. He froze and listened closely, his ear against the crack of the door. For a long time, he heard nothing, then the faintest rustle of vellum. Whoever it was had apparently decided to search through their papers. Tired and grumpy from a mostly sleepless night and having had more than his fill of stealth on the part of Falasmir and his cronies, Airefalas decided that he had had enough. Slowly, he turned the knob and pushed open the sleeping chamber door.

As the door inched open, Airefalas became aware of a young slave boy standing over Mithadan's satchel, his fingers full of invoices. Airefalas slipped through the opening in a half-crouch, his intention being to grab the young man from behind and immobilize him long enough to ask him a few questions. Odds were he was either a thief searching for valuables or a spy searching for information. Either way, Airefalas intended to bring him up short. Unfortunately, just as he was going to make his move, the boy turned. For a fleeting instant, their eyes locked. Several sheets of vellum floated from the boy's hand toward the floor.

Confound it, he's seen me... thought Airefalas, straightening. So much for the element of surprise. He nodded to the boy. "Good morning, mate," he said rather dryly, continuing to edge toward him. "What are you doing? Can I help you?"

The boy said nothing but his gold-flecked eyes dropped from Airefalas' face toward his hands. One of the boy's hands moved stealthily toward a fold in his tattered garments. Fearing a knife, Airefalas leaped forward. He caught the boy's wrist in an iron grip, and, spinning him away from him, caught the back of the boy's neck with his other hand.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 11:48 PM February 04, 2004: Message edited by: Ealasaide ]

[piosenniel]

Rôg

With his right hand he dipped into the box, taking a pinch of the spicy powder, and sprinkled it on the small piece he had broken off from the flat round of bread. 'Delicious!' he thought, feeling the pleasant sensation of warmth burn in his cheeks as he chewed. A trail of warmth spread from his belly with his first swallow, and he could feel the concoction heat his blood, driving the cold from his limbs.

As he bent to take another bit of bread, the one called Narayad began firing off questions to his companion, cautioning him at the end with a wag of his finger to be wary of how he answered Rôg. Narayad’s cheeks had gone red with his speech, and even one who did not understand their dialect could see that his anger was beginning to build. Another bite of the spicy mixture set Rôg to wondering if Narayad had perhaps eaten a little too much of it.

Surinen’s answer was an interesting one – a tattooist. He would have to tuck that away for future use. Though, he had seen someone tattooed once; a barbarous custom he thought recalling the blood that pooled along the line of needle pricks. His stomach began to feel a bit queasy at the memory. Diverting his line of thought, Rôg broke in on his hosts’ conversation. ‘Your friend seems upset,’ he observed. ‘Is anything wrong?’ There was no answer as Surinen continued to speak with his friend.

His eyes flicked from one face to the other – Surinen with his furrowed brow and Narayad with his ill concealed contempt for the ‘guest’. Tribesmen were reclusive, he knew, but he could not fathom their seeming fear, and loathing at least on the one man’s face, of him. He had been gone too long. What was happening here in the southern lands? Lost in this line of thought, he almost missed Surinen’s question.

‘What would you have me do with him then?’

‘We could kill him,’ his companion offered, in a much too rational tone. ‘And then worry about him no longer.’

Rôg’s throat constricted with these words and he coughed loudly, turning quite red in the face. He waved off a brief look of concern from Surinen, pointing to the spicy mixture on the bread as he gulped some coffee. ‘Kill me!’ he squeaked silently to himself. His thoughts were whirling as he sat the mug of coffee down, spilling a bit on the mat with his shaking hands.

Bind him and lower him into the collapsed well, he heard next. ‘And how gracious!’ he thought on the brink of hysteria - they would be leaving him some water and the few stale rations in the in the wooden box. Though, if the angry one had his way Rôg was sure he would be left nothing. Rôg’s eyes went wide at how calmly they discussed the disposition of their guest, his brows creeping high on his brow. ‘Think’ he silently commanded himself, a myriad of unacceptable solutions springing to mind.

It was then that Surinen turned back to him, speaking some words he did not hear, smiling as the phrases tumbled from his lips. The last word punctured the fog of Rôg's thoughts as he stared into the man’s face. ‘Eat!’

Two, or perhaps it was three, pieces of bread later . . . slowly eaten . . . and still he was unbound. More cups of coffee to accompany the mouth drying morsels. His two hosts sat on the side of the tent opposite him and watched. 'There’s only so much more I can eat,' he told himself. Already his stomach was beginning to protest the load he had put in it.

Rôg pushed the decorated box to the side and made to stand up. Surinen and Narayad started to rise with him. ‘Please, don’t get up,’ he said, facing Surinen. ‘Too much of your good coffee. I just need to step away from the tent for a moment.’ He pulled the grey shawl close about him, pushed back the door flap and stepped through, the sound of their voices low behind him.

‘Give him his moment,’ spat out Narayad. ‘Then we will take him.’

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

It was the hissing they first heard as they threw back the flap at a run, lances in hand, a coil of rope looped across the chest of Narayad. To their left, several yards away, stood a large brown bird. Its red, bare-fleshed head wove sinuously as it eyed them, sharp-hooked beak clacking a warning. The clawed feet stomped hard on the grey shawl beneath them, making the fine white feathers of the legs riffle as if with barely suppressed anger. A fine show, except for the fact that the bird was not angry, he was frightened.

Extending his great wings, he stood up, stretching his head toward them. He needed more room for a take off than the now more slowly approaching men afforded him. He wove his head back and forth and hissed once more warning them off. They paid no heed.

And,then, as vultures do when they are frightened, he drew back his head and vomited . . .

The stinking, corrosive, fluid projectile sprayed out, catching the men from the waist down, stopping them dead in their tracks as fumes from the reeking scent assailed their noses and eyes. They dropped their weapons, waving futilely at the wretched stinking cloud that enveloped them as they ran for the well.

His escape now assured, Rôg leapt up into the grey dawn light, his long wings flapping furiously. Taking advantage of the thermals rising with the sun, he soared rapidly back toward the area he thought the caravan might have gotten to. Ah! There it was. His sharp eyes caught the sight of the snaking line from a distance. And there, still at the rear of the slow moving procession was his wagon.

Rôg dropped down rapidly from behind to the rear of the wagon with a thumpingly ungraceful landing. Both Aiwendil and the driver glanced back to see the source of the sound. But there was only the tired face of Rôg peering forward at them, his shoulders shrugging, as if perplexed himself . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ráma

As the stranger reached for the back of her neck and the hateful fingers twisted about her wrist, Ráma felt her body stiffen and freeze. A piercing coldness assaulted her mind. No Man had ever touched her in this fashion. She'd made sure of that, staying far away from most Mannish types, other than the one gentle woman who had earned her trust and respect. Even living and working in Umbar, she'd been careful to keep Men at arm's length, never being alone with them or letting herself fall prey to their tricks and whims.

The thing was that the Races, looking at the maenwaith in their outward form, assumed that they were of the Race of Men. A smaller, "lesser" branch of Men, but Men nonetheless. While this may have been true in a literal sense, it was not the reality her people understood. Oh, no. Not at all. A member of the maenwaith living amongst Men was assuming a form, every bit as much a disguise as if she had changed to a horse, or a rat....or an eagle.

The maenwaith had traditionally stayed safely on the fringes of the societies of other Races, taking what they needed and rejecting the rest. Particularly the Race of Men. Especially the Race of Men. Her mother Ayar had secretly spoken of times long ago when the maenwaith had been friends with Dwarves and Elves, beings whom Ráma had only heard about in stories. Never had she mentioned that Men were to be counted among the ranks of those whom the maenwaith trusted and respected. For Men had ever coveted and taken what they could from the other peoples of Middle-earth: wisdom from the Elves and skill from the Dwarves. And from the maenwaith? Men would take their very being, seeking a Power that resided nowhere but in the very fea of her people.

Ráma could not have put any of this into words. But these feelings lay deep within and determined her response to the stranger's rough handling. There was an element of fear and apprehension that went beyond the merely physical.

Suddenly, something inside of her snapped. A carefully constructed wall gave way and came tumbling down in pieces. One minute she lay inert in the grip of a stranger and the next she was kicking and clawing and howling. The form of a young woman disappeared, to be replaced by that of a large white cat with silky hair and golden eyes. She was a skilful hunter of small things, a proud and independent killer who would brook no interference on the part of Man. Her claws raked gleefully against the stranger's chest, ripping his shirt and leaving behind a thin trail of blood that beaded into drops along the edge of the wound.

As much from surprise as any physical assault, Airefalas dropped the howling beast and stepped back in confusion, his face registering a mixture of disbelief and astonishment. Ráma padded over to the open window, twitching her tail in satisfaction at her newfound freedom. She turned back once to broadcast her triumph by hissing at the Man and arching her back and then leapt gracefully onto the window ledge, considering whether she should jump out the casement and leave these rude creatures behind. Pondering her decision, she looked down and remembered the room was on the second floor of the palace. It was a long way to drop.

Ráma felt her temper cool as she gazed out the window to the ground below; once again, she recalled the reason why she had come. She had a debt to repay to the Captain of the Star. With a wary eye fixed on Airefalas, she imperiously trumpeted an order, using human words that could be easily understood, "Man. Go get your friend! I have something to tell you......"

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 12:43 AM February 06, 2004: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[Ealasaide]

Scarcely a second after Airefalas' hand closed around the back of the intruder's neck, something bizarre happened. The boy disappeared only to be replaced by the hissing and spitting figure of a large, white cat. It twisted in Airefalas' surprised grasp and lashed out with its claws, raking his chest and ripping his clean shirt. Shocked, he let go and watched as the cat bounded away from him and on to the window sill, where it arched its gleaming back and switched its tail. Small florets of blood began to bloom across the front of his shirt. For a long instant, he stared at the cat, perplexed.

The cat, from its perch on the window sill, fixed its golden eyes on Airefalas' green ones.

"Man!" it said very clearly in the common speech. "Go get your friend! I have something to tell you..."

Disbelieving, Airefalas swallowed hard. Then, he shook his head. "No," he said softly. "I am not taking orders from a cat."

Without looking, he threw out a hand and grabbed the nearest thing to a sack that he could find. It turned out to be Mithadan's blue jacket. Before the cat had time to react, he threw the jacket over the top of the feline and bundled it tightly in the heavy fabric. Looking around for somewhere to put it, Airefalas' eyes fell on a large armoire only a few feet away. Opening the front, he shoved the cat inside, jacket and all. Then he sat down against the closed cabinet door. Inside the armoire, the cat began to yowl and scratch like some kind of household demon. Airefalas shook his head and buried his face in his hands.

"I've gone completely mad," he said aloud.

"What's going on?"

Looking up, Airefalas saw that Mithadan had appeared in the doorway to the sleeping quarters. His grey eyes watched Airefalas with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

“Cat?” answered Airefalas rather shakily. Knowing that his voice sounded strained and peculiar to his own ears, he could just imagine what he sounded like to Mithadan. He cleared his throat and tried again. “There was a cat. It’s in the cupboard now.”

“A cat,” echoed Mithadan, moving into the room. “Maybe you should tell me what happened.”

Airefalas nodded. Maybe he should. Maybe he should just get it over with and toss himself headfirst out the window. He took a deep breath. “I couldn’t sleep so I thought I would get up and try to get some work done. But when I opened the door, there was a slave boy standing over your satchel, going through our papers. I assumed it was one of Falasmir’s spies, so I, uh, so I grabbed him.” He hesitated, still trying to wrap his mind around the series of events.

“Only it wasn’t a slave boy or a spy,” he finished lamely. “It was a cat. It’s in the -” he knocked the door of the cabinet twice with the back of his head “- cupboard now.”

“With your blue jacket,” he added before Mithadan could reply. “Sorry. Oh... and it talked to me. It told me to go get you.”

Airefalas knew the story sounded like utter madness. He scarcely breathed as he waited for Mithadan’s reaction and for the sky to finish falling in on his head.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ráma

Ráma spent five minutes caterwauling and futilely throwing herself against the door of the armoire hoping that it would spring open or that the Man outside would change his mind. Despite her best efforts, the door remained fixed in place. There was considerable space inside the massive chest, enough room for the hunched body of a slender young woman. The obvious thing to do was to change from cat to human guise and kick open the door. Under her belt she had hidden a sharp dagger. Ráma did not intend to use it, but at least it was there if this angry Man proved utterly immune to common sense.

Just as her mother had taught her, Ráma projected an image of her human self inside her head, pushing the white cat back into a corner and trying to encourage the other to return. This, too, met with failure. However hard she willed the change to happen, her body remained that of a cat . A frightening thought intruded. What if she stayed a cat forever? Every young child had heard stories about maenwaith who had kept their animal form too long, either out of choice or negligence, and never found their way back to their original shape. But, on sober reflection, Ráma did not think this was likely. The particular gift of Ayar’s bloodline from the earliest days of the clan had been precisely this: the ability to hold form for long periods of time and safely transform back again. She should be alright when the transformation came as long as she didn’t panic.

Ráma could hear the Men talking outside the door. It was cozy and dark inside the armoire and Mithadan’s blue jacket made an enticing soft bed. She would have preferred to sit on the window ledge underneath the warm rays of the sun, but this seemed like a good second choice. Overcome by the typical needs of her cat nature, Ráma curled herself into a ball and fell into a light sleep, keeping one ear cocked to hear the Men droning on outside. If they finally stopped talking and decided to open the door, she would be ready and waiting.

[Mithadan]

Mithadan shook the sleep from his head and repeated Airefalas' words to ensure he had heard them correctly. "You encountered a man, who turned into a cat that spoke to you, so you locked it into the armoire?" Airefalas nodded unhappily, believing fully that his captain would think him a fool. To his surprise, Mithadan began to laugh quietly, before approaching the closet and knocking gently on its door.

"Sir cat," he said, "Are you awake?" He was answered by a plaintive meow. "If I let you out," he continued. "Will you excuse my friend's rudeness and not run off?" After some hesitation, the occupant of the armoire meowed again. Mithadan laughed again. "Before I let you out, I'd like to hear your real voice. Whatever you might think of my companion, you are among friends." Airefalas stared at Mithadan incredulously, then spun around as a voice came from behind the door. "Let me out," came the growl.

Mithadan nodded and opened the door. The cat stood, stretched, and stepped out, acting for all the world as if nothing had happened that it had not planned. Mithadan crouched next to it. "You may maintain that shape if you insist," he said. "But would it not be more polite to assume you usual form?"

Golden eyes looked up at the man. "Thanks to your friend here," it replied miserably. "I seem to be stuck in this form." Mithadan's eyebrows shot upward. Then he stroked the cat gently, eliciting a quiet purr. "Be calm," he continued. "A friend of mine spoke of this once. Just focus on your mannish form and recall that you are not really a cat. Remember your true form."

The animal seemed to waver and melt, causing Airefalas to step back with a muttered curse. In a moment it had shifted and in its place stood a slightly built young man. "Very good," said Mithadan as he stood. Then he squinted a bit and an odd look came over his face. "Rama?"

[Estelyn Telcontar]

A falcon soared high above the sand dunes, its circles now widening, now narrowing. The sun shone relentlessly, though it was yet early morning, and shimmering waves rose from the rapidly warming desert sand. A smaller shadow flew lower over the head of a single observer, and suddenly the falcon swerved down in swift descent. Its talons attached to the smaller bird in mid-air with a thud that could be heard far across the stillness. With a triumphant cry, it circled downwards, landing on the leather-gloved hand of the man who stood watching, his arm raised high.

A moment later, the falcon disappeared and a dark-haired young girl stood laughing beside the older man. Her face was flushed with the excitement of victory as she handed the bird to him. “See, grandfather – I did it!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, little one, you did well,” he said. Holding the starling up so that she could see its trembling body within his firm grasp, he continued, “Always remember this – you are either predator or prey, either you hunt or are hunted. You must choose. Now, what shall be done with your prey?”

The girl stood silent for a moment, contemplating the possibilities. Hesitantly, she said, “The purpose of catching prey is to kill it.”

The man nodded, watching her expectantly. She took the bird from his hands, holding it briefly, then with a quick turn of her wrist, broke its neck as she had seen her grandfather do before. There was a flutter, a shiver that went through the little body, then it lay still in her hand.

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

Wyrma awoke from her dream with a start – she had not thought of her first hunting lesson with her grandfather in many years. Why had this memory come back to her now? Perhaps it was to be a reminder that she should be wary in her dealings with both Falasmir and the northern strangers. She would be no man’s prey, and she would not let her people be hunted, of that she was absolutely certain.

Fully awake now, she arose from her bed and paced the room restlessly, eyes seeing yet heedless of the richly furnished surroundings. Finally she sat down at her desk and unlocked the chest with her papers. She took out the plans for the city - her city, and looked at them, imagining what it would be like when the buildings that were as yet only markings on the pages before her had become reality.

[Mithadan]

Baran

"A glass of wine would be lovely, Mistress Piosenniel," Baran answered. "Red if you have it, though I am not picky."

He examined the map closely as she went to a nearby cabinet and withdrew a bottle. She extracted the cork and poured a cup for her guest. He took it absentmindedly and drained it in a gulp. Her right eyebrow rose in amusement and she left the bottle open on the table. "It would seem that this map may confirm the tale told on that scroll," he commented as he poured himself another glass. He remembered his manners this time and nodded to his host before taking another gulp. "Very well," he continued. "That's where we're going then."

"We?" stammered Piosenniel.

"Yes, we," he answered. "You want to find your friend Bird, don't you." She nodded hesitantly. "Yes, but..." she replied. He interrupted her with an expansive wave of his arms. "Then it's settled! We're bound for the south!"

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil:


By mid-morning, after several hours of rolling forward over the sandy trail, the caravan halted in a spot near a watering hole. This oasis boasted a small stand of date palms that offered some promise of shade and comfort from the hot rays of the sun. Word of the traders’ arrival spread mysteriously through the desert to the nomads who pastured their herds nearby, making use of the waterhole in the early morning and evening. Two tribesmen in flowing robes seated astride a pair of camels quickly made their appearance at the campfire where a light meal was being served. They brought several bundles of fine wool fleece along with many addax hides and horns.

Aiwendil watched in fascination as the two parties bargained back and forth until they settled on what would be a fair exchange for the goods in question. He had never been very good at such practical things. After the men had shaken hands and bowed over the agreement, they sat down under the trees to trade news and share a bite to eat. Catching a glimpse of a pair of desert larks on the other end of the encampment, the istar excused himself and went off to have a closer look. He could see the tan birds hidden behind the patches of scraggly brown grass that grew underneath the palms. They pecked about looking for seeds, intermittently talking to each other.

Aiwnedil listened for a minute and was surprised to discover that he understood their language. He could not remember the last time that had happened. He walked over towards the birds and, not wishing to appear rude, gently knelt down to extend a hand of friendship and assure them he meant no harm. They showed no fear of him. Just ahead in the grass was a tiny nest sheltered within a ring of decorative pebbles. There were four speckled eggs in the center of the nest. Aiwendil smiled broadly.

The male bird seemed quite upset about something that had nothing to do with his own presence. The male chirped over at the female in an urgent, pleading tone. Aiwendil sat and listened to the conversation. Although no real words were exchanged, the wizard had no trouble understanding what was being said.

“This place isn’t safe anymore. Let’s hope the little ones peck their way out and we can be off.”

“You’re sure you saw him?”

“Aye. I was flying inland not far from here. Some fellows were digging a water hole. And there he was, the hood pulled low over his face. There were more of the two-legged ones with tents. He went towards them. May Gwaihir help them all! He is an evil wraith. And if he came once, he will come again. It is always so. Who knows if even this is a safe place?”

“Do you know his name?” Aiwendil interrupted. “That which he uses among his kind?”

“I do not know what he goes by among the two-leggeds. But the creatures of the sand call him ‘Shadow of Death’. Wherever he goes, death follows.” The female lark hopped forward and hovered protectively over her small nest.

Then the two birds retreated deeper into the grasses and refused to talk or show themselves. Glancing back over his shoulder, Aiwendil viewed the stooping form of Róg standing perfectly still no more than ten paces distant.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Surinen

Surinen and Narayad had spent the early morning hours shivering in the dawn, as they waited for their clothes to dry in the chill parching breeze, the acrid odor of the vulture’s spew still clinging to their campsite despite their prompt attention to its removal from themselves. Surinen had experienced this stench only once before and found himself remembering startling just such a bird during lambing season many years ago. The great hulk had settled itself down upon a stillborn and was frightening the ewes. Surinen, with youthful inexperience had taken it upon himself to shoo away the intruder, but found himself pelted with large rank grey and brown pellets, that unmistakable smell permeating even his reverie. But on that day, the pellets had consisted of fur and bones, and this vulture, though emitting the same perfume, had bobbed its head and retched (with amazing accuracy) bread and coffee and insects. Not standard fare for carrion foul. And there was no mistaking it, between the vulture’s stomach contents, the shawl it had so thoughtlessly soiled, and the conspicuous absence of their “guest”, either Rôg was indeed the bird or had been recently consumed by the same. In any case it appeared that their guest was a skin changer too, and though he did not appear to be a threat, Surinen was still troubled by his appearance. And even more by his abrupt disappearance.

Packing up the last of their gear while they waited, Surinen called over to Narayad who was lashing the three worn and stunted trunks onto the back of the camel. “The clothes are still cold, but I feel we should leave now. Something seems amiss to me, and I would tell Ayar of our visitor here.”

“I have been keeping a watch for any sign of the buzzard, but have not seen a trace of him once he found the horizon. I do not think he was interested in following us back to the camp.”

“Thankfully so,” Surinen said, “for a do not wish to waste time trying to elude him.”

After all the water skins were refilled with the fresh water of the well, the outriders set off for the Eagle clan’s encampment, heading north and east of the well. Appearing, if one was in the air, as small specks creeping slowly along the ground, but to themselves they seemed as if they were adrift in the vast sea of dust and sand that made up these marginal lands.

[piosenniel]

Rôg

Even in the bright mid-morning’s light, it was difficult to see the little birds. And especially difficult given that Rôg had just awakened from what seemed a very short nap. His eyes felt gritty, and he knuckled them along the lines of his lashes in an effort to clear his blurry vision. It was of no use. No amount of rubbing relieved the film that swam across his sight. He could see the figure of the old man standing a short way from the camp. He was bent forward, leaning on his staff, his head cocked to one side . . . listening.

Rôg watched as Aiwendil knelt near the birds, and then sat down. The younger man moved toward the older, his bared feet stepping quietly over the cool morning sand. He could hear a long series of mellow, churring chirps and whistles. ‘Larks,’ he thought. ‘The old fellow has found a pair of them by the sound of it.’ As he drew near, blinking – his vision clearing somewhat as he walked, he picked up the soft sound of another bird. He stopped, a short distance from the other man, his brow furrowing.

He could see the tan little pair now, almost hidden against the beige background of the sand and rocks, scurrying back and forth, seeking seeds and small insects among the few thin clumps of browned grass. They spoke back and forth, pausing often to answer the third bird. Crane his neck as he might, Rôg could not see the other bird. He moved a little to the side of Aiwendil, looking closely for the bird. ‘Must be one of their fledglings,’ he thought his eyes searching hard on the ground.

Chirr-chirr-chree-chree-chirr-chirr-chirr-chree-chree . . .

It was a questioning sound, he thought. But his ears must have betrayed him. The sound came not from the ground where the birds were, but from the old man himself. Rog drew a little nearer, stooping forward to confirm what he had just seen. He stood still as he could, but his movement had now caught the eye of the female, and she made a shrill, warning whistle. In less than the blink of an eye the pair had withdrawn into the taller grasses.

Rôg stood up as Aiwendil glanced back at him. The old man’s face betrayed nothing of his thoughts, though his eyes glinted with a new brightness, it seemed, in the desert light. Rôg’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed the older man’s face. There was no way to lead politely into the question he wanted to ask. He looked to where the pair of larks had disappeared into the grasses and nodded toward them with his chin.

‘The little ones,’ he said softly, drawing Aiwendil’s full attention. ‘It seemed as if you spoke with them.’ The old man remained silent. ‘What news did they bring, Aiwendil? Will you tell me?’

[Nerindel]

"Meeeeee...wit, mewit, mewit!"

Kórpulfr woke with a start and as his dark eyes adjusted to the dim light, he realised that he was still in his study. After leaving the palace he had arrived home, giving meticulous instructions for the northerners orders to be made ready for morning and that he himself would be delivering it. He had then retired to his private study to write his father, informing him of the northern captains interest, in desert folk and skinchangers in particular, He also included Wyrma's elevated status as Falasmir's advisor, hoping the old man would shed a little more light on that matter, though he doubted he actually would, the man seem to have pledged his loyalty to the Woman and never spoke of what business dealings they had. He had then attended the papers waiting his signature, then added up that day's accounts, were he must have fallen asleep.

"Meeeeee...wit, mewit, mewit!" The same sound that had woken him, now pulled him from his waking thoughts, turning in the direction of the sharp call, he saw a dark chestnut, feathered head impatiently bobbing up and down, its long red forked tail feathers shaking as it prepared to let out another piercing call.

"Alright! I'm coming, I'm coming!" he laughed as he walked over to the window, the red kite leaped of the sill as he pushed the window outwards and with a quick turn it flew through, barely waiting for him to step aside. The bird circled the room before landing on the seat opposite Korpulfr's desk and shifting into the maenwaith man that was his cousin Jahr.

"Well did you deliver my message?" he asked as he closed the window on the grey dawn and returned to his desk.

"I swear to the spirit of the great hunter that a herd of mûmakil could have charged through Tinar's room and still he would have slept through it, but I gave him your message and he told me to tell you he would be here as soon as he could get away." With a laugh Kórpulfr nodded, he knew the young man would have been annoyed by the ease of the intrusion, but he knew that Tinar would have learned something from the encounter, he would be more cautious and sleep a little lighter. Picking up the letter he had written his father, he crossed to a nearby shelf and took a small, leather tube. Carefully rolling up the parchment, he slipped it inside the tube and tossed it to his cousin, who caught it with a concerned frown forming on his olive features.

"It's that Captain and his interest in our kin that has you worried?" Jahr sighed, staring at the worn message tube in his hand. Korpulfr could see the concern etched on the young man's face, he thought of his family and loved ones and of the horror stories he had been told of the greed of men who sought to dominate and control their people, like him the young man saw that the threat was not only from the Gondorian's but from the very people who had almost driven their clan to the brink of extinction, should the wrong ears listen to the sea captains words it could prove disastrous for the Maenwaith city in it's tender infancy.

"Not worried Jahr, merely cautious. Take my message to Hálfr, my father will see to the safety of our people as he has always done." Smiling he placed a reassuring hand on the young mans arm, Jahr looked up and nodded, grateful for his cousin's reassuring words, he then returned to his feathered form, launching into the air then circling the room before grabbing the message tube in his talons and flying out the window, which Kórpulfr again held open for him.

Korpulfr stood at the window for a long moment just looking out on the city envisioning how much better and more magnificent the Maenwaith city would be once it was complete, greater than the great city of Umbar with it's dark places and dark hearted men who seek power only to corrupt and destroy it, He looked not on the dark and perilous slums but on the Palace and the homes of Umbar's Lords, Those who were not driven to evil by chance and circumstance, but those who chose it freely. Like those who had chosen to ally themselves with the shadow and at his askance hunted the great wolf clan till they were all but diminished. His Grandfather had told him how Wyrma and her clan had found them and taught them that the best hiding place was within, but the fierce spirit of the wolf clan made the thought of hiding a hard adjustment, Until they also learnt that the best way to avenge their fallen people was to strike their enemies from within, like a slow poison spreading through it's victim slowly attacking from within!

A satisfied grin crossed his face, for the wolf clan had not hoarded this lesson and had passed it on to others of their kind and for many years they had spread through the Corsairs city, slowly taking over major positions so that when the time was right they would see the great city of the Corsairs fall to it's knees, but not through vast armies and the spilling of blood would this be achieved, but by taking away the cities economical life line, The Maenwaith will take their trade the people will starve and they will blame these lords who sit in their extravagance thinking of nothing and no one but themselves, but just how would they fare when their coffer's run dry and they are forced to live like beggars in the decay of the impoverished city or to run constantly afraid that the many enemies they have made over the years would find them and make them pay for their many crimes.

A loud shrill screech broke the dry morning air and a dark shadow passed over head, leaning quickly out over the window he looked up, but saw nothing. The noise had startled him from his loathing, he had never before realised how deep his wound went till that moment, slowly lowering his head he saw that his right hand was clenched tightly, slowly he uncurled it to see a small wooden figure in his hand, the very figure he had procured from the market the previous day, he had been holding the object so tightly that the image of the wolves face had pressed tightly against his skin, leaving a clear impression on the palm of his hand. Slowly closing his hand back round the figure he pulled it to his lip's.

"Oh, mighty hunter of my ancestors. I'm I wrong to hold to this hatred and to avenge our people, is this my path or do I linger to long in the darkness of my heart." Another shrill screech broke the silence that followed, but he did not look up, instead he took a leather cord from his pocket and bound it securely around the figure, then tied it about his neck, so the figure sat just over his heart. "My duty is to my clan and they want to see their enemies punished , so it shall be!" he said determinedly.

With new resolve Korpulfr went to his room and then when washed and changed he made his way to the houses large dinning hall, with a deep breath and a last tug on his shirt he opened the wooden door's and stepped inside. Around a large oval table that sat in the centre of the room sat traders of various good's and a few others that had been coming to the Korpulfr's breakfast table for many years, but one thing did these men and women have in common they were all Maenwaith, come to discuss the particulars of this days ventures, and to share any weaknesses or opportunities seen in the sea port. As he entered many of the people gathered nodded respectfully, but all waited for him to sit before they commenced with the matters of that days business. Korpulfr listened and watched them all as they discussed, what lords needed what and how they could best out do their Umbarian counterparts and their many thoughts on the arrival of the Gondorian traders as they tried to decide if their trade would be a threat to their plans, all seemingly oblivious to the fact that two war ships flanked the ship call the Star.

But even as he listened one question rolled over and over in his mind 'Why!" why was Mith... what ever his name was asking about skinchangers, what if he was wrong, no he couldn't be! but what if..... Suddenly the door's burst open and in walked an red faced and very angry looking young man.

"How dare you! How dare you send that....." but he stopped as he saw that they were not alone.

"What is this?" he asked with a wave of his hand in the direction of the assembled group.

"This, Tinar is a traders meeting" Korpulfr answered simply, many of the traders recognising Wyrma's youngest son nodded to him respectfully, which seemed to please the fired young man.

"And we are just finished." Korpulfr continued, smiling to his fellow traders, who nodded and began disbanding.
Once alone Korpulfr turned to the young man, "Now you were just saying..." He asked innocently, lifting a pot of hot coffee and carefully pouring two cups.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ráma:

Ráma glanced over at Mithadan and grinnned. Her handsome curls had been cut short, her face streaked with soot and dirt. She was surprized the man even recognized her.

"Yes, it's me. This was the only way I could get in here. And I looked through your papers. I'm sorry. But, if I'm risking my neck for you and your friend, I needed be sure of your story. And your companion didn't exactly give me time to explain." Ráma turned scowling towards Airefalas.

" I'm here to help. You can decide whether to trust me. Right after I returned from the palace, there was a message. Falasmir plans to seize your ship and sell the crew into slavery. I assume he has similar plans for you."

"Can your source be trusted?" Mithadan probed.

Ráma hesitated, "My cousin....he works at the palace. He's been passing on information for years. He's always been right before. But we have little time. He said yesterday that Falasmir planned to act within two days."

She peeled back the rags on top of the wagon and dug inside, exposing the swords and daggers that Lena had given her. Gesturing towards the weapons, she remarked, "Unless you managed to conceal your own, you're going to need these. And these as well..." Ráma pointed towards the tangled pile of bedsheets. "That is unless you two can change forms or sprout wings, we've got to get out of here some way. The last time I looked you had a circle of admirers at your door." The girl paced over to the window and grimly began unfurling the knotted sheets, watching as they dipped out the casement from the second story to the ground below.

Impatiently staring at the two men who stood rooted in place, she snapped, "Come on then. We can talk once we get away. I didn't come here to get us killed."

[Ealasaide]

After telling his tale of the talking cat and the spy who wasn't there to Mithadan, Airefalas waited miserably for his captain's reaction, fully expecting to be relieved of his duties and confined to his quarters for the remainder of the voyage, provided they made their way back to the Lonely Star at all. He could scarcely believe his ears when Mithadan began to laugh. When his captain went on to talk to the cat in the cupboard, carrying on a little conversation with the mewing creature within, it occurred to Airefalas that his captain might be making fun of him. He felt a sharp spike of humiliation at the notion, but the emotion was short-lived, evaporating instantly as a small voice growled from within the armoire:

"Let me out!"

Airefalas startled and spun away from the cupboard door, watching as Mithadan opened it and let the cat out. He suddenly remembered the story his mother used to tell him as a very small boy about the Boggart Trapped in the Butter Churn, and a new thought occurred to him. Let me out. Hadn't the boggart in the story said the exact same thing? Maybe the entire scene was a dream. Maybe he was still asleep in bed and none of it had happened. He would wake up in a few minutes and begin his day as usual. Umbarian slave boys would remain slave boys. Cats wouldn't talk. The world would still be the same world it had been the night before. And the boggart would still be in the butter churn, so to speak.

Furrowing his brow, Airefalas watched as Mithadan stroked the cat's back and talked to it in a pleasant and soothing tone of voice. Without thinking, Airefalas reached up and rubbed his chest where it had begun to sting and itch. He pulled his hand away bloody and remembered the slash the cat had given him that had torn both his skin and his shirt. Airefalas' confusion deepened. The blood was certainly a strong argument against the idea that he was dreaming. Wasn't one supposed to wake up at a pinch? Why not at the slash of five cat's claws? Looking down, he smeared his own blood pensively between his thumb and forefinger. Then, he looked again, more carefully, at Mithadan and the white cat.

Suddenly the cat wavered beside Mithadan and seemed to melt into the air, reforming itself before Airefalas' eyes as the slave boy he had first seen standing over Mithadan's satchel. Muttering a curse, Airefalas fell back a step. This was a little too much. Boys that changed into cats and back into boys again. He had heard of shapechangers in fairy tales all his life but never imagined that they really existed. He raised his hand to his temple where an acute throbbing had set in. But, why not? Stranger things existed in Middle Earth. Why not shapechangers? He had seen his share of oddities at sea over the years, so why not shapechangers, too? He took a deep breath and forced himself to pay attention to the ongoing conversation between Mithadan and the boy-cat. If he wasn't going mad, it might benefit him to know what was going on. On the other hand, if he was going mad, he might as well play along with the hallucination. It obviously wasn't going away.

“Ráma?” said Mithadan, looking closely into the boy‘s face.

Ráma, echoed Airefalas mentally. Where had he heard that name? The world seemed only that much more surreal when he realized why the name seemed so familiar. It belonged to the lovely desert girl he had seen speaking to Mithadan at the reception the evening before. Her beautiful hair had been cropped off close to the scalp, but it was indeed she who stood before them now. He groaned inwardly. Not only had he harassed an ally who had come to offer them assistance, he had also been quite intent on roughing up a girl. He shook his head. Airefalas, my lad, he said to himself. You have had a busy morning.

Aloud, he murmured, “I’m so sorry, my lady.” She did not seem to hear him, confining her attention instead to Mithadan.

She peeled back the rags on the top of a wagon full of cleaning supplies that he had not noticed earlier in all the confusion, revealing two sets of swords and daggers. Still talking, she also revealed a set of bed sheets that had been knotted into ropes. She began to feed them out the window toward the courtyard below.

“Come on, then,” she snapped impatiently. “We can talk once we get away. I didn’t come to get us killed.”

Still rooted into place, Airefalas shot a sharp glance at Mithadan. If they fled now, they surely would be killed, probably before they reached the harbor, definitely before the Lonely Star could slip from her berth between the two black-sailed warships. His immediate temptation was to take the makeshift ropes out of Ráma’s hands and haul them back in the window before they were seen by the exterior guards, but considering the mess he had made of things already, he did nothing. Grimly, he waited for Mithadan to act.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil

Will you tell me?

Aiwendil's first impulse was to turn to Rôg and deny he had learned anything, and that his 'talking' to the larks was nothing more than the wandering vagaries of an old man. But something inside stopped him from doing that. The birds were sharp eyed observers. The lark had described what he had seen, and the story had the ring of truth, the kind of truth that needed to be passed on to others so the Men could protect themselves. And Rôg could be trusted. The young man had earned his respect and gratitude a hundred times over.

Still, he hestitated. He had always honored the bond of secrecy that Manwe had required of him. What right did he have to go back on his word? Then, like the gentle parting of a curtain, came the knowledge that had always been locked within his mind, but which he had not understood before. That day in the garden, Manwe had made him promise not to reveal his identity until the hoped for day when the great danger would depart. But that had not been the end of their meeting. Manwe had continued, speaking of the new Age of Man. In the days and years following, when grey mists and soft shadows still remained to mar the beauty of Arda, Aiwendil would remain across the Sea. And there would be no blanket prohibition on disclosing something of himself, only the usual warning to say no more than must be said.

For the first time, Aiwendel understood that his presence in Middle-earth, however puzzling or unwanted, was not a punishment or the result of some gigantic error. It was something Manwe had foreseen as likely even from the beginning. This was what Olórin had tried to tell him that day in Bombadil's house, only he'd been too upset to listen or understand. He was here for a reason. What that reason might be he still could not fathom. But he felt the first faint glimmer of hope that someday he might actuall understand.

Turning to Rôg with grace and self assurance, Aiwendil spoke as clearly as he could, "I know it is strange. But my people hail from across the great Sea, and they have gifts.....wondrous gifts: gifts far greater than the few I bear. But I can sometimes hear and understand what the creatures say. And what I heard today signalled death and destruction for innocent folk. The male lark saw a hooded figure of evil, one of the two-leggeds, striding in shadow across the desert with hideous purpose in his step. He spied two fellows digging a well and a circle of tents in the distance that were filled with music and story. The evil one concealed himself and continued towards the tents. I do not know what he means to do, but I fear it will not be good."

He looked across at Rôg, wondering if he should say more. Then he slowly continued, choosing his words with care. "I feel that I am being asked--no, we are being asked--to do something about this. But what that might be, I have no idea."

[piosenniel]

Gondor

‘Then it’s settled,’ he boomed out in his deep voice, catching her quite by surprise with his impulsiveness. ‘We’re bound for the south.’

Baran’s dark eyes glinted in the lamplight, and he gave the Elf a toothy smile, reminding her of a predator whose prey is now in sight. For one brief moment, Pio’s smile mirrored his. ‘Ah, Baran! How you tempt me!’ Her thoughts already whirling with plans of what was needed, where she could get a ship, who she would need to crew it, she plunked herself into the chair opposite him and drawing the map toward her made to speak further. But before the words could form, a loud scuffling was heard from the fireplace.

With a knowing sigh, Pio rose from her chair, whispering to the frowning Beorning. She motioned for him to stay seated and keep silent. ‘Little spies,’ she assured him, speaking low. ‘Let me just take care of this.’

The seats of their sooty breeches’ bottoms were all that could be seen of her three inquisitive children as she slipped quietly into the adjoining room. Cami was trying to wriggle in for a better vantage point between her brother and sister. Isilmir had his elbow out blocking her progress as he vied for position. Gilwen, exasperated by the both of them, loudly whispered for them to keep still - she couldn’t hear anything over their racket.

‘Hear what, Gilwen?’ came the clear question from behind the three. Silence ensued, and then they turned their smudged faces to her. Isilmir was the first to stand, rubbing his sooty hands on his breeches in a vain effort to appear presentable. He looked toward his twin, who had also stood and was now bent on examining her toes as they squirmed on the flagstone of the raised hearth. It was Cami, who came running toward her and gave a fierce, ashy hug to Pio’s leg. Her great brown eyes peered up at her mother as she spoke in a tremulous voice.

‘You’re not leaving me here by my own self are you, ammë? Gilwen said you might leave me behind and take them south with you.’ She sniffled once and then continued in her best pleading tone. ‘I wanna go too! I’m not too little! I wanna go . . . please!’ Pio crouched down, taking the little girl into her arms, motioning the other two into the little circle. ‘I am not going anywhere, sweetling. We were just talking and ammë was only playing along in a pleasant fantasy.’ She shook her head at the twins, her half smile cushioning her words to them. ‘Please do not tease your younger sister in that way. It was mean spirited. I would never leave any of you to fend for yourselves. And I expect the same of you for each other. Are we agreed on this, all of you?’ There were murmurings of agreement, sincere for the most part, punctuated by a smug look from Cami to her sister. Pio laughed, saying, ‘You, too, Cami!’ and hugged them all once more, knowing that this would be another admonition oft repeated.

Baran, by this time, had left his seat in the kitchen and come to the doorway. His bushy brows were raised as he heard her talking to the three children. She stood, a rueful smile on her face, and shook her head at him. ‘A tempting offer, Baran . . . but I cannot just pick up and go south with you.’ Her hand reached down to ruffle Isilmir’s hair. ‘A counter offer, perhaps . . . if you are willing. I would offer you the hospitality of my house until Mithadan returns with the Star. We can discuss plans then to seek Bird in the southern lands with him. Until then, I can show you the library in the city. I know most of those who work there and have some privileges in getting into the collections not open to the main populace.’ The Beorning did not offer an immediate answer to her, nor did she press him.

The children were hurried off to a warm bath and their waiting beds. An old, familiar story of sea-loving Hobbits, their little lost island, and the crosspatch dragon with golden eyes who watched over them ushered in pleasant dreams for the three. Pio pulled the quilts up over them and stepping to the doorway picked up the little lamp on the dresser to the left of the door with her hand. Her right hand went to the familiar picture that hung to that side of the door. A worn piece of vellum, now sandwiched between a small sheet of thin glass and the frame which held it.

The Elf’s fingers touched the rough wood of the oak frame gently as she stepped through to the hallway. She had no need to see the drawing; she could trace every line by heart. Near a river, roughly drawn, was a Hobbit family. Five boys, and a little girl. A mother, too, with a newborn baby on her knee. Above them shown a circle of stars. And there at the apex a smudged in figure – another Hobbit, his features not quite seen. The mother was leaned forward slightly, a stick in her hand. She was telling a story to her own little ones, and there, crudely drawn in the dirt before her, was a ship whose mast bore a banner with a single star upon it. Pio smiled as she blew out the lamp, leaving it on the small hallway table.

Baran had gone back to the kitchen and was sitting at the table, a glass of wine in his hand. They sat and talked for a space of time. Then it grew late and Pio, growing tired, wished to seek the comfort of her own room. Lighting a small lamp to lead the way, she showed him to a large room at the end of the hall. ‘You will at least spend the night, will you not, Baran? Tomorrow you can decide what you would like to do. Feel free to wander the house as you will. The pantry is well stocked. There is also a door from your room that leads out to a small garden just beyond it. Come and go as you like; you will not disturb us.’ She nodded at him as she turned to go toward her quarters.

‘If you wish,’ she said over her shoulder to him as she proceeded down the hall, ‘you can come into the city with us tomorrow. I am going to the Library and then the children want to stop at the Inn on the way home. No need to answer now; the new day will come soon enough.’

[Mithadan]

"Wait!" cried Mithadan. He walked quickly over to the window and pulled the makeshift rope back up. "We cannot flee in broad daylight. Our absence will quickly be discovered and Falasmir will send his men straight to the docks. Even if we were able to cast off, our ship would be overtaken quickly by the corsairs. "

"Then you will simply wait to be seized?" said Rama in astonishment. "I thought to give you at least a fighting chance."

"I did not say that," answered Mithadan. "What you have told us we have long suspected. I would attempt our escape under cover of darkness so that the Star will have at least a chance of evading capture." He rolled up the knotted cloths and hid them in the armoire along with the weapons Rama had brought. Then he turned to his first mate. "We will visit the Star this morning and give Saelon his instructions so that all is ready. Then, this evening we shall evade our guards and attempt to reach the docks."

Airefalas nodded in agreement. "We must give the Star a chance to escape whether we join them or not," he said. "The crew is our first obligation."

"You will risk capture through delay?" Rama asked in surprise. "I assure you that you would not enjoy the slave market."

"I do not doubt that," replied Mithadan. "But we have a plan for our escape. As I said, we already doubted Falasmir. You have merely confirmed our fears... that is if your information is correct."

"You know now what I am," she said indignantly. "Do not doubt that my people have ways of gathering information. My cousin entered Falasmir's chambers and discovered a note outlining the plan to seize you and your ship. Because of your friendship with this Bird, I chose to warn you."

Mithadan looked long into Rama's eyes. She did not flinch but met his gaze evenly and with confidence. He nodded grimly. "I believe you," he said. "Thank you. We are in your debt."

"What is this plan of yours?" she asked.

"It would be best if you did not know," Airefalas interjected. "For your safety and ours."

Mithadan nodded again. "Where are you staying?" he asked. "If we cannot reach our ship, we may be in need of help."

Rama shook her head. "I am staying at the Cat's Paw," she answered. "But I am leaving today."

Mithadan took a deep breath. "I know we ask much," he began. "And we owe you much already. But could you delay your departure one night against the possibility that we encounter difficulties?"

[Estelyn Telcontar]

“What was so urgent that you sent a messenger to intrude on my well-deserved sleep?” The words exploded from Tinar’s lips, though he was careful to avoid speaking so loudly that others outside the room could hear them. “I was awake long last night, speaking with my mother!”

Korpúlfr pushed a cup of coffee across the table. “Drink this first, though I do not think you need it to wake up. Now, have you already had breakfast?”

Tinar shook his head, accepting the plate that Korpúlfr offered him and filling it with fruits, meats and bread. He ate with the appetite of youth, and his friend allowed him time to calm down before speaking. Then Kor leaned forward and said, “The Gondorians know of our people!” He watched Tinar, satisfied to see his eyes widen in astonishment.

“B- but how…?” the younger man stammered.

“How do they know? I cannot say for sure, though it seems that they have encountered a Maenwaith somewhere. How do I know? I overheard the northern captain asking a wood carver at the market about shapechangers. When the trader answered that they are only myth, he insisted that they exist in truth.”

He waited for a moment to allow the importance of the information to sink in, then continued, “I have already sent a message to my father so that he can be prepared should anyone find our people out. But your mother needs to know as well. Will you tell her? I will bring my wares to the foreign ship and see if I can find out more. I had thought to take you along, but perhaps you should inform Wyrma as fast as possible.”

“They seemed so friendly,” Tinar mused. “If they were to find out about us, what would they do? Would they be allies or enemies?”

“I do not know, nor do I wish to find out,” Korpúlfr answered darkly. “The less strangers know about us, the better it is for our people. Let us hope that your mother does not trust Falasmir overly much.”

“I do not think that my mother trusts any stranger,” Tinar said simply. “When she hears this, she will take even more care that none find us out.” Wistfully, he looked out of the window to the white-sailed ship in the port and sighed. “You are right, I should go and tell her first. Will you tell me all that you find out at the ship?”

“Of course,” Kor smiled. Both rose to leave, grasping each other’s hands in farewell. As Tinar left the house to walk back to the palace, he looked unusually thoughtful. Already he sought to find the right words for a report to his mother. Would she be angry at the northern strangers?

[piosenniel]

Rôg

The old man was having one of his ‘parting of the mists’ moments as Rôg liked to think of them. They had been few and far between when he had first met Aiwendil – sometimes a certain light would peek through the man’s eyes. Or he would gaze into the distance, a far away look, as if there were something he could see but barely. Something that made his present surroundings dim in comparison. That, at least, was what Rôg surmised when his companion would turn back to him, his face a little sorrowful, his look hazy and muddled.

He had spoken with birds before, too, of that Rôg was sure, and once he had spied him crouched down, his fingers held out to the inquisitive nose of a slim, red fox. The creature’s attention was intent upon Aiwendil’s face, his ears pricked forward as if listening to the murmurings of the man before him. The fox had seemed to nod as the old man stopped speaking, dipping his head in a quick bow, before disappearing into the underbrush with a flick of his silvered tail.

Rôg had not pried into these goings on, only filed them away as part and parcel of his companion’s character. ‘We all have our secrets,’ he reminded himself. ‘And it is no concern of mine, those little things that bring pleasure to him.’

But now, having come south, the old man had become less hazy in his manner, more alert and awake. The curtain of doubt that weighed heavy on his spirit had pulled back for the while, and more of that certain light shone through. He was less hesitant, his words spoken in a firmer manner, the old querulousness less frequent.

Which was all well and good . . . for Aiwendil.

And somewhat for himself, Rôg conceded. A morsel of information about the old man’s ‘people’ had been offered. People with gifts, Aiwendil had said, one of them being the ability to hear and speak with animals. Rôg’s eyes narrowed as he gazed at his companion. Had he missed something? Was this one of the lost ones he had been asked to keep on the lookout for? Was this why he had felt drawn to him and so easy in his company? But, no – the old man had said his people were from across the sea, and Rôg had no memory of that being a place of dispersal. His brow furrowed as Aiwendil spoke on. What other gifts did these people from across the sea have, he wondered, looking at the old man with fresh eyes. So wrapped up in his woolgathering was he, that he barely heard the man make his final statement.

‘I feel that I am being asked--no, we are being asked--to do something about this. But what that might be, I have no idea.’

‘We?’ Rôg squeaked, his mouth gone dry at the inclusive word. He put his hand on his chest, trying to quell the hard pounding that beat against his breast bone. Perhaps Aiwendil meant himself and his people. Yes, that must be it, Rôg reasoned, taking a deep breath. The old man had just now remembered the reason his people had sent him here. And now he was trying to discern how to accomplish it.

The tremulous ‘we’ transformed itself into a drawn out ‘we . . .ell’.

Rôg cleared his throat as Aiwendil gave him a curious look. ‘Well,’ he stated again, this time in a surer tone, ‘I think I can confirm that the places the little ones saw were real enough, though I know nothing about this shadow they spoke of. I must admit it was dark when I left last night, there could have been shadows lurking anywhere. But I did make the . . .,’ he paused, searching for a suitable word, ‘ . . . the chance acquaintance of two outriders last night. Digging a well, they were . . . for when their tribe changed camps.’ He looked to the side for a moment, recalling the awkward time spent in their tent and his rude, though necessary, departure. ‘It did strike me that they seemed quite on edge, and not as gracious as might be expected of desert men.’ ‘Far more guarded and suspicious,’ he murmured as an afterthought.

‘And speaking of tents, I might have seen those, too. And now that I think on it, that was curious also. There was a story-teller, and many families sat about her fire, listening to her old tales. Nothing unusual there. But at the perimeter of the camp, I now recall that there were more guards than is usually seen in an isolated camp, safe beneath the desert stars. And there were guards also that passed through the camp occasionally, nodding to the story-teller as they went.’ Rôg squinted, bringing up the memory of those seated about the fire. ‘They held their children on their laps,’ he recalled, ‘or pulled them close in to lean against them. And as they moved I saw it. When the small flames caught the metals and winked out. They all bore arms of one sort or another.’ He shook his head at the incongruous detail. ‘Weapons, easy to hand . . . there, where they should have felt nothing but safe . . .’

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Thorn

By the time he made it back to Falasmir's palace the sun had already climbed well above the horizon and the grounds were busy with slaves, their watchers ensuring preparations were made for the day. Unfortunately, Thorn would have already been missed at the stables this late in the morning, and he prepared himself for the inevitable confrontations that usually followed such a display of independence in Falasmir's household. Ignoring the pain in his leg, Thorn approached the gate. He had sincerely hoped to pass through unhindered, but a rather large and zealous young sentry of his acquaintance stopped him as he tried to hurry through the passage.

"Were are you going master horse trainer?" the guard shouted, hooking his upper arm, as he passed by.

"To see to the horses," Thorn replied quite simply, looking the sentry in the eye.

"It is a bit late, don't you think."

"Yes, I was detained in town," Thorn said truthfully, though he made no attempt to describe being wedged in a packed storage closet all night, a rather serious mouser lavishing all its attentions solely on him through the small hours of the evening. Nor did he plead the case that this same animal had deemed it necessary to catch hold of his leg as he had squeezed under the door. And in the morning he found he had truly spent overlong as a sand rat and had experienced a rather rough struggle when trying to assume his more customary shape, especially given that the closet had been loaded with bags of new grain. But all his focus now was on requesting leave so that he might return to warn Ayar of what he had heard, and see that Narika was safe, and this without jeopardizing the strategic position of Falasmir's employ.

"What sort business has kept you away from the palace all night, for you have been gone all night, am I not right?"

"I had the good fortune to overhear a conversation, that might interest Lord Falasmir, and wanted to find out the details before asking his leave to pursue it. Unhappily, I fell in with some bad company," Thorn remarked revealing the streaks of brown blood that traced lightly the length of his leg. "I have only just been able to return."

"It seems the horse trainer needs training himself," the large man smirked clapping him on the back. "I would be only too glad to show you how to fight more effectively."

"That may prove worthwhile!" Thorn said trying to appease the guard. "But now I must go speak with Falasmir's steward and face his wrath, before it is too late for me."

"Go then, speak to him if you can discover him! And I will hope to find you later."

"I will look forward to it." Thorn said before quickly distancing himself from the man.

Looking briefly back to the wharf, he could still distinguish the three ships sitting shoulder to shoulder on the water's edge. Nothing seemed amiss that he could discern. The Gondorians evidently were still viewed as the quests of Umbar. Striding down the incline to the lower levels of the palace, he took no small joy this morning in sending the cats gathered there scurrying, as he pondered all that must be done. He must leave quickly then before Falasmir had a chance to spring his trap, when it might become harder to leave without suspicion. If only he knew that Ráma was safely away. Resolving to stop at the Cat's Paw to see if his note had reached her, he entered the broad portal.

It did not take him long to find who he was looking for. Busy after the reception of the previous night, the graying old man was pacing back and forth in a large storeroom with a dog-eared ledger under his arm, sharply ordering the counting of platters and candlesticks, goblets and vases before they were carefully wrapped and returned to their closets.

"Ah, I see you have returned at last!" the man announced distinctly, with evident irritation. "How thoughtless when you know the newly brought horses are awaiting your tutelage. I have a mind to see to it that you are not allowed to leave the premises at all, you impertinent scapegrace!"

"It was unavoidable sir, I assure you," Thorn remarked. "And I hope that this error might be forgiven me for I have learned of the birth of a remarkable colt, deep in the desert. He is already taller and stronger than all his age, and of excellent linage. I had hoped that I might be granted leave to see if it might be purchased for His Excellency's stables, for this opportunity is exceedingly rare. It would be well worth the delay in the breaking of the new steeds if the rumors prove true."

"You leave the grounds all night and are late to return, and then ask leave to go on this goose chase into the desert? I have enough trouble without your abandoning your position or taking your duty so lightly," he said twisting the end of his scanty beard in thought.

“But if you had heard them speak of it, sir! It is if one of what is called the Mearas in the north, had been born in the desert.”

“I mere drunken tale, doubtless”

“No, not so. I came to hear of this in the bizaare, among a most respectable gathering. That is why I am so keen to leave immediately, before some nobleman’s agent acts upon the news!” And so Thorn wove his story artfully, tempting the overseer with a vision of Falasmir's great joy in receiving such a magnificent animal through the old man's foresight in sending Thorn to investigate. And little by little the old man succumbed to the pleasant thought of increasing his own stature in the potentate eyes, allowing Thorn in the end but a niggardly amount of time. But it was all that Thorn required, and he took it with thanks, all the while wondering where he was to find a horse resembling a mearas for Lord Falasmir’s stables.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ráma

Ráma stared at Mithadan and Airefalas and warily shrugged her shoulders, a look of displeasure reflected in her face. Despite their honeyed words, these Men did not trust her. That much was abundantly clear. Had Bird taught them nothing, or were they merely dense? Or perhaps, in the North, her people's customs had altered?

Mithadan had unknowingly opened a tiny door on a culture and people utterly different from his own. He had based his assessment of Ráma and his ideas about the maenwaith on Bird's relatively free and easy ways, essentially not too different from those of Gondor. But the desert folk, and especially the maenwaith of Harad, were wed to older customs and forms. And these older ways of doing things were not always synonymous with those of Minas Tirith, even for citizens like Mithadan whose heart and intentions were good. For the maenwaith there was little middle ground between complete distrust and suspicion, and an open hand given without question. Perhaps a closer equivalent to the maenwaith would have been the Rohirrim from some hundreds of years before when personal ties, oaths, and honorable conduct largely determined what was seen as right and wrong.

When a stranger spoke the words of petition and a maenwaith accepted the truth of those words, a bond was established as sacred and unbreakable as any other oath. Each promised to stand beside the other and not to leave until the task was done. Ráma had expected to raise her sword in defense of the Star till the ship was freed or irretrievably lost. Instead, Mithadan had implicitly questioned her loyalty and the accuracy of her information, as if she was some minion of Wyrma whose only concern was palace intrigue. And now Airefalas and Mithadan were sending her away while they went off to their ship on some secret errand. This wary questioning and concealment of plans was unthinkable among those bound in oath.

By acting like this, Mithadan had forfeited all right to make further claims on her or her clan. She had no other obligations to fulfill, since he had not considered her trustworthy enough to confide their plans. Unlike these outsiders, Ráma knew every step of the city, its streets and buildings, the rich gifts it had to offer, and the pitfalls it posed to the uninitiated. But these Men seemed so sure of themselves that they could utterly disregard that. The young woman scowled: Bird must have had unending kindness and compassion to put up with such people.

Now, having sent her away, he was asking for another favor. By rights, she should turn her back on him. Rama bent down to retrieve her sheets and cart, scowling at the Men and responding coldly, "I have things to occupy me today. I will leave tomorrow before dawn. If you are there, we will see. But I will not wait for you." With that, she turned and left the room.

[Ealasaide]

Airefalas watched the door close behind Ráma, then turned to Mithadan with a look of concern.

"She seems really angry," he said quietly. "If I am to blame, I apologize. I really wasn't expecting an ally to come calling in this vulture's nest of a place, particularly not disguised as she was."

Mithadan shrugged. "At this stage, it can't be helped. I suppose we may have insulted her, as well, by not accepting her offer of assistance right at the moment, but that can't be helped either. We have a responsibility to the crew of the Star to do what we can to see them safely out to sea. Slashing our way through those two warships in broad daylight just doesn't seem like a viable option at this point." He walked to the door and, placing his ear near the polished surface of the wood, listened for a moment to the hushed conversation between the departing Ráma and the guards outside. When it had ended and Ráma had continued safely on her way, he turned back toward his first mate. "I only hope that Ráma isn't so angered that she withdraws her friendship from us. A fair amount of time and distance still separate us from the Star and the open ocean. We may need her friendship more than we know."

Airefalas nodded his agreement. "Too true. I did try to apologize to her for my part, but I don't think she heard me."

"Maybe she did."

Airefalas just shook his head, not entirely convinced that - should it come to a desperate situation - Ráma wouldn't leave him, at least, to his fate. Not that he could blame her. From where she was standing, he knew he must seem abominable, jumping at her the way he had and then locking her in the armoire until Mithadan let her out. And all because she had had the decency to try to warn them of Falasmir's treachery. And, then, to have them rebuff her offer to help them escape. Mithadan had been completely correct in doing what he did, but Airefalas, again, found himself wondering how it had appeared in Ráma's gold-flecked eyes. After all, she had obviously risked a great deal for them. And for what? To be patted on the head, thanked, and sent packing.

"Talk about churlish boat captains..." he muttered, thinking of his own comments the day before.

"You think we are churlish boat captains?" asked Mithadan, having overheard. "Would you have done anything differently?" He retrieved his blue coat from the armoire and, brushing a few white cat hairs from the fabric, hung it over the back of a chair.

Airefalas smiled ruefully. "Yes and no." He shrugged. "Yes, we did behave like churlish boat captains - or at least I did, and I would dearly love the chance to undo it - but, no, there was nothing else you could have done. You made a difficult decision and I feel it was the right one. I just don't think that Ráma quite saw it that way."

Sitting down at the table, Mithadan nodded. "I know what you mean, but I strongly believe that she can be relied upon to do as she says she will do. If she says that she will be at the Cat's Paw until tomorrow, then that is where she will be."

Airefalas nodded. His gut instinct told him that, as usual, Mithadan was correct, but the anger and lack of understanding he had seen in the girl's face as she left still bothered him. He had a feeling that a grave misunderstanding had taken place. He just wasn't quite sure what it was or what to do to remedy it should they meet up with the desert girl again. Following a familiar pattern with himself, he concentrated on his own misbehavior of the morning, thinking of how he might have irreparably damaged relations between them and their much-needed ally. A frown deepened across his face. In a way, it was almost as though she was more cat than girl in the end. If one were to accidentally slam a real cat's tail in the door, there was no way to apologize to the cat or explain that it had been a mistake that would not be repeated, at least not so that the cat would understand. Regardless what you did, from that day forward, the cat would eye you with suspicion, especially when you were "armed" with an open door, slipping through the door as quickly as possible whenever she needed to go in or out, always with that same reproachful look at you as though you were just lying in wait for the moment to slam the door again. He sighed bitterly. If only he could speak Ráma's language.

Shaking his head, he walked back into the sleeping quarters to change out of his ruined shirt. Perhaps it would be better not to dwell on it too much for the moment. There were other matters more pressing that should be attended to. Mentally, he changed tacks.

"I've been thinking," he said to Mithadan, who remained in the next room. "I think I know why Falasmir has been letting us make our purchases and go on about our business as if he intends to let us leave. That way, when he seizes the Star, it will be a ship fully loaded with cargo, as opposed to an empty one." Remembering the fate of the hapless captain who had delivered the Amarantha to Falasmir bereft of her cargo, he knew full well how much the Umbarian lord loved a ship rich with bounty. "It would make a far better catch, wouldn't you think?"

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Surinen

Surinen and Narayad rode to the northeast as quickly as the burdened camel would allow, which was not as fast as Surinen would have preferred. He would have liked to have put a fair distance behind their horses before the heat of the day began to slow them, and wished in vain that they had only the two horses, so making better progress. Among his ruminations he found that he regretted not yet having acquired the mastery of a bird or some other more fleet or enduring beast, which would be of great use in at such times. And so to distract his mind from the slow journey he thought of an eagle, soaring high in the sky, viewing the land from lofty heights, the warm breeze passing over outstretched wings and the desert sun glinting on glossy black feathers. He tried to will his senses into feeling as he thought such a majestic bird might, but after a short while his mind ended up wheeling about, circling in on the vulture that had taken leave of them so suddenly in the night. He could not keep focused.

It was not the first time he had practiced this exercise. He had tried many times before and had yet to feel even the smallest beginning of the humblest of birds present in his being. Apparently it was not to be. Neither bird nor horse nor insect readily overcame his mannish form as he rode through the endless waste, listening to his friend’s monotonous observations.

Narayad seemed oddly enough unconcerned about Rôg and his disappearance. It surprised his fellow outrider that he had so rapidly shut the strange fellow out of his mind, and now spoke only of the success of the well and his return to his new bride. Of the two, Narayad, having only been welcomed into the eagle clan and not born in its confines, should by all accounts have been the warier of the two. For he knew personally of the troubles that outsiders brought upon his native tribe, and had chosen to leave the people of his youth, rather then follow their new path.

In the same way, Surinen’s own sister had left to pursue her own ways without the benefit of her family, and her father and brother were left wondering which road she would ultimately choose, and which path Dinsûl bloodline would follow. For though both his children were of full age, they had yet to pitch their own tents. Mîrya had not found any admirers among the eagle clan and Surinen himself stubbornly refused all attempts to arrange for his taking a wife, until it had begun to be rumored that he had set his heart on someone above his station while he had worked as a servant among the families of the wise. But he, laughing at the notion, and said that it was the untimely death of his mother and the temperament of his sister that kept him from binding himself to another in such a way. And so he would tease Narayad unmercifully for his “weakness”, having not the patience or stomach to listen to him. And so he began to do so again, to help enliven his friend’s conversation and amuse himself along the long way.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil:

Aiwendil shifted expectently from one foot to the other as he heard Rôg describe the desert encampment with its suspicious outriders and ring of armed guards. He had never seen this place before, but Rôg's description touched upon a corner of his mind that had long been buried and forgotten. For the first time in years, the istar was certain of what must be done.

Filled with a longing he did not fully understand, Aiwendil gazed eastward across the ocean of shifting sand wishing that he could take wing like Rôg or the small desert lark he'd met and speedily put the caravan behind him. But he'd had no hint or indication of any of his other skills returning. He'd have to do the best he could with whatever abilities remained. For one moment, he thought of asking Rôg to fly ahead to the camp on his own and warn the desert dwellers. But two things stopped the istar from making such a request. One was the look of concealment he'd glimpsed in his friend's eyes when he'd first spoken of "we". Aiwendil had been trying to convey the idea that both of them were asked to shoulder a burden neither had looked for or expected. But it still wasn't clear how Rôg felt about that or even if he'd understood the message. The other reason for hesitation was his own nascient certainty that it was just as important for him to be in that camp as it was for his young companion.

Eager to end their conversation and be off as soon as possible, Aiwendil interrupted Rôg in mid-sentence with a curt announcement, "I am going there, to the place you have seen. I would prefer we go together. But, if not, I will purchase a camel and set out on my own. The beast could easily carry both of us, or you may wish to travel in some other form....."

Rôg opened his mouth to protest, but the words seemed frozen in his throat. Only this time Aiwendil had physically turned away, once again staring out at the desert. The old man seemed to be talking to himself or addressing someone whom Rôg could not see. There was a moment of muttered gibberish, or perhaps words in a different tongue, and then clear sentences in Westron, spoken with exasperation. "I know there is a task to be done, but what would you have me do? The boy is thick headed. I have explained things as best I can. This won't work. It's no different than before." The conversation seemed to end here.

But underneath, something stirred within Aiwendil's mind as the istar recalled an image from his past. Once, he had spent endless hours with a band of horses belonging to the mighty Oromé. The task had required Aiwendil to show patience of a type that was unusual among the Maiar. He had spoken softly to the skittish mearas and let them understand the feel of a hand so they would not be so frightened when they reached the plains of their new home. Strangely enough, the hesitent scholar reminded Aiwendil of one of these mearas: unwilling to go forward and put a foot on new land, but too proud to turn back.

Aiwendil stepped forward and shrugged his shoulders, "I am sorry, Rôg. Forgive my impatience. I can not expect you to understand or share my feelings. I truly believe we should set out now on our own and leave this caravan. There are people who need our help. But if you do not feel this way, we will wait a bit. Either way, the road will bend around." He looked over at Rôg and smiled gently, lowering his voice, "I do not know what you search for. But, whatever it is, you are far more likely to find it out among these white sands than in the city streets of Umbar."

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Thorn

Thorn wasted no time, and avoiding the stables, left the way he had come nearly knocking over a young slave boy pushing a small wagon of pails and tarpaulins as he came round the corner. Grabbing his shoulders he steadied the ragged youth and dodging him made his hurried apologies rushing on only to be delayed by the sentry once more.

"If you are come looking for your lesson, I can not be spared now, but will meet you in the evening when my relief comes," he said as Thorn approached.

"It may be some time, it seems, before I may benefit from your kind offer, even longer than you suggest. For I have not come in search of your instruction, but must leave as soon as possible."

"Leaving already? That is not a good sign! Was Lord Falasmir unhappy with you, or has that uncharitable overseer dismissed you for your ill-advised dawdling?" the guard mocked with an air of friendly self-satisfaction.

"Neither that I know of as yet," Thorn weakly grinned. "But I have been granted leave to pursue the matter I spoke of earlier. It is of great import to me and I must go quickly, if Lord Falasmir’s guard will but let me pass."

"Than by all means, be off. You know where to find me should you return in one piece! Meanwhile, stay clear of bad company and it should serve you better."

"I will do my utmost," Thorn replied, bowing quickly. And with that, passed through the gate and down the hill outside its doors. It was not unduly far to the Cat's Paw and Thorn ran there, though he felt each footfall sharply along the way. Slowing only as he neared the inn, he thought to stop briefly to buy a small token for Narika to remember him by, for he had not seen her since he had last left for the coast and that had been too long ago. Choosing a bangle of bright blue glass from a street vendor, he slipped it into the folds of his robe wishing that he could purchase salt and raisins also. But having no means to carry them on such a long journey, he settled on the light ornament, before he turned down the alley that led to the Inn.

When the familiar building finally came into view, he saw that Lena was out in the yard sweeping the grounds with a bundle of thin twigs bound with mottled leather, her brow beaded with sweat as was his own. And greeting him by name as he arrived, she said, "You have missed Ráma I am afraid. For she left quiet early this morning and I do not expect she will return, either in an hour or in a week."

"Then she has received my message? It was to be delivered by a young lad from the palace, about so tall," Thorn inquired holding his hand between elbow and shoulder high.

"Yes, that would be the one," Lena chuckled, "And I handed the letter over to her myself. There were no others."

"My honest thanks to you dear lady, for your attention. You have greatly eased my mind."

“Than that is easy enough to do! But ease my mind as well, Master Thorn. Please see to it that your cousin is placed away from danger’s reach. She is too daring I think, for a woman, and though she is clever I fear that some ill-luck might befall her.”

“Miss Lena, you do not know what you ask. Ráma is brave and discerning and though I will always try my best to shield her, one cannot cage a gale, and neither can I persuade her to do anything that she does not see the full merit of. But do not worry, she has wisdom as well, and will not readily put herself at risk. Indeed that is why she is gone today.”

“Than if that is the way of it, I need not trouble you with my poor request, but will content myself with your confirmation of her good sense. Thank you Master Thorn.”

“Do not mention it, but I also must be on my way and would ask some water of you before I go.”

“Certainly,” the woman said, and in a few moments she placed in his long hand a wooden cup filled to the brim. Thanking her he drained it, and taking his leave found a secluded corner adjoining a vacant field.

Placing the bangle in the dust before him, Thorn began emptying his mind of its burdens. With closed eyes he focused intently until his mind swam centering on a single point. The sight within him grew in acuity and his arms in restless, as his toes arched and the sharpness of talons dug into the ground, and opening his eyes again there lay the bangle still at his feet. Taking it in his beak, he flipped it up, the ring of glass sparkling in the sunlight, and catching it around his neck, he moved to the field.

With a few effortless beats of his wings he was aloft, an eagle rising above the buildings, heading toward for the deep desert. But this eagle thought not of fish or mice, but contemplated instead how to talk his friend Surinen into posing as a large colt for just a short time, before he eventually became distracted by the small movements on the ground below and the joy of soaring on the high zephyrs.

[piosenniel]

Rôg

Rôg glanced up at the sun, shading his eyes with his hand. He had forgotten how it could affect the minds of those who were not used to the desert. He kicked himself mentally. ‘I should have known an old man such as Aiwendil would not bear up well under the rising heat! Here he is spouting gibberish . . . and now he is speaking of tasks to be done and bent roads!’ What was he to do? He had urged his friend to come south with him and now Rôg felt responsible for this ‘condition’ that had come over him.

‘Here,’ he said taking his companion’s elbow as he ushered him gently into the shade of a nearby palm. ‘Let me just get us something to drink and we’ll talk about where to go from here.’ ‘Sit, sit,’ he urged Aiwendil, spreading his rumpled cloak he had grabbed from the back of the wagon. Hurrying to the box where the traders kept their cooking and eating supplies, Rôg fetched two mugs and filled them from the travelers’ well where the caravan had stopped.

Aiwendil drank from the mug, his eyes glinting over the rim at his solicitous companion. Rôg, a bit taken aback by the older man’s study of him, cleared his throat nervously and began talking to fill in the pressing silence, his eyes looking everywhere but at the man who sat opposite him. He was feeling as ‘thick-headed’ as Aiwendil had said, and a creeping sense of being exceedingly young and unsure now in the presence of his companion had stolen over him. ‘I have missed something here,’ he thought to himself, unable to stop the flow of words as he babbled on about buying a camel from one of the caravan’s traders . . . and no, he did not think he cared to ride one . . . ship of the desert and all that; too bumpy . . . his stomach lurching dangerously at the thought of it.

‘If you don’t mind,’ he went on, changing the subject from thoughts of the rolling sands of the desert suffered from the back of a swaying, and easily irritated he recalled, camel, ‘I think I’ll just fly along, or sit on your shoulder if I need a rest.’ Birds, he thought should be much like the moth he’d tried on the pitching ship – impervious to queasiness. Aiwendil smiled gently at him, nodding in agreement, as he sipped his water.

Rôg’s palms had grown suddenly sweaty. This wasn’t going the way he had hoped. Once Aiwendil had cooled down and come to his senses, seen the light, so to speak, then Rôg planned that they should once again head toward the city. Get the supplies needed for their trek south to seek out the birds they were studying. From there it would be an easy, unstressed journey into the areas where Rôg had spent a great deal of his young life. Aside from his other plans to seek out his family, Rôg was very much looking forward to showing his companion the birds unique to these southern lands.

And now he found he had somehow committed himself to some harebrained quest prompted by the twitterings of two birds . . . and larks, at that. Little chits!

Taking a deep breath, the younger man regrouped. They would still be going south; that was good. Supplies could be purchased from the merchants in the caravan, along with a camel for the old man. The birds’ fears and their warning of the hideous hooded evil figure would be found less threatening than had been supposed; Aiwendil’s own fears allayed . . . and then they could head south to where they’d first intended. Yes - a good plan, a little different from what he’d first thought they’d do. But still it would achieve their goal . . .

His thoughts attempting to assemble themselves into definite plans, Rôg found himself staring into the water that filled his cup half-way. His hands trembled a little of their own accord, sending the dark reflections of cloudless sky roiling back and forth from side to side. He leaned closer, catching the fleeting image of some darker form that sailed across the surface. The cup dropped from his hands, water spilling into the sand. ‘Get hold of yourself!’ he chided. ‘You’re acting like a google-eyed, one-form youngling seeing his next challenge.’ Rôg shook his head clearing his mind of the image he’d glimpsed. ‘Just your own reflection,’ his more rational self whispered reassuringly. ‘Perhaps . . .’ murmured the niggling doubts that had begun to gather on the edges of his thinking.

Aiwendil had long since finished the water in his cup. He sat bent forward, elbows on knees, chin resting on his steepled fingers, watching the face of his companion. He reached out with one hand and poked the leg of the younger man. Rôg, startled out of his reverie by the touch, stared blankly at the old man. ‘The camel,’ said Aiwendil, his voice scattering the last of the lingering doubts, ‘we’ll need to ask about getting one. And perhaps you can see to getting whatever supplies we might also want.’

‘The camel, yes,’ said Rôg, turning toward the tethered group of surly beasts. They eyed him suspiciously as he stood and walked purposely toward them. For his part, he kept a wary watch on their furiously working jaws as they chewed their cud. One hint that they were annoyed and he was prepared to scramble far out of spit range.

A smiling man in a dark burnoose intercepted his advance, announcing himself the owner of this fine string of camels. A list of the beasts’ good points was ticked off by the merchant, followed by a counter list of faults by Rôg. A price was thrown out, a lesser one offered. Fetching himself another cup of water, Aiwendil returned to his seat on the cooler sands beneath the palm tree’s shade. He settled in to a comfortable position and watched the heated interaction between the two men, words and gestures flying between them.

The haggling had begun; it would be some time before they could be on their way . . .

[Nerindel]

After watching Tinar leave, Korpulfr turned full about and made his way back to his study, where in he stood looking upon the finely crafted Tulwar that hung on the wall behind his desk, contemplating if it would be needed, he did not want to appear hostile, nor that he though his new customers untrustworthy, but neither did he like the idea of being close to so many Corsair's without some form of protection. His hand went to the hatchet in his belt, every male of the wolf clan wore one, he remembered his grandfather telling him that it was an important tool for their people, who were once primarily hunters.

As always when he thought of their old way of life the images would shifted to that of their hunters the hard faced Umbarian soldiers and the painted Haradwaith warriors, laughing coldly as they torched tent after tent, he could still remember the terrified screams of women and children as the warriors dragged them away, he tried not to think about what happened to those taken away! With controlled effort he push the painful memories aside and decisively reached out and carefully lifted the sword from its mount. Taking hold of the ivory hilt he pulled it a few inches out of it's leather scabbard, the sharp blade glinted in the morning light that streamed through the rooms arched windows, satisfied that the blade was sharp he slid it back and strapped it about his waist, moving his hatchet to the back of his belt, he then lifted a finely cut cinnamon coat from the back of his chair and as he pulled it on he gathered up his papers and made his way to the stables.

His cousins Asrim and Hasrim awaited him and their solemn expressions told him that they were not happy with his decision to take the shipment himself, he did not fault them their concerns, he knew they thought of the future and that someday he would be required to take his fathers place as leader of their clan and that he should leave the risk taking to others, but this was not Korpulfr's way, he would not trust anyone else. A wry grin pressed his lips as he approached the older men, "morning cousins, fine day for visiting the harbour, wouldn't you say!"

"I'm glad you think it amusing, Asrim told me about the carver!" Hasrim answered sternly. causing him to shot his other cousin an angry glare.

"He only thinks of your safety!" Hasrim continued,

"I can look after myself, I'm not a young cub that requires the protection of the rest of the pack, I need your loyalty and trust not your concerns!" he retorted, making the effort to control his anger.

"You have our loyalty, but you do not know these foreigners intentions! should they discover us or you what then?" Asrim replied slightly wounded by his cousins rash words.

"At least take an escort!" Hasrim pressed.

"Very well!" he relented, seeing that he would not shift their position on the matter, "Hasrim you will come with me, find me three men to help unload at the docks." The wolf clan warrior nodded and went at once to gather a wagon crew.

"Asrim you will see to the rest of the day's trade and keep an ear, let me know if you hear anything concerning the foreigners and their recent purchases." he said turning to his other cousin, who nodded his understanding then hurried to set about his days work.

As he waited Hasrim's return he rounded to the back of the cart and inspected the shipment, insuring that it had been loaded as per his specific instructions, the spice barrels were at the head with the silk rolls in chests to the rear and all barrels and chests had been branded with the seal of his house, he ran his fingers across the charred wood tracing the wolf's head, assuming that Falasmir's thugs did not too closely inspect the containers he would be able to learn if they fell into his hands and then be able to take measures to have them retrieved. With a satisfied grin he re-rolled the vellum scroll tying it closed with iridescent ribbon and tucking it into the inside pocket of his coat

Just then Hasrim returned with three eager looking young men, who all stood before the cart awaiting his instruction. "We're going to the dock's were you will help to unload our cargo," he told them.

"To the Gondorian ship!" the youngest of the three men asked excitedly.

"Yes!" Korpulfr answered with a grin, "but be mindful , there is also two Corsairs ship berthed" he warned, knowing full well the young men knew the reputation of the Umbarian fleets motley crew.

"Now on you get!" he laughed. The three young men climbed into the back, while he and Hasrim sat up front. Taking the reigns in both hands he started the horses forwards, out of the stable across the courtyard and out into the city streets. As they past through the market many of the trader stopped and bade them good day and one or two lords even enquired as to where he was off to so heavily laden.

"To the docks" he would answer with a well practised smile and a courteous nod of his head. "As if they don't know!" He would hear Hasrim mutter through his forced smile.

As they approached the commercial quay, rounding a row of dark warehouses, he, like his three young companions could only stare, the two three masted dromonds, with their large, square, ominous looking black sails over shadowed the two masted merchant vessel. In that moment the young merchant found himself pitying the Gondorian captain and his crew, their situation seemed worse than he had first imagined, it hadn't looked so bad from his aerial position of the previous day.

The quay was a bustle with merchants from the previous night bringing their shipments, dispersed among the merchants and their help he saw Falasmir's guards and looking up at the nearest Corsair ship, he noted that many of it's crew watched with interest the proceedings below. 'With to much interest!' Korpulfr thought bitterly. "Their searching the wagons!" Hasrim whispered beside him.

"What!" he exclaimed incredulously, thinking his cousin had meant the Gondorians, but that was not the case, as he looked round he saw that it was Falasmir's guards who were inspecting the cargo, for what! he thought bitterly.

Pulling the team short of the Gondorian ships gangplank he jumped down, telling the others to wait till he found the captain or his first mate, "Look after them, make sure there's no trouble!" he whispered to Hasrim, with a concerned look between his young helpers and the Umbarian guards. He hadn't got a few feet from the wagon when he was stopped by one of Falasmir's men.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the desert rat that likes to play Merchant!" Korulfr's eyes narrowed as he turned to come face to face with one of Falasmir's captains. "So you managed to off load some of your tat, eh lad!" the man mocked turning to several guards that stood nearby, who had joined in their captains laughter. He felt his jaw clench as he suppressed the urge to wipe the smile right of his face!

"I'm here to do business with the Northern Captain, not to partake in name calling with one of Falasmir's hired thugs" he answered darkly.

"Check his cart!" the captain snapped to the two guards behind him. Then his face still red with anger he took a step closer and leaned in and hissed in his ear, "The Nobility of this city may think you one of the Gentry, but I know desert scum when I see it, mark my words! you put so much as a toe out of line and I will have you!" he warned, then he stalked away to harass the next merchant. Korpulfr's hand had moved to the hilt of his sword during the encounter and there it stayed till the captain was out of sight, relaxing his hand, he returned to the cart eyeing the two Haradwaith men inspecting his goods with contempt and suspicion, he wasn't the only one, Hasrim and his three helpers veiwed the two men distainfully.

"So what did he have to say?' Hasrim whispered coming up beside him.

"Doesn't like desert people!" he shrugged darkly.

"I will try finding the captain again once our friends here are satisfied!"

[Mithadan]

Mithadan

Mithadan considered Airefalas' words for a moment. Then he walked to the window and looked out over the city. Then he turned away from the window with clenched fists. "I do not doubt that you are correct," he answered. "We have paid for the goods which we purchased, so the traders cannot be angry if Falasmir seizes our ship. Our cargo, no doubt, will go towards filling Umbar's coffers... as will the profits from selling the crew of the Star."

"Then we must deny Falasmir his profits," replied Airefalas with a thin smile.

"That may be difficult," said Mithadan. "Let's go to the docks." The two dressed rapidly and exited their rooms, waiting impatiently as their guards roused themselves to escort their 'guests' from the palace. They walked quickly, ignoring the heat, though both were sweating heavily by the time they reached the quays. Falasmir's guards stopped them briefly near the gangway. Mithadan noted that the carts bearing the Star's cargo were being searched before being allowed to come up next to the ship. "For our safety, no doubt..." growled Mithadan as they were allowed to pass and climbed aboard their vessel.

Saelon greeted them on the deck with a broad smile. "We load at last, Captain," he said. "Do we depart soon?" Mithadan motioned him to follow and went below decks to his cabin. After Saelon and Airefalas entered, he tossed a pile of bills of lading upon his desk. Then he picked up several that were lying there and pulled out three which he examined with a nod. Then he turned back to his second mate.

"Saelon," he said quietly. "The soldiers of Umbar will be seizing this vessel and our crew tomorrow."

"What!" cried Saelon. "What of our safe passage? What of Falasmir's guarantees?"

He recounted briefly what he and Airefalas had been told as well as what they guessed. "Well," said Saelon, with a grim face. "You are here now. We will depart immediately." He turned towards the door but was stopped by Airefalas, who shook his head. "How far would we get with corsairs moored on either side of us?" he asked simply.

"We'll fight then," answered Saelon. "We are well-armed."

"We are well-armed, but we are in the middle of our enemy's domain," growled Mithadan. "We will fight, but we will choose the time and place." The three of them sat at a table and Mithadan laid out his plan in detail, stopping at times to draw out some simple diagrams on sheets of vellum.

"It is risky," muttered Saelon. "But it may work. If Ulmo favors us upon the seas and Manwë sends us fair winds."

"It is better than fighting on the docks," agreed Airefalas.

"Airefalas and I will return to the palace," said Mithadan. "You must make all ready. It must appear as if we are not preparing to depart, but all cargo must be stowed and the sails furled without tangles. Then, this evening, you will begin just as we spoke... with the gift for the crews of the corsairs. Give them time to enjoy themselves..." A feral grin passed over Mithadan's face. "Then, just before midnight, set matters in motion."

"When will you return?" asked Saelon suspiciously.

"By midnight or not at all," answered Airefalas.

"We will wait for you," proclaimed Saelon.

Mithadan's fist struck the table. "You will not!" he cried. "You will not wait! Not for a moment! If we do not return by midnight, you must take your chance. We have... other options. If we do not return in time, tell Piosenniel that I have found a relative of Bird's. Say just that. I have found a relative of Bird's named Rama."

At that moment, a knock came upon the door. Ardil, the helmsman opened the door. "Captain," he said. "There is someone here to see you..."

[Child of the 7th Age]

Narika stood at the entrance to the tent, blankly staring off across the encampment. She was barely aware of the children darting back and forth, or the fact that their parents had already begun packing up their belongings and gathering the herds in preparation for the move of the camp that was supposed to take place later that day. Outwardly, everything looked normal. Surinen and Narayad had made it back to the clan the evening before. Although Narika hadn't had a chance to speak with either of them, she'd already heard the good news that their search for a well had met with success.

Her own deep concerns stemmed from something totally different. Ayar, her beloved mother and leader of the clan, a woman whose wisdom and mastery of shapes was undisputed, lay unexpectedly ill in her bed. Ayar had been restless throughout the evening, eating none of the food set before her, and had excused herself early to retire to bed. At first Narika had thought little of her mother's behavior or complaints: a good night's sleep would surely cure everything. But, in the middle of the night, her mother had awoken with a high fever and symptoms of pain in her neck, chest, and stomach. Narika had bathed Ayar's head and body with cool cloths and applied a compress soaked in a tincture of herbs directly to the back of her neck where she could see a small, inflamed puncture wound, apparently made by an insect.

Despite everything, her mother's fever had continued to rise. The poison that had come from the small sting seemed to be coursing slowly and inexorably through her body. Narika was an accomplished healer, yet her mother's illness did not look or act like others she had known. She could not think of anything that would cause these particular symptoms. After hours of tireless effort and trying different herbal remedies, Narika had finally seen her mother fall into a fitful sleep punctuated by moans and restless movement.

There could be no real rest for Narika until Ayar recovered. She loved her mother deeply. Even more than that, each clan member depended on Ayar in a direct and personal way that the citizens of Umbar, or even of Minas Tirth, would not have understood; the other maenwaith would find her mother's illness just as deeply troubling.

The young woman forced herself to concentrate on the situation at hand, despite the weariness of her body and the grey fog assaulting her mind. After many minutes of reflection, she finally made her decision. The camp would not move today, not even if Surinen and Narayad reported finding an ocean of water. They could not risk such a thing when Ayar was feeling so poorly. The goats and camels would simply have to make do with the few scrub plants that remained near their old watering spot. A move now might not only be risky for Ayar's personal health, but for the general safety of the clan, since this was the time when they were most vulnerable to attack by marauding outlaws and brigands.

Narika's mind spun in circles as she wished for the hundredth time that Ráma or Thorn had made it back to camp. Thorn would have the wisdom and the insight to know just what to do. And, while she herself usually agonized over decisions, making and remaking them a dozen times, her twin was exactly the opposite: forging ahead, without looking back or second guessing. Narika wearily wondered if that approach wouldn't be better in a situation like this.

Walking over to a cluster of maenwaith who were still lingering over breakfast, Narika gently explained that her mother was not feeling well, although she declined to elaborate further. She then approached one of the more trustworthy young lads and asked him to have the elders gather inside her tent, along with Surinen and Naravad, to discuss what must be done.

Narika could not fully explain or justify the sense of alarm and helplessness that was spreading through her mind. Although Ayar had been sick only a short time, Narika was acutely aware that this was an illness unfamiliar to her and, because of that, she could not predict what would happen. With difficulty, she came to a second decision. When the young man returned from his errand, she would ask him to fly across the desert to search out her sister and Thorn, urging them to come home as quickly as they could. Whatever business or problems might exist within Umbar, these now seemed small in comparison with the troubles that had come to perch within their own clan.

[piosenniel]

Gondor

‘Wake up, ammë!’ Three small missiles launched themselves onto their parents’ bed and began tormenting Pio. Despite her efforts to remain under the warm quilts, they were mercilessly ripped from her hands by Isilmir and Gilwen. Cami, her curly hair flying, bounced up and down on the bed chanting, ‘Get up! Getup!’ in a relentless sing-song. Pio sat up quickly and with a grin threw her pillows at the little imps. ‘I surrender!’ she cried, getting up with a yawn. ‘I suppose we should get into the kitchen and forage for breakfast, eh?’

‘Well, you’ld better hurry,’ said Gilwen. ‘Baran is already up and looking through the pantry.’ ‘Hungry as a bear’, piped in Cami, giggling. ‘That’s what he growled at me!’

Pio shooed the three from the room and dressed for the day. Comfortable breeches, a soft, long-sleeved tunic, belt wound twice about her waist. Hair brushed quickly and braided in a long plait down her back, she pulled on her worn boots and headed for the kitchen.

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

Most of the early morning was spent at the library. As Pio promised, she introduced Baran to the docents and librarians she knew, letting them know that he wished to make use of the library and could they allow him into the special collections if she were not there. One of the librarians agreed to show the Beorning about the library while Pio and the children took advantage of library’s atrium to wait for him.

A short time later, and the five of them were on their way to the seventh level. Pio introduced Baran to the guards as she showed him about the grounds and ushered him into the great hall. When she saw his interest was waning and the patience of the children fading, a trip to the inn was suggested.

Late afternoon brought partings for the little band. Baran had thanked her for her invitation to stay with them, but he preferred to be in the city for now – quicker access to the library given as one of his reasons for staying at the Inn, though Pio wondered if there were other reasons behind the man’s desire to be within the town’s walls. They parted with promises by Pio to see Baran the next time she came to the city. Then, Pio gathered her children and headed back toward home.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Surinen & Narika

Surinen was struggling to remove the last of the tent pegs when Narayad came striding up. Unfortunately, out of all of them, this last one had proved the most stubborn, and Surinen avoided looking up at the well-known face that went with those gnarled, leathery feet, continuing to wrench away at the resolute spike until his knuckles ached and he could no longer grasp it. With a short sigh, he decided he had better go unpack the mallet, which Dinsûl had managed to stow earlier.

“Surinen, you must see to this later,” Narayad finally said after waiting, impatient for some sort of acknowledgment. Following his friend across to where Dinsûl sat among the sacks of grain and few bundles that held all their goods, he continued speaking while Dinsûl listened, cleaning wheat absently as he drank his sage tea. “We have been asked to join in a gathering of the elders.” Dinsûl raised his eyebrows at this, and looked at his son to see his response. But Surinen continued to root around in a small sack looking for the mallet.

“Give me a just a moment,” he said producing the thing at last. “If I don’t do this now someone else will, and it would not be right to trouble him with such things.” Returning to the peg he rapped on its sides lightly, then withdrew it with ease, and turned to Narayad. “Was it mentioned, why we have not been allowed to see the Meldakher Ayar yet? I imagine we will be able to now tell her and the elders both, about the stranger we found in the well.”

“I have only been told to collect you and that we are to return to Narika tent, beyond that I know nothing of what this is about.”

“Narika?” Surinen wondered. “Ah well, never mind. I’ll just put this away and we can go directly. There is another topic that I’m eager to broach as well, given the chance. One that I had brought to the same elder, but I think it also has traveled no further than that.” Throwing the spike into a pile that lay beside the collapsed tent, Surinen turned to run after Narayad who had already begun walking toward the center of the encampment.

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

When the two outriders arrived, several of the elders were already seated on the patterned grass mats that lined the floor of Narika’s tent, deep in conversation with her. Narayad’s wife was there also, pouring coffee for the gathering out of a large hammered brass vessel, while another woman hurried to place pans of seasoned cassava wafers at different stations about the growing circle. Looking tired and wan Narika gestured for the outriders to join the group, who chose the spot of the circle at the furthest point out of deference for her and the elders of the clan, they settled themselves down, wondering why they had been called to attend, and when Ayar would arrive. She had always been there first, greeting all who came and taking them each aside to hear their views before a meeting began in earnest.

When all the gaps in the circle were closed save the one at the head, Narika signaled that the tent flap should be closed, and all the assembly began looking about and murmuring.

“I can see that you all are wondering were my mother could be. Indeed, that is why I have called you all here,” the young woman began. “We are to begin the next leg of journey south today, I am well aware, but I hope after this meeting that you also might see that we must stay in this camp for a little longer, if at all possible.”

At this another murmur rippled though the small group and a voice called out, “What has Ayar to say about this?” And another rejoined, “Yes, where is she?”

With a pained expression Narika looked into the familiar faces questioning her, faces that had surrounded her since childhood. “My mother has taken ill with a strange fever I have no knowledge of. This is why I ask you to inform the clan of a delay, I greatly fear moving her at this time, and she is in great pain.”

“No, no! We will not move her if you think it is best,” a large bald man said comfortingly above the others who spoke reassuringly her. “You there, outriders! How far were the flocks ranging yesterday? How many more days could we afford?”

“They were quite far sir,” Narayad spoke up. “We could go two maybe three more days before it became obvious something is wrong.”

“And how is the water holding out?” another asked as they began to assess the situation

“Good, we are fortunate for that! This is a good place for water,” he replied again.

“If Ayar still is ill after three days time perhaps we could sent the flocks and a large portion of the clan with them to the next camp. We can join them once she is better.”

At this Surinen spoke up suddenly, “With all respect, I do not think it best to split our numbers at this time.”

“Why is that Surinen? Not even to aid the Meldakher?”

“There must be another way, sir.” Then casting a sideways glance at his distant uncle who in turn was giving him his darkest glare, Surinen blurted out, “We met a strange maenwaith while out digging the well. He said his name was Rôg, but would neither give us his clan or his business, and disappeared quite suddenly.”

“It is not uncommon, unfortunately to meet one of our kind so disposed these days.”

“That is not all,” Surinen said growing animated. “When we were within range, I left Narayad with the animals and as a dog ran the remaining distance to our encampment. To the west, not far from here, I saw the prints of horse heavier than our own, and along with that caught a strange scent I did not recognize and which quite ruined my sense of smell for a time. But once within our confines it returned slowly, though I could still faintly smell the odor along with what seemed like akin to Rôg’s scent! I think that he might have some interest in us, and do not know to what purpose.”

“When was it that you first saw this stranger Surinen?” Narika asked concerned.

“The evening before last. I had tried to tell the Meldakher, but my message did not reach her it seems.”

“That throws quite a different light on our situation,” the bald elder stated. “Unfortunately we will still have to risk having the flocks far a field.”

“The man, Rôg, did not seem threatening, quite the opposite actually, but why should he be skulking about so? That is what concerns me.”

“We will need to redouble the guard immediately,” Narika said “And fly the pennants of danger so that none may miss the warning. Yemneya, see to it that only those of us able to change to fleet or small shapes are with the flocks… and in groups not alone.”

“We had better go then,” the chief eldar said. “There is much work to be done rebuilding the camp. And don’t worry Narika, we will see to the people, and you give all your attention to your mother for us.”

After all had left her tent, Narika felt over come by a wave of isolation. Folding her arms tightly around her, as though the chill she felt was in the air rather than her heart, She left to return Ayar’s bedside hoping to find the fever broken, and fearing to find it worse.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ráma

Still piqued over the rebuff she'd suffered at the hands of the Gondorians, Ráma discarded her rags at the Inn, explaining to Lena that things had not worked out, and then headed towards the marketplace to assuage her hurt feelings by the well known remedy of shopping. She purchased a few trinkets of jewelry for herself and a bolt of fine linen for her sister's betrothal gift, afterwards stopping to chat with another desert woman who'd come to the city to market her wares.

Holding the bundles within her arms, she slowly made her way to the Cat's Paw, still filled with resentment that she'd promised to wait for the Men. So far, she'd heard nothing about trouble in the harbor; perhaps Falasmir had altered his plans. Most likely, Mithadan and Airefalas would find their way aboard the Star and sail homeward, while she fruitlessly waited.

Approaching the Inn, Ráma was surprised to find the door latched tight: this was not Lena's normal routine. Ráma tugged down on the rope to ring the bell, expecting her friend to respond. For a long time, no one answered. Then, from inside, came muffled sounds of shuffling and dragging as if someone was preparing to barricade the door by propping up a piece of furniture in the hallway.

"Lena, where are you?" Ráma spoke in a low voice, knocking softly on the door.

"Ráma, is that you? Thank goodness! I was afraid he'd found you in the marketplace." A key turned in the lock and the door swung slightly open, affording Ráma just enough room to slip inside and fall into her friend's outstretched arms.

"What are you talking about?" the young girl countered. "No one followed me to the market. What's wrong?" Ráma cursed herself for letting down her guard and staying behind when Thorn had explicitly instructed her to leave. If anything happened to her family or her clan, she would never forgive herself for this delay.

Tugging her friend into a side chamber, Lena hurriedly explained, "After you left, there was a visitor inquiring about you."

"A trader, perhaps?" Ráma queried.

"He was no trader! The Man was fully armed and wore a hood pulled over his face. I couldn't tell who he was or where he'd come from. Because of his enormous cloak, I couldn't even see if he wore Falasmir's livery. But he asked me some very peculiar questions. He even asked whether I'd seen you cast a magic spell..."

"A 'magic spell'? That's ridiculous," the girl objected, with a shake of her head.

"Begging your pardon, Mistress Ráma, but I think he was deadly serious. He kept talking around the subject, but what he really wanted was to learn whether you could change into another form. And he insisted on knowing where you'd gone to. He even pressed me on where Thorn was, since he hadn't found him at the palace...."

As Lena revealed this last piece of information, Ráma's face blanched. Except for Lena and a few trusted members of her own clan, no one in the city or at home knew that Thorn was employed at the palace to spy. The other maenwaith had been told he was merely off working with one of the trading caravans that plied their wares along the coast and on the city's outskirts. Nor did those he worked for in Umbar have any idea that he was a maenwaith ......at least, no one until now.

Perhaps someone had seen through her guise at the palace and suspicions had been aroused. That might explain why a mysterious Man had followed her to the Cat's Paw, but it still wasn't clear how he had recognized her as a shapechanger or knew enough to ask questions about Thorn. Ráma suddenly sensed that she was standing on the edge of a large pool of quicksand, watching as her toes began sinking into the ooze. She turned around and scowled, "I should have followed my instincts and left this morning. I must go now. Thorn knew there was trouble and wanted me back home. I only hope my being here hasn't caused you harm."

Lena grabbed the satchel with her belongings, stuffing the linen cloth inside, and ran over to the stables to retrieve her horse. She mounted up and was about to gallop out the gate when something drew her back. Turning to face Lena, she stopped to add. "Two men, Gondorians, may come to the Inn tomorrow at dawn. They're not dangerous. Offer them the camels I still have in your paddock. Urge them to depart on their own, but if they insist on speaking with me, tell them that I await at the Caves of Herumor, a mile north of the main city gates. I'll wait there till just past sunrise but no longer than that!" With those final instructions, Ráma urged her mare forward and disappeared down the maze of alleys.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil:

Rôg's negotiations seemed to go round in circles. The trading caravan was in no hurry to leave the shelter of the oasis. After much arguing back and forth, they finally reached an agreement. A Man walked over to the herds and picked out a particularly surly looking beast. Aiwendil came over to have a closer look. It was a tall camel, even taller than the istar. The hump-backed creature turned his head to stare balefully at the two of them, pulling back his lips to reveal a mouth full of dog-like fangs, and then lashed out with a hind leg, offering a glancing blow to Rôg's side.

With a few whispered words of calm from Aiwendil, the creature docily knelt down and let its new owners clamber aboard. As the trio halted for a moment by the water hole to let the animal drink his fill, one of the traders came over to whisper a final word of warning. "Go warily, my friends. It is springtime, the time of the winds. On the coast, such things mean only inconvenience, but where you go, it can mean much more."

Aiwendil nodded his head in acknowledgement without really understanding what the Man was saying, and, speaking once again to the camel, turned the animal around. The great beast glided swiftly out of camp, leaving the coastal shore behind them and heading towards the sandy horizon that lay to their east. Once they were clearly out of range, Aiwendil had the animal kneel, so that his friend could get down and change into whatever shape he might prefer.

[Nerindel]

The growing midmorning heat did nothing to improve Korpulfr's mood as he leaned against the side of his cart, darkly observing the two Haradrim who indiscriminately searched through his wares. Trying to distract from his annoyance he contemplated how he could breach the subject of the captains interest in his people without giving himself away, He played several scenarios in his head but they all lead to revealing his true nature, if it were only him he would just have it out with the captain and demand to know what he wanted with his people, but it was not he had others to think about and their safety meant more to him than his own. frustrated he kicked the wheel of the cart and turned his frustration on the two guards.

"Are you not finished yet!" he bellowed, "I am a busy man and have other delivers to make, I can't afford to stand about here all day waiting for you to find what ever it is you think you are expecting to find!"

"It is Fal...." one of the guards began, but Korpulfr sharply cut him off, "I do not care who's orders they are, I'm unloading this cart now! regardless of if you are finished or not!" he nodded to the three young men who sat upon the cart, who moved immediately and began untying the ropes that secured the cargo. the two guards look at each other unsure what they should do, "You are welcome to stay and observe, then you will see that we have nothing to hide!" Korpulfr suggested, exasperatedly rolling his eyes. A tap on his shoulder spun him about and there stood Hasrim nodding in the direction of the Gondorian ship, He turned to see the Captain and his first mate step onto the ships deck.

"I still think I should come with you!" Hasrim counselled, stroking his dark beard as he regarded the Gondorian ship and it's crew with distrust and suspicion. Korpulfr contemplated the mans offer for a moment, then hearing a commotion behind him he turned once more. One of his helpers had gotten into a disagreement with one of the guards over opening one of the chests, he knew now were the warrior would be needed. "I think my friend that it would be best if you remain here, with so many of Falasmir's men about and the growing heat, I dare say this will not be the first disagreement that will need defusing." Watching the ensuing argument between the young meanwaith and the haradrim soldier, heavily Hasrim nodded his understanding and moved off to defuse the dangerous situation.

Pulling at the neck of his tunic he walked confidently towards the gangplank, giving a dark look to the Umbarian guards standing either side, as he passed. "Hello, there!" He called as the reached the top of the plank. A tall dark haired man standing on the raised bridge turned and walked towards him, "Can I help you?" he asked pleasantly.

"Yes, thank you, My name is Korpulfr, I did a little business with your first mate last night and I bring the agreed order," he replied gesturing to the unloading of the cargo below. "I require to see your Captain so that he may sign for his delivery, that is if he is presently available!" he continued watching as the mariner looked down on the four men unloading his cart. With a nod the sea man gestured for him to come aboard.
"My name is Ardil and I am the Helmsman of the Lonely Star." The man grinned proudly in way of greeting, gesturing the ship and its crew, "If you will follow me I will see if the captain is presently disposed!" Kor returned the mans smile with own of his own and nodded his thanks and assent. As he followed the helmsman across the deck he became uncomfortably aware that several eyes followed his course, and as he looked around he noted that nearly all the crew like their captain and first mate were decidedly tall, making him feel quite small in comparisment for a moment he even regretted his decision to leave Hasrim on the dock. But as they stopped before an intricately carved wooden door directly below the main bridge, the confidence with which he was noted returned and he pulled himself straight.

"If you will wait here I will see if the captain is available." the man named Ardil said, then with a courteous nod he opened the door and slipped inside. Kor relaxed slightly and had a look around his immediate surroundings. The door that he stood before was flanked either side by small flights of wooden stairs that lead up to the main bridge, he stared in awe at the intricate carving of stairs banister, as he stepped back he saw that the banister went up one side across the front of the bridge and down the other side. The bridge itself was almost as impressive, a few feet behind the banister sat the helm, a large wooden wheel with gold inlay, then behind that to the aft was the ships main mast, which towered into the blue sky, squinting he could just make out the crows nest above the three sail arms from which hung the large, white, square sails, he could almost imagine them billowing in the sea breezes.

Turning about he now looked on the main deck, several young men had mops in hand and were... how would they put it?.... ah yes! swabbing the deck, while others helped to load and store the on coming cargo, to the fore was another mast not quite as high as the other, but impressive none the least, but instead of it's sails being square like the ones to the aft, they were triangular in shape and Kor found himself wondering if the difference in shape served to afforded the vessel with a little more speed, he was just about to stop one of the crew and ask that very question, when he was remained of Tinar and how disappointed the lad had looked at not being able to accompany him to the ship, then the eagerness of the three young men he had brought along, they would have plenty to ask the sea captain if they got the chance and perhaps at ease the captain himself would pose a few questions of his own.

"Let them come to you!" he laughed quietly to himself as an idea formed in his mind.

Hearing a small click behind him he turned back towards the door, and from behind came the captain, the first mate Airefalas, the helmsman Adril and one other he had not yet made aquantiance with. The helmsman nodded courteously and resumed his position on the bridge.

"Good day to you sir, I do not believe we where introduced, my name is Mithdan Captain of The Lonely Star, I believe you have meet my first mate, Airefalas." the captain said indicating the man to his left, "Indeed I have had that pleasure," he smiled in reply affording the first mate a courteous incline of his head. "And this fine gentleman to my right is my second, Saelon." The captain continued, introducing the second man. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," He smiled extending his hand, which the man took in a firm but friendly grip, but he did not miss the hint of suspicion in the man's eyes.

"As I am sure that your helmsman and first mate have already informed you, my name is Korpulfr a Spice and Silk Merchant of the city, I have brought the delivery agreed upon by Airefalas here, no doubt at your request, and now I look for your signature upon a receipt of delivery," he said pulling the vellum scroll from his coat pocket and handing it to the captain.

Mithdan scanned the receipt, then handed it to Airfalas who looked over it and nodded that all was as agreed, he then handed it back to his captain, "You understand that we will have to check this with the cargo that comes aboard, before I can sign it?" the captain stated. "Of course! of course! I would expect no less," Korpulfr exclaimed with a smile. "My men are loading as we speak, see!" he continued gesturing to the four olive skinned men who with the help of some of the star's crew where carrying several heavy chests aboard.

With little prompting the three Northerners followed him to the shipment, "In the chests are the silk rolls," he told them, then in his own Clans dialect he asked one of his men to open the nearest chest so that the captain and his men could see the fine fabrics carefully stored within. "These chests once sealed are air tight to protect against damage from the salt of the sea air, the spices as you will see have been stored in barrels sealed in a similar manner." he explained. As he bent down to close the chest the wooden figure that hung about his neck slipped out from his shirt, quickly trying not to look too concerned he slipped it back and rose, stepping back to allow Mithdan and his two mates to examine the shipment for themselves.

After several minutes and quiet discussion with his companions the captain turned to him smiling and nodding satisfied. "Well all seems to be in order, It seems my first mate has a keen eye, I have never seen such exquisite fabrics, the lady's of Gondor will be clambering over each other to get their hands on such finery."

Korpulfr smiled proudly at the captains praise of his wares and saw the opening he had been waiting for. "If you would like we could discuss arranging a regular shipment, in fact if you are not setting sail today I would be honoured if you and your two friends here would join me tonight for evening meal?" even as he issued the invitation he could sense Hasrim looking up utterly shocked, but he knew the maenwaith would quickly cover. Saelon and Airefalas looked at each other then to their Captain who stood thoughtfully considering his offer.

"It will not be anything as elaborate Falasmir's table I'm sure, we are a desert people by birth and still hold to some of our traditional way's, but you are most welcome, though..." he paused for a second trying to find the right words, "Your escort may be a problem, there are old ills that are not yet forgotten between the soldiers of Umbar and the desert people of my household" he finally said, nodding his head indicating a heated disagreement ensuing between one of his men and one of the captains assigned guards, with a quick look to his cousin he sent him to defuse the situation, while he turned his attention back to the captain.

"I am sorry, but if you do choose to take up my invitation they would only be permitted to escort you as far as the courtyard, I hope you understand, It is my responsibility to look after the welfare of my household. he sighed regretfully.

"No I understand completely, I have similar obligations." Mithdan answered, "If you just let me find some ink with which to sign your paper's then I will return with them and my answer, feel free to let your young friends look about, I'm sure the crew will answer any questions they may have!" The captain laughed noting the awed look in his young loaders eyes as they gazed about the ship.

"Thank you." Kor nodded as the three men took their leave.

The three young maenwaith men took full advantage of the Captains offer and posed numerous questions to the crew, what things were and how they worked, none of them had ever been on a ship before, but it did not deter their enthusiasm or curiosity. Korpulfr grinned as he watched their youthful exuberance, momentarily forgetting his distrust, until Harsim pulled him violently back to reality.

"What are you thinking inviting these people to eat with us, are you forgetting that one of them has openly asked about our people," Harsim asked in their own tongue.

"No! I have not forgotten cousin, but look! our enemies are all about us, If I am to find out why they are interested in our people, I would much rather it be on my own ground and under more relaxed circumstances. do you see!" he answered calmly, trying to make it seem to any that may be watching that they were engaged in casual conversation.

"Yes, cousin, please accept my apologies." Korpulfr shook his dark head, "Your apology is not needed my friend, your concern for your people is nothing to be sorry for, collect the others and ready the cart, we will be leaving shortly." he grinned indicating the return of Mithdan and his mates. Hasrim nodded and went to carry out his cousins request, while he waited to see if the sea captain would take the bait and accept his offer.

[piosenniel]

Far Harad – Rôg’s family

They had reached the low, southern tip of the coastal mountain range and now turned west toward the small forested area that lay nestled between the lowlands and the sea. Trading had been good for the small clan this season with those of other clans along the foothills and now after three months of stopping to show their wares they were finally nearing home. There had been no word come south to them from their son, though they had checked in the larger trading places with all those merchants who had come down from the north, from Umbar.

Abâr flicked the reins lightly against the goats’ backs as they pulled the family’s small, canvas covered wagon. ‘Perhaps he could not get a message to us,’ he said aloud, following up a train of thought that had been running through his mind while he watched the haunches of the goats work up and down as they moved along. Ûriyat, sitting next to him on the padded seat, pushed her greying hair back from her face and ran the back of her arm across her sweaty brow. She turned toward him, her brow furrowed. ‘He?’ she asked, pulling her woven hat up from beneath the seat and fixing it firmly on her head.

‘Rôg, mother,’ came the tired voice from the back of the seat. ‘He’s talking about him.’ The sound of someone scuffling forward was followed by a tanned, smooth face poking itself out between the shoulders of the other two. Wriggling her way a little further into the space, Dairaphel leaned on the wooden seat back, her brown eyes squinting against the brightness of the sun. In a gesture much like her mother’s, she, too, swept her hair back from her face, inviting whatever little breeze there was to cool her skin in passing.

Her face, in profile, resembled her brother’s. And save for the fact she was two years older than he, one would think them twins. In temperament, too, they were much alike. Pleasant to be around, intelligent, quick witted. Unlike him, though, she had no desire to wander beyond the boundaries of the areas through which her clan journeyed on their seasonal migrations. She did not envy him his knowledge of the greater world, being satisfied to read his letters as she sat with her family in the clan encampments. ‘This is enough,’ she would say, looking about on those nights when the people drew near their leader’s fire to hear the old stories. It was an unvoiced sentiment echoed by all those in their small clan, this feeling of isolation from the pull of the outer world. She was safe within the fastness of the clan; secure in its ways.

Daira, as her family called her, clambered over the back of the seat and scrunched in between her parents. She patted her father on his thick forearm and smiled at him, taking his mind away for a moment from his worried line of thought. ‘His last letter said he was setting out toward the south, attû,' she reminded him. 'Spring has just come; perhaps in his haste to get here he has not had time to send a letter.’ She wrinkled her forehead recalling where Rôg’s last letter had said he was. ‘It is a long, long way from those other mountains to ours. We will see him in time.’

Her father leaned into her, giving her shoulder an affectionate nudge with his own. He flicked the reins once more against the back of the goats, urging them on at a quicker pace. Daira’s gaze took in the familiar landmarks that marked the way to their little forest, watching as the others of the clan turned their feet and their own carts in the direction of home. With a satisfied smile she hummed an old tune, her mother soon picking up the harmony. ‘This is enough,’ she thought as they wagon rocked gently over the hard-packed track. ‘Yes, this is enough.’

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Thorn

As Thorn steered for the course that his people were to follow this season, he wondered what he might find when he eventually reached them, hoping that they would be in a position to react quickly to his news. And after the grievous hindrance in Umbar he was not sure that the trouble he had learned of was not already close upon his heels. So he continued steadily through the heat, climbing higher to seek the cooler levels of the sky on his long journey.

It might have been a daunting task for another to locate his people in the vast desert, but Thorn had a thorough knowledge of the trackless landscape and the path Ayar was following. Though where his kinsmen might be stationed on that path he was unsure. Even the remotest areas, where his foot had never touched were not unknown to him. For as a child he and a handful of others had been painstakenly trained, and as a young man he could navigate through the waste, using water sources as another might use stars, to direct his way. The hundreds of timeworn routes of his ancestors he held in his memory like the constellations joining those stars, each having their own names in his mother tongue. Though many he had never traveled himself, he could easily trace their path by rote in his mind, despite the ever-changing face of the desert.

In the earlier days maps had been made of these things, depicting where life might be supportable. But at the end of the third age, as times grew more difficult , such meaningful information was closely guarded, with only a few of each generation becoming a living repository for the whole clan. And the maps fell into disuse, becoming dated they were eventually discarded.

As it glided, the eagle noticed a persistent wind had risen out of the north. It was an ill omen, for it signified death in many a tale, and with good reason. Certainly it was hot enough for a storm to form, but hopefully he could reach the shelter of the camp before it overtook him. He wondered how far Ráma had gotten in her trek, grateful that she had not yet obtained a form. Perhaps she could find a refuge from a storm yet, in the villages surrounding Umbar.

Suddenly a downdraft pulled Thorn back among rough, warmer levels, and he struggled to override his natural impulse to find some haven, as well the pull of the current itself. The bump and jostle of the wind becoming increasingly pronounced overtime beneath his great wings, and he beat strongly against its tug, trying to regain a loftier elevation. Again and again he was pushed earthward all the while being diverted with each stroke of his wings, the heavy crosswind that was begining to tell of sand, keeping his goal out of reach.

[piosenniel]

Rôg . . . on the road south . . .

Chirr . . . chirr . . . chirr – chirr . . . chirr . . . chirr . . . chirr . . .

‘Just practicing a bit,’ said Rôg, cocking his little chestnut capped head to eye the old man. Aiwendil, hearing the series of soft chirrs had turned his head toward the small brown bird that perched on the shoulder of his robe. ‘Have no idea, really, what it all means - just learned it to fit in with the rest of the flock should I need to,’ continued Rôg. Aiwendil’s bushy grey eyebrows raised, his blue eyes twinkling at the little feathered fellow as a soft chuckle escaped him. ‘Oh dear,’ twittered Rôg. He could feel the heat rising to his little cheeks. Thank goodness they were covered with down. He fluffed out his feathers and shook them to slough away his embarrassment. ‘I should have known better than to copy the calls I heard during mating season,’ he spluttered.

‘Are you certain we’re heading in the right direction?’ Aiwendil’s question brought a welcome change of subject. Rôg assured them that they were indeed heading toward the encampment that he’d seen last night. He’d fixed its position from the forms of the mountains he’d seen as he flew near them, the shapes of the higher peaks as they flowed downward into their foothills. The sands are always changing he told his companion, but the earth’s spine stands steady. And in his thoughts were the times he had come up along these mountains with his family and clan, heading for the seasonal trading bazaars further north, stopping along the way to trade at various encampments. ‘They should be heading home this time of year,’ he said quietly, thinking fondly of the little forest that lay near the sea.

~*~

The day was growing warmer as they plodded along. Rôg had argued, unsuccessfully, for staying at the little oasis where the caravan had stopped. ‘Better we travel at night,’ he had counseled his companion. But Aiwendil had a growing sense of urgency and would not be deterred.

The rising heat worried the younger man, as did the wind from the north which was beginning to pick up speed. ‘Speed and sand,’ he muttered, spitting a few grains from his beak. Aiwendil had pulled up his hood and the little bird now nestled close to his ear, within the cloak’s protective folds.

‘We are going too slowly,’ he told the older man. ‘The wind is rising with the heat. It picks up the loose debris as it goes. It will chase us with a wall of blinding sand and dirt soon.’ Rôg flew down to the area in front of the camel, the beast’s body blocking the wind somewhat. Assuming his human form he plucked two bandanas from his pack, and placing one atop the other, folded them in two, forming a large triangle of cloth. He bade Aiwendil dismount and pulling back his hood, tied the cloths over the bridge of the old man’s nose, tucking the tail well into the neck of Aiwendil’s robe. ‘It will keep the sand from clogging your nose and mouth,’ he explained, hurrying his companion to remount once again.

‘Hold on tightly, now,’ he ordered, ‘and follow my lead.’ Aiwendil looked down, a frown on his face. Rôg could see his lips moving behind the mask, but he waved him to silence as he handed up the camel’s reins. In the blink of a sandy eye, he changed to another form. This time a camel, twin to the one the old man rode.

The wind was beginning to sing; the grains of sand slashing through the air. Rôg looked to the north. In the distance, it had grown dark, and he knew the wall of sand would reach them soon. There only hope was to outrun it until they had reached some place of shelter, and then to wait it out. His mind cast quickly through the places he remembered from his youth. ‘No use,’ he said, knowing that the shifting sands would have covered and uncovered their little plots of grasses and scrubby bush many times over. His large lips curled back in a ghastly looking smile. ‘Of course!’ Like the bones of the earth, the ‘bones’ of what those Men left behind would not have moved.

‘Hold on!’ he shouted once more. Then opening his mouth wide he sank his long, broad yellowed teeth with a satisfying snap into the hindquarters of Aiwendil’s mount. Startled, the beast leapt forward and Rôg, taking care to stay very close, ran before them, leading the way. ‘Run! You great impish spawn of the desert!’ he hurled back at the wild-eyed camel, his own backside an enticing moving target for Aiwendil’s mount.

~*~

The sand stung at his heels as they neared the ancient fortress; the wind keened loudly, a deafening sound about to envelop them. Sunk in the years of drifting sands the fortress wall stood only shoulder high to him. As they cleared the opening, he turned sharply to the left, slowing his speed and then stopping where some old, broad towered structure thrust itself up, a tall broken sentinel in the sand. Changing once again back to his human form, he ordered Aiwendil’s mount down to his knees, pushing the camel's flank close beside the ancient stonework wall. Freeing the roll tied to the near side of the pack saddle, Rôg quickly pulled out two blankets. One he handed to Aiwendil, gesturing that he should pull it up over his head, like an extra cloak. The other he used to shelter himself.

Stinging sand filled the air, locking them now into its obscuring embrace. The camel lay with his head down, eyes closed, his left flank secure against the protective wall. The two men sat huddled together, their backs flat against the stone. Rôg had shouted above the sound of the wind for the old man to shut his eyes. But Aiwendil glanced quickly about at what he could see of the structure they were in. ‘Who built this?’ he asked, leaning in close to speak in Rôg’s ear. ‘The tall, fair Men,’ came the muffled reply. ‘From the West it is told. Long, long ago.’ He put his hand on his companion’s arm.

‘Now hush. Keep your head down. Breathe slowly. The Winged One willing, it will pass soon . . .’

[Child of the 7th Age]

Narika and the Eagle Encampment:

Since the heart of the storm lay to the north, the winds did not attack the Eagle encampment with the same ferocity that had been directed against the travelers who were venturing south and east across the desert. Yet, by mid-day, most of the maenwaith had tugged scarves and hoods over their faces to ward off the constantly blowing sand. Few ventured outside the circle of tents. Only a handful of young men ran about with ropes and staves, rounding up the horses and other beasts. They herded the animals towards a small scrub grove on the far side of the water hole where low-lying bushes and a few scraggly trees acted as a partial break against the wind.

Narika remained inside her tent, the howling of the winds matching her own bleak mood. Her mother lay sick in bed. Ayar was in pain, and her fever continued unabated, although for the moment the poison had at least stepped spreading. Perhaps, if they were lucky, the herbal poultices and other remedies would buy Ayar enough time so that her body could fight its way back to health.

Sometimes in the past, Narika was able to read the hints in the sky to predict when a sandstorm was about to occur. But this time, like the poison in Ayar's body, there had been no warning. The winds were muted enough that none of the maenwaith or herd beasts should meet with serious injury. Yet Narika still worried about the messenger she had just sent to Umbar to tell Ráma and Thorn that they should return as soon as possible. The lad was out in the open and would have to find some shelter from the storm. Hopefully, he would alight and sit out the worst of the winds. But, even if he somehow managed to reach the city, neither Ráma nor Thorn would be able to come at once because of the drifting sands.

Their absence still troubled Narika. She was used to relying on them during her most difficult times. Yet now, when she needed them the most, they were missing. Whom else could she turn to for advice and aid? Narika stirred uneasily as her mind took an unexpected turn and the hazy image of a familiar young maenwaith emerged from inside her head. She could try to speak with Thorne’s sister Yalisha yet the mere mention of that name left her feeling uncomfortable. The brother and sister were totally different. Yalisha’s reputation for gentleness and beauty was exceeded only by her known penchant for behaving unpredictably and ignoring traditional ways. A strange combination in a talented young woman! But then who could trust any maenwaith who had frequent contact with outsiders?

Still, Narika could not afford to stand on pride. Yalisha knew more about herbs and poisons than any other in the clan, even Narika herself. Thorne's sister regularly marketed desert plants to Mannish healers and other agents of the great households, sometimes traveling as far away as Umbar. In her journies, she'd learned a great deal about the medicines of the old ones, the Black Numenoreans who’d ruled these lands in ancient days. If Yalisha had gleaned any knowledge of this poison from her travels, this might provide the clue they needed to untangle the mystery and help hasten Ayar’s recovery. Narika would have preferred that Ráma speak with Yalisha, since the two women were close friends. But, with her sister gone, she had no real choice. She beckoned to the guard standing near the entrance of the tent telling him to pay Yalisha a visit and have her come back to speak with Narika as soon as the winds abated.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil:

Aiwendil shuddered and slumped forward as the full force of the wind slammed into the makeshift shelter, the only tiny speck of life amid a vast ocean of twisted sand. The half-tumbled wall of the ancient fortress afforded them some measure of physical protection against the worst of the storm. For long hours, the two men huddled under the dark stones, their faces and bodies encased in blankets looking almost like shrouds.

As the howling lessened, Aiwendil brushed a few grains of sand from his face and peered through a hole in the wrapping, tentatively lifting up one corner of the blanket and raising a hand to shield his eyes fom the stinging particles that still assaulted them. Although the sky was murky, the istar could vaguely make out a wide expanse of sand endlessly churning up and down, an unreal landscape continually changing shape and form. The scene reminded him of something long ago when he'd sailed with a convoy of swan ships to visit the Land of the Star. In the middle of that journey, as they approached the coast of Numenor, an unexpected turbulence had overtaken them, scattering their fleet and hurling sheets of water onto the decks; the tiny vessels had bobbed helplessly up and down. But the violence of the storm was not the only disturbing likeness that was now embedded in his mind. Just as in the past, dark memories reached out from the ancient stones and threw webs of grey shadow over their heads.

As the howling of the winds gradually subsided, Aiwendil stood up and led his camel forward, eager to resume their journey. The younger man reached across to tug at his sleeve and responded with more caution, "Let's wait. We must be sure the storm has really ended. We wouldn't want to be caught in the open again."

Aiwendil scowled but then sat down, displeased with Rôg's decision while still acknowledging that the young man was probably right. Seeing the look of disappointment spread over the old man's face, Rôg leaned over and affectionately placed a hand on his companion's knee, reminding him, "Whoever threatens the camp is as trapped as we are. No one can push ahead in this weather."

"It's not that...., " the istar objected. "Or, at least, that's not the only thing. It is this place. I would see us leave here as soon as we can."

In a tone laced with sadness, the older man attempted to explain, "The fair ones who built this tower were replaced by others. I saw this same thing happen with my own eyes in a distant land across the sea. At first, the evil ones were few. But there were others, many others, who turned their heads away and pretended to see nothing. This fortress was filled with such Men, those who failed to speak or act when darkness threatened their neighbor. Aiwendil rubbed his knuckles into his eyes and stared downward, remembering his own time in Mirkwood. "But these are the ramblings of an old dreamer. I only wish this storm would stop so we could be on our way. We will accomplish nothing sitting here."

[Mithadan]

Airefalas immediately began to decline Korpulfr's offer, but Mithadan stopped him in mid-sentence. "Thank you for your generous offer," he said. "We had planned on visiting the market this evening, but perhaps we can change our minds. Let me speak with my mates for a moment." Korpulfr bowed slightly as the three men turned away and went below decks.

"It's a trap," blurted Saelon as they entered the captain's cabin. "They will take you so that you cannot rejoin your crew."

"I do not think so," replied Mithadan thoughtfully. "You saw how Falasmir's guards treated him and his men. Korpulfr is no ally of Falasmir."

"Then why invite us to dinner?" asked Airefalas.

"Maybe he likes you," answered Mithadan with a smile. "He is a trader. He speaks the language of money. Perhaps he wishes to show us more goods, or more likely he seeks our friendship so that we will buy from him again when we return."

"When we return?" scoffed Saelon. "Perhaps when Rana rises in the west..."

"And," continued Mithadan. "Dinner with Korpulfr will separate us from our guards. Even if we cannot sneak away, it will place us where we want to be. Outside of the palace this evening with few guards about us."

"If he does seek our friendship," interjected Airefalas. "To escape while at his home would place him in jeopardy."

"True enough," mused Mithadan. "Yet this presents us with an opportunity. We shall accept the invitation and evade the guards after dinner, then."

"Or slay them," growled Airefalas. Mithadan did not respond, and instead led his men back to the deck where Korpulfr was waiting. Mithadan smiled broadly. "Airefalas and I shall join you," he said. "An hour after sunset?" Korpulfr nodded and took his leave after saying his farewells.

For the remainder of the morning, Mithadan and Airefalas oversaw the stowing of the cargo. When a crate arrived containing three large nets, he had them opened on the docks, then rolled carefully. One was placed at the stern of the Lonely Star. The others were placed on the deck at either side of the vessel. Then he gave his crew instructions concerning the hooks before the two left the docks and returned to the palace.

"May the favor and luck of Ossë be upon you," whispered Saelon as they stepped onto the gangway. "And you," intoned Mithadan. "And remember my orders. This is our one chance. Do not wait if we cannot reach the ship." Saelon frowned, but nodded reluctantly as his captain and first mate walked away.

[Nerindel]

Circling high above the three tall mast’d ships berthed in Umbar’s Commercial quay, two sharp eyes watched silently the proceedings below, though they knew not why! Something inside this silent watcher, something long buried and forgotten was stirring, compelling her to these lands and to a young mortal man, who she had been observing since she came upon him in the desert, now three days past. There was something familiar about the young man and whenever she got close she had a strong compulsion to protect and nurture him as she would an eaglet, it was all very confusing. Even the young man’s presence in this city seemed wrong… out of place somehow.

Turning another graceful arc, she shook her feathers trying to shake off the uneasiness of her feelings. Just then she spied a silvery glimmer just below the calm blue waters surface and her confusion gave way to hunger, she had not eaten in some time now and she clacked her beak at the thought of fresh fish. Her sharp eyes now watched the glimmering shadow tracing the shoals movements under the water, and as soon as she had memorized the pattern of their movements she pulled in her great wings and dived, hurtling towards the sea, her heart racing with anticapation, opening her wings at the last minute, her sharp talons breaking the waters surface and finding her prey, flapping hard she climbed back to the safety of the blue sky, her pray desparately trying to wriggle free. Gripping tighter to her meal she looked for somewhere to land.

Flying back in the direction of the ships and coming close to the larger of the two dark sailed ships, something inside her screamed danger! And she gave the ship a wide berth settling instead to land on the upper most sail arm of the middle ship. Ah! The men of the stone city, she mused silently seeing the white tree on the ships flag, and looking down on the tall fair men below. Satisfied that she would be safe on her current perch she ripped at her meal with her sharp beak, but as she ate the golden eagle again found herself watching the young raven haired man, who had now come aboard the ship and was speaking with one of the men from the stone city.

[piosenniel]

Rôg

The wind picked up a little, the last gasp of a dying storm. Rôg and Aiwendil pulled the blankets up about their heads again and lapsed into a waiting silence. The younger man’s eyes were narrowed and he chewed on the inside of his lower lip as he turned his companion’s words over in his mind.

‘It is this place,’ the old man had said. ‘I would see us leave here as soon as we can.’

Now what had prompted this? As far as Rôg knew, this was the first time his companion had been to the south, to the desert . . . to this place where those men from years long, long gone had built this stonework fortress as proof against what must have seemed a hostile land. How did the old man know of them?

These men - they had come from across the Great Sea, or so he had heard in old tales. How different must that have been for them; how treacherous this sea of sand must have seemed. He cast his mind back to his younger years, before his clan had traveled south. There were only a very few tales of the tall, fair men that he could recall the story-tellers weaving round the nightly fires. Other tales he did remember vaguely, tales of a far gone time when other men pushed east toward the Red Mountains . . . evil men . . . from whom his little clan had hidden. And before them, long before, were the Shining Ones, the Beautiful . . . The Nimir . . . yes, that was how they were named . . . all gone now.

Sadness tinged the voice of his companion . . . not simple sorrow, but a deeper melancholy edged with regret as he spoke of those men who had done evil by doing nothing. ‘This fortress was filled with such Men,’ Aiwendil had continued, his voice a little hoarse from the sandy debris, his eyes cast downward. ‘. . . those who failed to speak or act when darkness threatened their neighbor.’ What memories of things undone haunted the waking mind of this ‘old dreamer’? What did the old fellow think he could accomplish?

No, not what “he” could accomplish . . . Aiwendil had used the word “we”, again.

Rôg rubbed his parched and roughened lower lip with the pad of his right thumb, a nervous gesture. He was beginning to feel trapped, hemmed in by the constraints of his upbringing and the needs of his companion. He had grown very fond of the old man, but the need to keep safe his family and his clan overshadowed the ties that had formed between the two travelers. Sighing, he shook his head slightly, wanting to shake all the pieces of his thought into some comfortable pattern. His right arm had fallen back into his lap, and in an unconscious gesture his left hand had come up to finger the small stud in his ear.

The wind dropped away at last; the sand settled back to the desert floor. Rôg shrugged the blanket from his shoulders and stood up, offering a hand to Aiwendil as he sat blinking in the quiet calm, his own blanket lying now in a dusty heap round him. With a firm grip he pulled the other man to his feet, steadying him with one hand on his elbow as he rose. ‘Come,’ he said, urging the camel now onto its knees. ‘Mount up, Aiwendil, and we will hasten to that encampment that I saw.’ Once the old fellow had settled in securely on the saddle, Rôg pressed the beast to stand up, and assuming his small bee-eater form, flew up to perch on Aiwendil’s shoulder.

He shook out his feathers and took his time preening them as they clopped along. The old man seemed distracted and kept his thoughts to himself as the camel plodded through the sand covering the hard baked clay. For his part, Rôg, too, was quiet as he turned his thoughts over and over again.

‘No easy solutions to this, is there?’ he murmured, half out loud. His beak clacked a little in irritation at his continued quandary. ‘Still . . . I suppose I can help out to a certain point . . . like I thought before.’ He flapped his wings a bit, then settled them in smoothly against his sides. ‘I can get him to where he needs to be. Can’t be any harm in that, can there? Don’t know what he thinks he can do once we get there, though.’ Rôg picked a sand-flea from the tuft of hair that bristled from the old man’s ear and dispatched it in a single gulp. ‘Right, then,’ he said nodding his little feathered head decisively. ‘I’ll just see him safely there . . . and mind my own business while he goes about his . . .’ Satisfied with this last bit of reasoning, he turned his attention to a question that had been brewing in the back of his mind . . . something again from what Aiwendil had said during the sandstorm.

‘I’m curious,’ he began, tapping his beak lightly against the old man’s ear lobe to gain his full attention. ‘That land you spoke of, the one a far distance across the sea – do you recall its name, by chance? What was it like? And what sorts of birds did you see there?’ The little bird cocked his head, his bright black eyes looking up at the man’s face. ‘Would it be a place we might travel to?’

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Surinen

As the wind had risen out of the north, Surinen had found shelter from the wind on the leeward side of a camel lying quietly among the gorse bushes. Covering his nose with his curling tail, the maenwaith had formed a circle, his ears alert, shifting with each crack or bleat as he waited out the storm. Whipping through the camp, the wind severed by the tent strings had sounded hauntingly like the weird call of a jackal loose in the camp, and the wool panels joined in with their erratic thunk. It was not a bad storm, he had reassured himself, but still he had found that he wished for the peace that would come once the blast had lessened into a breeze again, and the sun had climbed down from the sky, relieving the heat that fed it.

But even that would not end the unrest that he bore in his heart. Too many strange occurrences were pressing on it. Ayar, who was in this troubling state, lay in bed so indisposed that the flocks could not be moved to fresher grounds – a thing he could not recall having happened before. And of course Rôg’s appearance as well, but more deeply distressing to him was learning that his uncle had not alerted the other elders to his report of a stranger in their proximity, as he had thought him sure to do. In fact, he had seemed quite reluctant to even hear his nephew’s account, when the young man had transformed panting and bewildered in his tent. At the time the outrider thought it mere distain that governed his uncle Fador’s quick dismissal, but that he should discount the message as well as the messenger was not fitting. And Surinen felt not only slighted, but also disturbed by it. Was he no longer to be trusted? Were his accounts taken so lightly? No, the gathering of elders had paid heed to his voice. He was not out of favor with them.

The outrider decided that it must be on account of his sister that his uncle mistrusted him. Perhaps he had heard some unfavorable news of her that had not been told Dinsûl. But he was not as Mîrya, though the same blood flowed through their veins. She, though maenwaith , had seemingly little real love for what she was, or else she would surely have returned to the clan long ago. Perhaps when Thorn returned he could be persuaded to speak on his behalf, and knowing Surinen’s character well, he could vouch for his loyalty, calming any doubts the uncle might have. But then who could say when Thorn might return!

More so today Surinen wished that Thorn might see that he should stay where he was needed and not go out among the others, who were bound to bring him only sadness and disappointment. The clan need not so much trade in horses or goods, for their needs were few and simple ones. They needed more Thorn’s presence and common sense than his dealings with the caravans.

But now as the storm was subsiding Surinen lifted his muzzle eyeing the goats and sheep that grew restless around him. As the weather further improved the flocks became more adventurous, straying outside the confines of the brush, and the mottled dog slowly got to its feet. After shaking the sand from his coat, Surinen leaned back with a yawn, stretching his front legs. And loping easily around the errant ones, he silently and gently brought them back into the group.

[Ealasaide]

After having seen to the loading of the cargo and the careful placement of Mithadan's nets, Airefalas once more followed his captain down the gangplank into the company of the waiting guards. He was feeling somewhat more encouraged than he had when making the same walk down the gangplank the day before, but he knew that a lot of obstacles still separated him and Mithadan from the freedom and relative safety of the open ocean. While the moment of action lay only a few short hours in the offing, it would not arrive soon enough for him. He had had enough of Umbar a long time ago and longed to see the dusty spires of the city’s great houses sink into the horizon behind him as the Lonely Star rode away at full sail toward Gondor. Airefalas sighed and turned his eyes in the direction of Lord Falasmir’s palace. In only a few short hours, he would be free of that place, anyway. Whether he found himself at sea or for sale in the Umbarian slave market, though, only time would tell.

As they began the long trek back to the palace, Airefalas gave Raal, the guard on his right, a long look. At about the same time the day before, he and Raal had been drinking together and discussing the fate of the Amarantha. Now, for all he knew, either one of them could be dead in a matter of hours. While it would give him no outright pleasure to slay the man in cold blood, Airefalas was a realist. Given the choice, he would rather the dead man be Raal than himself, even though he had the impression that Raal was quite young, probably a good deal younger than his own twenty-nine years. Even so, when the time came, he knew that there must be no hesitation if it came to a fight.

Sensing Airefalas' eyes on him, the guard gave him a questioning look. Airefalas simply looked away. He listened idly as Mithadan engaged Mahat, another of the guards, in a brief conversation about the weather and the prevailing winds, as though he were truly intending to set sail for Gondor the following day as planned. Mahat seemed relaxed but only marginally interested. Airefalas let his mind jump ahead to the evening’s dinner at the home of the merchant, Korpulfr.

Initially, he had been against accepting the merchant’s invitation, preferring to take his chances with the weapons and makeshift ropes that had been left behind in their rooms by the girl, Ráma. While Mithadan had made an excellent point about the dinner providing them with the opportunity to be away from the palace at the crucial time of escape, Airefalas found a series of other questions gnawing at the back of his mind. For one thing, there was the matter of weapons. They had carried their own swords and daggers into the palace, but the guards had been less then cooperative about allowing them to wear them openly. And then there were the weapons that Ráma had brought them. If they suddenly appeared with them, how did Mithadan propose they explain to the guards about that? Obviously, it could not be done without endangering the girl. Therefore, the best they could do would be to conceal the daggers on their persons as best they could, leaving the swords behind. And if the merchant insisted on searching them? What then? It would take more than just a little clever talk to explain their concealed weapons to the merchant, who had invited them into his home as guests.

Come to think of it, thought Airefalas, as the palace gates loomed ahead of them, what of the merchant himself? While he liked Korpulfr personally and had enjoyed his conversations with him the evening before, what did they really know of him? Nothing. What did he have to gain by defying Falasmir’s guards and having them, de facto prisoners of the city’s reigning lord, over for a little dinner party? Airefalas turned the question over in his mind. It could be a trap, yet another bit of treachery on the part of Lord Falasmir. On the other hand, Korpulfr could genuinely be trying to extend his advantage as a merchant in hopes of expanding his trade options with Gondor. In that case, by using the unsuspecting man’s dinner as an avenue to escape, he and Mithadan would in all likelihood ensure an innocent man’s death. Airefalas frowned. He had already pointed out that possibility to Mithadan before the dinner invitation had even been accepted and, what was it Mithadan had said? That they would accept the invitation and elude the guards after dinner. Airefalas had a feeling that whether they escaped before, during, or after dinner would make very little difference to Lord Falasmir. The merchant would likely pay with his life.

Even so, Mithadan was correct in that the dinner invitation did provide them with an opportunity to be away from the palace and, as such, would put them that much closer to the deck of the Lonely Star. Airefalas knew as well as anyone that that one small advantage, in and of itself, could spell the difference between life and death for him and Mithadan. In that light, the fate of the merchant would have to be left to the merchant. It was unfortunate but perhaps the merchant was in a better position to defend himself than they knew. Either way, under the circumstances, there was nothing else that could be done.

By the time Airefalas had reached this conclusion, the group had arrived back at the rooms in the palace that had been assigned to the two Gondorians. As soon as the door closed behind them, leaving him and Mithadan once more to their own devices, Airefalas went to the armoire where they had stashed the small cache of weapons brought to them by Ráma that morning. To his relief, they were still there as were his and Mithadan's own swords. Closing the cabinet, Airefalas turned toward his captain.

“What do we do about the weapons this evening?” he asked. “If we can elude our guards without fighting, that’s all very well, but I can’t see the guards around the dock just letting us walk back aboard the Star unmolested. We’ll need swords.”

[Mithadan]

Mithadan nodded. "Then we will wear our swords to dinner, whether it be a breach of etiquette or no," he answered. "Our guards have allowed us to wear our swords in the market, probably wise considering the nature of the place. We shall do so again tonight and if our host requires us to leave them at the door, so be it! The knives which Rama brought us we shall wear in our belts or stow in packs which we shall also bring... to carry money, papers and trade goods of course."

"Very good," replied Airefalas. "But what trade goods would we carry?"

Mithadan pulled his pack from a dresser and rummaged through it briefly. He withdrew a small lether case and opened it. Inside, nestled in folds of leather were several bright gemstones. He pulled out a second case and tossed it to Airefalas. "I bought these in the market a week ago," he said. "If questioned, we can claim that Korpulfr expressed an interest in them."

Airefalas nodded and stowed the packet in his own bag. The two packed light changes of clothes and sheafs of papers, together with pens and ink. Rama's knives were hidden in the bottom of the packs. Into pockets in their capes went more knives. Finally, when all was ready, they sat with their swords and sharpened and oiled the blades. The steel flashed and glowed in the sunlight which filtered through the windows.

When no more could be done, Mithadan arranged the rooms. "It must look as if we mean to return," he explained. Then both men attempted to rest, for it would be a long night, though sleep evaded them. At last, they rose and prepared for the dinner, choosing well-made but simpler clothes than they had worn at Falasmir's reception. Finally, as the sun began to set, they prepared their head cloths and went to the door. Behind them, the light of the setting sun which entered the windows was oddly red and the curtains were rustled by a rising wind.

[Nerindel]

Kórpulfr

Kórpulfr wore a satisfied grin as he and his companions left the docks. He listened idly as his young kinsmen discussed their preparations for this evening’s meal. Only Hasrim remained silent, brooding over his young master’s decision, as he directed the cart through the busy streets towards the market place. Hasrim had filled the role of bodyguard for as long as he could remember and they almost never agreed when it came to his personal safety, but when it came to it he would trust no other. Korpulfr was no stranger to threats and the occasional failed assassination; it came hand in hand with his position. Disgruntled traders, opportunistic Corsairs, greedy fat cat Lords even Lord Falasmir’s astute trade minister, they all had their reasons to see him disposed of, but Hasrim always saw to it that they never got the opportunity. For this, he was truly grateful; he knew that he constantly made his cousin’s job more difficult than it need be.

As they pulled up to The Raven’s Nest, he jumped down from the cart followed closely by Hasrim and his three helpers, who immediately began unloading the rest of the cargo and taking it in to the Maenwaith trade store. “You do realise that if the Northerner’s know of Falasmir’s plans they may use tonight to make a run for it!” Hasrim whispered beside him as they looked over the delivery manifest. “Yes, that thought had crossed my mind,” he answered without looking up from the parchment. “Then we will have to pray to the great hunter that they are still oblivious to Lord Falasmir’s plans.” Hasrim answered, but Korpulfr could not miss the hint of doubt in the astute mans voice. He was well aware of the consequences should the Northerners escape while in his company, he could only hope that Wyrma held some influence over the quick tempered Lord, should things go awry. “She will not protect you if it does not benefit her!” Hasrim answered dryly guessing the young mans thoughts, “let me take secondary precautions, should the worst happen, let us make it seem that the fault was with Falasmir’s guards and not with our household! “ Korpulfr thought over his words then nodded, “But I do not wish to appear hostile in front of our guests, I need them to think we are friends if I am to find out why they enquire about our kin.” Hasrim nodded his understanding then left to do some enquiring of his own.

Korpulfr was pleased to see that Asrim was already in the store, he needed to have words with his cousin before heading up to the palace to let Tinar know of the recent developments. The middle-aged Maenwaith businessman, stood pouring over a ledger in his left hand and adding to it with the quill in his right, but at his cousin’s entry, he looked up and beckoned him to join him. Asrim unlike Hasrim was a little more flexible and open minded, but never slow to offer his help or advice if he thought it needed, and even on occasion when it was not. In this way the older man acted as his advisor and it was Asrim he would go to if he had any indecisions, or if something troubled him. “So did it go well?” Asrim asked, continuing to make his adjustments to the accounts, as Korpulfr leaned on the counter across from him. “it went as well as could be expected, though there was a little trouble at the docks with some of Falasmir’s men, but no more than heated words, which Hasrim quickly defused.” he answered unconcerned. “Hmm, yes, I did hear that our esteemed Lord was having the shipments examined, in fact I have had irate traders bending my ear all morning. As if I could do anything about it!” he groaned. “But I did managed to find out the majority of the Gondorians cargo… now were did I put that list?” he said searching through the parchment that lay on the counter, “Here we are!” he exclaimed handing him the carefully written list.

Korpulfr could feel Asrim watching him as he looked over the list of wares purchased by the captain and his crew. “Rather light wouldn’t you say?” Asrim ventured. “Hmm, Hasrim is not going to like this news,” he frowned shaking his head. “Hasrim” Asrim exclaimed puzzled by this reply. Looking up from his musings, he studied the older man trying to guess if his reaction would match that of Hasrim’s, or if the astute businessman would see the potential to make a profitable gain. “I invited the Captain and his first mate to join us for dinner tonight.” He was pleased to see that Asrim did not immediately object, as Hasrim had done, though he did not fault his guard his misgivings, he thought only for his safety and the safety of their household. Were as Asrim thought also of their pockets and of how deeply he could fill them. “This presents a wonderful opportunity to set up a more substantial trade agreement between our two peoples, which could prove advantageous once Wyrma’s city is established.” Asrim answered lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, but seeing his cousin’s amused grin, his features became sterner, “But I do see Hasrim’s concern, should anything go wrong tonight, Falasmir will hold you accountable.” Rubbing his temples Korpulfr had to agree. “Hasrim is already making plans to see that that does not happen, but I too have some ideas of my own,” he told Asrim contemplatively.

“Is there any deliveries for the palace?” he asked after a moments thought. “Yes” his cousin replied, “The palace kitchens sent a messenger with an order this morning.”

“And is this order ready?” Korpulfr asked.

“Yes, it’s on a cart out the back, I was planning to deliver it once I was finished here, “Asrim answered, frowning at his cousin’s seemingly sudden change in conversation.

“I’ll take it, I was planning to drop in on Tinar anyway, perhaps I will even invite the young man to join us for dinner, he did seem thoroughly disappointed that he could not come to the ship with me this morning, perhaps this will make up for that loss, what do you think?” he finished with an impish grin. Asrim only shook his head and laughed. With Tinar among their company if anything should go wrong, then Wyrma would be forced to intervene, well that was their hope, but if not they always had Hasrim’s plan, what ever that turned out to be.

After instructing Asrim to send his young helpers home to inform the kitchen of their additional guests and to spread the news of their guests among the Maenwaith traders, he hitched up Asrim’s cart and headed towards the palace. Once there he let the palace staff unload his cart and went to find his young friend.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Wyrma paced the floor of her room restlessly, feeling like a caged lioness. She had been sitting for too many hours, busy with parchments and messages, when Tinar came to tell her that the Gondorians had not only heard rumours of Shapechangers, but were searching for them.

Were these sailors spies, disguised as merchants? And what did the Great Kingdom of the North intend to do with Maenwaith if they found them? Uncertainty always made her feel uneasy; she hated waiting for others to act and much preferred taking the first step herself.

But we are planning a step against them, she reminded herself. They shall be thrown into confusion when… Her thoughts wandered to the results of her planning, and a corner of her mouth lifted in a tiny, triumphant smile.

Now, if she could only leave the palace complex for a brisk walk, she would feel better. However, in a city of cutthroats and robbers such as this, that was only possible with guards to protect her. And a walk with guards would not make her feel less caged. If only she could spread her wings and fly, away from this squalid city with its dark passageways. Yet that too was not possible – she had instructed those of her people who stayed here that they should not transform unless necessary. They could not risk discovery, which would almost inevitably be followed by persecution. They had experienced that many times throughout the decades. That was why they needed a city of their own, where no one would attempt to harass them because they were different, where no one would fear them and they needed to fear no one.

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

“Enter!” Tinar called in reply to the knock on his door. Korpúlfr strode into the room – the very person he wanted to see! He could not wait to hear what had happened at the northern ship.

“You missed some interesting hours!” Korpúlfr grinned, continuing with an account of the events. “Now, I know you would have liked to be there,” he finished, “but I can offer you a compensation. I have invited the captain and his mate to dinner this evening, and they accepted. Would you like to come?”

Tinar accepted eagerly, knowing that his mother would have no objection to a possibility for finding out more about these men.

“But tell me, what did your mother say about the news I told you?” Kor asked.

His companion shrugged. “Not much – you know that she thinks before she speaks. But I think it startled her. I do not know what she plans to do, but I am sure she will take care to prevent our people’s discovery. We must be cautious this evening, and not give ourselves away.”

“I must go now,” Kor said, turning to the door, “there is much to prepare.”

“I shall be there punctually,” Tinar promised.

[Nerindel]

Korpulfr walked confidently through the long corridors of the palace contemplating the little Tinar had revealed to him and turning over the many preparations that still needed attending before his guests arrived. He had full confidence that his household would already have many of the preparations well under way, but he always found that it never hurt to be overly cautious when entertaining strangers. As he walked, he watched the palace staff dutifully going about their business and could not help but wonder if Lord Falasmir had such confidences in all his own staff. The thought brought a wry grin to his face as he thought of the Lords newest advisor. Wyrma was certainly not one to be trifled with, she too hungered for the freedom of their people, but it did not occur to him to what lengths she would go to secure that freedom. His faith in his kin and the injustices he had witnessed during his child hood years blinded him to any such indiscretions the current Wyrm might commit.

Striding through the courtyard he nodded accordingly to the lords and ladies of the gentry that walked the grounds oblivious to advisor Wyrma’s true nature, concerned only with the ship and crew currently berthed in their port, he had to marvel at the irony of it all! While Falasmir plotted and schemed and the people of Umbar overly concerned themselves with their guests, they failed to see the dragon in their midst’s and the wolves closing tight around them ready for the kill, or so he was lead to believe. Each day the council of eldars assured him and his father that plans where going well, but of what those plans entailed he was never told, if his father knew he never spoke of it and he never asked. Having full confidence in the leaders of his people and never having any cause to doubt their words or sincerity.

Reaching the merchants entrance of the palace kitchens he procured the signature of the store master and went to retrieve his cart, leaving the palace for once in decidedly high spirits, despite the cold looks he received from the guards as he passed through the iron gates. On reaching the house, he left the cart and horses in the care of the stable hands and set about ensuring that all preparations for this evening’s meal were well in hand. Once satisfied that all was indeed ready and having seen to many preparations himself, he retired to his room to wash and change, stopping briefly to drop off paper work, look over, and sign some documents Asrim had left for him in the study.

Standing on the balcony to his room he watched as the sun dipped its head into the cool blue waters of the sea. A cooling breeze ruffled the light fabric of his shirt as his gaze fell on the three ships berthed below in Umbar’s port, dark ominous shadows against the orangey red glow of the setting sun. “It is time!” a familiar voice behind him announced drawing his attention. With a grin he turned to see Asrim standing in the doorway waiting for him, carefully fixing the cuffs of his shirt so they showed beneath his finely cut russet jacket, his advisor looking the very image of a fine Haradwaith gentleman merchant. Next to him stood Hasrim, but unlike Asrim the desert warrior did not stand on formality or pomp, choosing instead to wear the simple yet practical attire of the desert people that they once were, his weapons hanging openly at his waist. Lifting a plain but finely cut red waistcoat he slipped it over his loose cream shirt and followed his cousins to the entrance hall to greet their guests as they arrived.

Already many of the Maenwaith merchant's and their families had arrived and were milling about in small groups discussing the day’s trade. The squeal of children’s laughter brought a smile to his face as he stepped to one side to narrowly avoid a collision, as a number of small children chased each other around the hall. Tinar too had already arrived and sought him out with an excited wave of his hand. A small bell rang and the children and his kin all stopped what they were doing and made their way into the dinning hall as they did every evening, all except Tinar who at his askance joined them to greet his guests when they arrived.

[Child of the 7th Age]

The old man was locked in feverish speculation, scarcely aware of the small bird’s questioning or the insistent tapping on his ear. Aiwendil could not understand what was happening. For endless years, he had remembered only scraps of what he had known before. The knowledge, the skills, even the stories from across the Sea, had gradually dimmed, fading from his mind.

Wandering through the vales of Mirkwood along silent, empty paths, he had consorted only with wild creatures, sometimes purposely avoiding Men and Elves. Refusing to be drawn into a world in which there was too much pain and grief, he had held onto only a small piece of what Manwe had entrusted to him. His memory of the lost road had receded; even his yearning to return West had grown less urgent, leaving behind an unsettling emptiness. Now, the memories were slowly coming back, yet Aiwendil had no idea why or to what purpose he should put this new understanding.

Aiwendil hastily put a hand up to his ear to ward off the offending bird. But, before he could react, the small dark eyes stared back at the istar , demanding an immediate answer to a lengthy string of questions. Something inside Aiwendil whispered that this chance should not be ignored. Somehow, some way, he must plant a seed of hope and resistance in this gentle hearted maenwaith .

Aiwendil reflected on the old times as he searched for words and images that would have meaning for his companion. He glanced over at the small winged creature and deliberately spoke, “The birds…. the birds. They were marvelous to see. The old tales do not speak of it, but the great Sea birds that made their home in the Far West often ventured eastward, bringing bits of the magic with them. These creatures had plumage so startlingly rich that all who saw it were amazed,not like the simple white and grey cranes and gulls that you have seen. With scarlet and gold and silver wings, they glided above the waters and the people of the Star Isle would look up and marvel, glimpsing a tiny hint of what lay beyond.”

“But, alas! All that is gone. The wondrous birds, the Elves and their graceful ships, even the tall palaces and monuments that the Men once built…. and in its place only empty waves. The storm was so great that the wall of water reached up and sucked everything into its path, even the poor flying visitors who had ventured too far to the east. Later I returned; I wept to see only a few feathers scattered in the whirling surf, and all the other animals gone. For the people brought destruction not only on their own heads, but on all the innocent creatures who dwelled in that place.” Aiwendil sighed and looked out across the sands.

“There were so many evil ones then? To bring about such carnage?” the small bird interrupted, uneasily cocking his head.

“Not so many, not at first,” Aiwendil responded. “Only a few turned their back on the old ways and sought to impose their will on others. It could have been stopped if the rest had acted and stood up to oppose the lengthening shadow. But folk went about their business and paid little attention to the cries of those who were hurt. And, by the time they realized the peril had spread, it was too late to do anything. It is so easy not to act, to come up with an excuse and let others tend to the problems…..”

Aiwendil fell silent out of shame and humiliation. Was he saying these words for himself or Rôg? Perhaps both. Memories of Mirkwood and what lay before came flooding back as the camel’s rhythmic stride continued to eat up the sandy track. The wild dunes flew by and their trek inexorably continued towards the interior of the desert.

[Mithadan]

The guards did not question the packs which Mithadan and Airefalas were carrying, but instead escorted them quickly from the palace and turned south towards the great market. As darkness fell around them, the guards moved closer to their charges, peering into the shadows as they walked with hands on the hilts of their swords. The Gondorians trudged along in silence for several minutes, wrapped up in their thoughts. Then Mithadan spoke rapidly to Airefalas in Quenya. "You are schooled in the high Elf tongue, are you not?" he asked.

"Of course," answered Airefalas with a sidelong glance at Mahat who walked next to them.

Mithadan turned to Seft and the other guards as they strode along the stone-paved street. "And you," he asked in the same tongue. "Do you speak the language of the High Elves?" The guards looked at one another in confusion for a moment before Seft responded in Westron. "Uh, what did you say?"

Mithadan laughed and raised a hand in apology. "I am sorry," he said, switching to the common tongue. "I asked if Korpulfr's house is much farther." Seft nodded. "Just a few more minutes," he replied. "The desert-dweller lives on the outskirts of the market, just uphill from where the stalls begin." The guard looked about again as if he did not approve of the location of Korpulfr's dwelling.

Switching back to Quenya, Mithadan spoke again to Airefalas. "If no earlier opportunity presents itself, after dinner we will demand to wander the shops. If we cannot loose them, well, their...disappearance will not be mourned there." Airefalas nodded with a grim smile.

A few blocks from the market's main thoroughfare, the guards directed them towards the east onto a narrow street where several large houses stood. They approached a gate at which two young men stood with spears in their hands. "Tell Korpulfr that his guests from Gondor have arrived," growled Mahat to one of the men. He nodded and escorted the party into a courtyard where they were met by four other armed men. "Welcome!" said one, who Mithadan recognized as a companion of Korpulfr's from the morning. "I am Hasrim. You are expected. Dinner will be ready soon." He bowed before the Gondorians before turning to the guards. "You may wait here," he continued as he gestured towards a bench before the door of the house. "We will send you food and drink shortly."

"We will accompany the northerners," said Mahat angrily. "We are charged with their safety!"

"They will be safe here," replied Hasrim curtly. "This is not the house of Falasmir and you may not enter. You know our rules. No men at arms are allowed within. This would be the case even if Falasmir himself were our guest."

"We go with the Gondorians or we leave with them," cried Seft with a hand on the hilts of his sword.

"Peace," laughed Mithadan. He unbuckled his sword from his belt and leaned the scabbard against the wall. Airefalas followed suit. "We will come to no harm here," he continued. "We have not paid the trader for his goods yet. If he slays us he will never get his money."

Hasrim blinked at this, doubting Mithadan's words, but remained silent. "Come now," said Airefalas with a smile. "Korpulfr would not dare to allow harm to come to us in the midst of Falasmir's city. We are friends here. Let us dine in peace and we will send out the finest wine to you even if we pay for it ourselves. In fact, Hasrim, have two bottles brought out now in a gesture of peace!" Hasrim paused, then nodded grudgingly. A quick word to one of the men was passed and in a moment two bottles were brought forth with cups for the guards. "We'll have more sent out," said Mithadan with a smile. "We promise."

Mahat sniffed dubiously at his cup, then sipped at it. After a moment he nodded. "Very well," he said gruffly. "But if our guests are harmed you and your master will be held accountable!"

"Of course," answered Hasrim with a mock bow. Then he escorted Mithadan and Airefalas inside. The house was large and well-appointed. Ornate rugs and tapestries hung on the walls and the sorridors were broad and airy. The Gondorians were brought to a wide hall in which a large table was set. The scent of spices and cooked meats filled the room. At the head of the table sat Korpulfr, who rose as his guests entered...

[Nerindel]

Kórpulfr

“Welcome, come, come, and sit!” Kórpulfr called warmly extending his hospitality and indicating the two empty chairs next to him. As the two men sat and wine was poured for them, Hasrim whispered in the Maenwaith tongue what had just passed outside. Giving no indication as to what was discussed he held his smile and nodded his understanding. He then turned back to his guests, “my house is yours for this evening, anything you wish shall be yours, now for some introductions,” he said airily.

“My cousin Hasrim you have already met and this is my advisor Asrim.” He said indicating the man sitting to his right who accordingly raised his goblet and nodded politely to the northern’s.

“And immediately to your left is another guest of our house this evening, my very good friend Tinar.” he continued gesturing to the young man who now stood beside Airefalas.

“So we met again!” Tinar laughed shaking Airefalas’ hand. Suddenly another bell rang interrupting the introductions, everyone rose and as Korpulfr excused himself and turned to address his kin, Tinar explained to their guests that they were about to give thanks to the spirits of their people for the bountiful meal prepared before them and the good fortunes of the day.

In the southern dialect of the desert clans, he delivered thanks and praise to the great hunter of the wolf clan. Several others also spoke giving thanks and praise to their respective clan spirits, all the while, he could hear Tinar translate for their guests, leaving out anything that would overly give hint to their true nature. After prayer, he again spoke in the common tongue formally introducing his guests to his gathered house, the Captain and his first mate nodded accordingly, and then Kórpulfr gestured for everyone to be seated and the meal began. The chatter began almost at once, Business, family and what ever else came to mind, this part of the evening always brought a smile to Korpulfr’s lip’s, watching his people come together and be at ease with one another was most gratifying , but he was forgetting his guests!

“How are you enjoying your stay in the city of the Corsairs?” he asked turning to Mithadan who was seated to his left.

“The food and the trade are good” the captain smiled evasively, indicating the varied selection of food before him, Korpulfr let the evasion pass he knew it would not be prudent for the Captain to speak ill of Lord Falasmir’s hospitality while still in the city.
While Tinar and a few other younger men of his clan asked about the lands to the north, Asrim and the Maenwaith traders quizzed the captain about Gondorian trade laws and customs. A few even enquired as to what types of merchandise they could procure trading with the north men. In return, they too spoke of the trade customs of the desert people. Moreover, how their ways differed from those of the Umbarian traders of the city.

“The Desert people are an honest and simple people, some travel to the city on occasion to ply their wares then disappear into the desert sands, like a mirage. It is said that if a desert man does not wish to be found he will not!” Korpulfr laughed heartily.

“But they are also easily offended!” Asrim warned, “It is yes or no, black or white, the Desert folk know no middle ground.”

“Except when it comes to a price!” another man cried, gaining the agreeing laughter of the other traders in the room.

“But are you not men of the desert?” Airefalas puzzled.

“Ah, yes that we are my friend, but like most who come to live in the city we have learned to adapt, although not all of us still walk the paths of our fathers we still hold to many of their values and beliefs.” Korpulfr answered honestly.

However, before he could continue another bell rang. “Ah it is the time for song and tales of old, will you join us?” However, before Mithadan and Airefalas could answer they where assailed by the youngest of his household. “How big is your ship? Is it bigger than the corsairs are? Is it fast? How fast can it go? Have you had many adventures, please tell us one?”

“Now, now little cubs let our guests first decide if they have the time to join us, “Korpulfr grinned to the expectant faces of the Maenwaith children.

“Awww! Please stay!” they begged.

“How can I refuse,” Mithadan laughed, the children then grabbed the two men and led them though the archway at the end of the hall, inside the room was light with many lamps and candles and the floor was littered with soft silk and velvet cushions, the children let go of their guests and ran to find their favourite cushions. As Korpulfr directed Mithadan and Airefalas to come and sit with him at the front of the room, the other diners began to filter into the room.

Once everyone was seated, a young woman stood up and began to sing, as she sang several dancers entered the room their movements echoing the emotions within the song. Korpulfr informed his guests that the song told the story of a tribe that refused to bow to the dark lord, even when the Lords of Umbar allied themselves to his lies. He also told them of the underlying forbidden love story between the simple warrior and the tribe leader’s daughter. As the song finished everyone clapped, the young woman curtsied then took her seat, as did the dancers.

“Now time for a story what would you like to hear tonight?” he grinned turning to the children eagerly huddled together.

“We want to hear about Captain Mithadan’s ship!” the children cried together. Korpulfr looked to the captain rather apologetically, “would you mind, even a short one would abate their curiosity?”

[Child of the 7th Age]

For the duration of the storm, Narika watched and waited at Ayar's bedside as her mother tossed restlessly in the tangled sheets, drifting in and out of consciousness. Grimly reflecting that her mother's condition was no different, Narika found her spirits dropping as she listened to the howl of the swirling sands as they battered remoselessly against the heavy canvas of the tent. Over the next few hours, the blistering winds subsided. Trying to concentrate on some simple housecleaning chores, she shook out the ornate woven rugs that decorated the floor, now covered with a layer of fine sand that had managed to slip in through the cracks. She finally set down her broom and asked the servant girl Riá to watch over Ayar so that she could check on things and make sure everyone had safely weathered the storm.


Outside, the camp was returning to life as men and women ventured from their tents to straighten out the wreckage and round up the herds. Several of the young lads were already digging out the firepit and piling up the precious twigs and limbs in preparation for the evening meal that had been pushed back by the unexpected windstorm. With help from the others, Narika pried the lids off two large communal water barrels that stood near the firepit for anyone to use. She leaned over to retrieve a ladle of water pouring it into her bucket, making a face when she glimpsed the thin sediment of sand that had settled near the bottom of the barrel. Water was too precious to waste. They would have to make do until her mother was well enough to survive the move to the next encampment where there would be a fresh supply.

Even with the storm, the news of Ayar's illness had spread quickly through the camp. A number of the maenwaith eagerly surrounded Narika, pressing her to tell them how her mother was doing and when they could expect to see her again. Unable to give them any sure response, Narika wanly smiled, brushing aside the questions with only the slightest hint of an answer, and quickly retreated inside her tent. She set down the bucket and was about to resume her nursing duties when a quiet voice sounded at the door and the tent flap again drew back. Narika looked over to see Yalisha step inside carrying a pouch of herbs slung over her shoulder.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Yes. Thank you for coming." There was a stiff formality in the air between the two women that Narika did nothing to combat. "You have heard of my mother's illness?"

Yalisha nodded and, without further conversation, came over to kneel at Ayar's side, carefully examining the older woman and asking questions as she worked. Rolling Ayar onto her stomach, she paused for a moment as she glimpsed the tiny puncture wound at the base of the neck, which was still inflamed from the day before. Yalisha's eyes widened in surprise. Her voice trembling, she pointed towards the inflammation, "This small wound? How did it happen?"

"I have no idea.," Narika countered. " It has been like that since she first fell ill."

"Think.... This is important. When did she complain of receving such an injury?"

Narika was about to shake her head again, when she suddenly recalled an incident that had happened earlier. "I do remember one thing. Yesterday, towards dusk, when all had gathered to hear music and stories, Ayar came out to join the circle. One of the attendants saw her stop and blanche and rub the back of her neck. When he asked if he could do anything to help, she merely waved him off and said it was nothing....only the sting of an insect. None of us thought it important at the time."

Yalisha looked up with bright, glittering eyes and then down at Ayar, shaking her head in dismay. When she spoke again, it was in a voice tinged with regret. "I can not be certain. But I do not believe this to be a natural sickness. I have little knowledge of such things, but I have heard others speak of it There are herbs, deadly herbs, whose oils can be extracted and placed on the tip of a missile or dart. For some there are remedies; for others, not. I do not know what this poison is, or if there is any cure, but I fear that your mother has fallen victim to an evil hand."

Narika stared at Yalisha and listened uncomprehending. "You are telling me Ayar was poisoned? Here, in this camp! That is impossible. No one within the clan would do such a thing. And outsiders do not even know where we are, not even the great Wyrma herself. Are you telling me that someone inside the clan has done this terrible thing or that outsiders have come here without our even knowing?"

"I cannot say. Only that whatever struck down your mother looks and acts like certain poisons that exist within the city of Umbar. How such a thing has come here, I have no idea."

With eyes hard as flint, Narika cried out, "Umbar! I should have expected this. It is not one of us but the outsiders. Every time we touch that city, we come away with grief. I swear if anything happens to my mother, I will slay any outsider who dares approach the clan even in so-called friendship." Narika's thoughts strayed to her sister Ráma hoping that she had already headed home.

"Please," she pleaded. "Is there nothing you can do to help her? Some compound or tincture?"

Yalisha pulled open her pouch of herbs, examining the contents. " I know little of such poisons, but I will try. Perhaps Ráma or my brother will soon return with news that will tell us who lies behind this deed and how we may best combat it."

"Let us hope so," Nakira grimly nodded.

[piosenniel]

Rôg

The camel bumped along in the gathering darkness; his great, flat hooves thumping against the packed sand. Aiwendil had pulled his hood up, retreating into silence, lost in his own thoughts. Rôg, his feet hooked firmly in the folds of Aiwendil’s robe, had retreated in like manner, tucking his head beneath one wing. The outer appearances of repose aside, the little bird’s thoughts were whirling.

The Star Isle. It cannot be! I must have misheard . . . He flapped his wings and shook his tail then settled his head once again under cover of his wing. The old man speaks as if he had been there . . . how can that be . . .

A leathery voice niggled at the edges of his thoughts saying Step up, little one, when there is need . . ., receding as a scene from his childhood played in his mind.

~*~

The old, old woman had come in from the steppe one winter . . . down from the craggy cliffs to the east, her thin frame bent over in the chilly winds that swept down from the north. One gnarled hand grasped a walking stick; crooked yew wood it was . . . And from the small boy’s point of view the bent and twisted and gnarled frame of the woman who bore it prompted the wild thought that her stick was simply another appendage that grew from her. Or perhaps she from it . . . he could not tell.

He thought, too, the wind might blow her over, so frail she looked to him. But she turned her dark eyes on his staring face and he could see the strength rooted in their depths. No winds would move her, he sensed. Then, wondering if this were just some ghosty thing come down to haunt the camp, he reached out with his slim, small hand to touch her robe.

Real enough, he now remembered, feeling the rough, scaly material slide again between his fingers.

The clan leader had welcomed her to his tent with great affection and later that day, around the evening fire, had invited her to be the story-teller. The older folk had warmed to her recitation of the clans’ family names and their descendents, nodding one to another when their ancestor was named and their branch recited. Rôg and his sister had grown fidgety at the long lists that rolled off the old woman’s tongue, but their father had fixed them with a frown and slight shake of his head at their restless antics; their mother had simply gathered them nearer, hushing them as she nuzzled her lips against their hair. ‘These names are written in your bones,’ she had whispered to them. ‘Listen! She speaks them for you.’

Names, and sons and daughters of names, had woven round in the soft light cast on the tents gathered near the communal fire. Sparks flew up into the deepening darkness as the pitchy wood crackled and hissed. Daira had pinched him as her name was chanted out near the end, and he in turn had given her a smug smile as his name joined hers and led the way, then, for the few of those younger than they. Murmurs of appreciation and nods at the old woman followed as her voice dropped off, the namings done.

‘An old story, now, Mother!’ a voice had chimed in. ‘The one with the Eagles!’ called another. ‘Narîka 'nBâri 'nAdûn!’

‘What eagles are they asking about?’ Rôg turned his small face up with a frown to his mother. He knew there were great birds that nested in the cliffs, but they were ordinary, everyday birds, and these seemed to be of some other sort. 'nBâri 'nAdûn. He rolled the old words about in his mouth, savoring the feel of them. Lords of the West . . . their eagles . . . His attention snapped back to the old woman as she spoke the familiar words that began every story.

‘Now this is how it was told to me,’ she said, placing her gnarled hands on her knees as she bent forward slightly and looked round the thick circle of faces. ‘Back then, in the time long flown, a great, great gift was given . . .’

This was a story he had not heard before. A wondrous island had been raised from the waters by the great Lords on the rim of the world. Far to the west it was from here. Shaped like a great, five-pointed star, it floated above the waves – bearing many delights for those who dwelt there.

Birds he remembered her saying; the old woman had spoken at length about the winged creatures, large and small, that lived there. Her words painted the picture of mariners drawing near to the isle, guided in by the clamor of the great flocks of wheeling sea-birds. In a piping voice she drew the scattered flocks of tiny scarlet birds as they winged low over the white sandy shores, calling out their name as they passed . . . kirinki . . .

And the Nimîr, the Beautiful Ones, who had flown in their white swan ships, over the waters, from the edges of the sea, flocking gracefully to the western harbors, bringing gifts. And there in the center of the isle there rose a great mountain . . .

‘The eagles,’ someone had said in a knowing voice.

‘Yes, yes, from the west they flew,’ she nodded and went on. ‘The Great Lord sent them. From the very rim of the world, beyond the edges of the sea. It is said that the people of the island held them as sacred, and blessed the Great Lord of the West and his people who had sent them.’ She leaned forward again, her voice dropping to a hush, her listeners straining to catch her words. ‘This I was told also . . . that the eagles and this Lord of the West and all his people could put on forms at their need and at their pleasure.’

‘Ah!’ A collective affirmation rose round the fire in waves.

‘So I have heard,’ she repeated, ‘and believe it to be a true telling, passed down from my mother’s mothers to me.’

The story wove on through the abundant years of the gifted isle, bright years. Then, down into the shadowed time the telling went; the betrayals and the turnings away; the evil deeds piling one upon the other; the Shadow that passed in glamoured form promising his own dark gifts. Some there were who had remained true to their promises. But they were set upon and threatened and many kept silent rather than voice what they held true.

Rôg had shivered at her words, drawing in tight against the safety of his mother. He clutched her cloak tightly, bringing it up to cover his face, his dark eyes peeking out as the story drew to its ending.

The King of that Isle, she went on, beguiled by the promises and lies of the Shadow, had ordered his great fleet of ships to sail to the forbidden lands at the rim of the world. ‘Their gift was not enough,’ the old woman admonished her listeners. ‘They reached out to grasp more.’ Her audience was hushed as she shook her head at the foolishness of the islanders.

With a great THWACK! she brought her walking stick down hard on one of the rocks that circled the fire.

‘They smote them down as their feet touched the forbidden soil . . .’ she said, her voice rumbling out into the waiting silence. ‘ . . . The Lords of the West did . . . and they sunk that island far, far beneath the waters of the sea . . . the edges of the world were bent . . . and never again did the Eagles fly the straight path to the east.’

She looked into the fire and spoke the ending words. ‘So I was told, and so now you have heard.’

Amid the murmurings of approval for the well told story, Rôg had slipped away from his mother and come to crouch down near the old woman. At a lull in her conversations with others of his clan he had gathered his courage and reached out to touch her on the arm. ‘Old Mother,’ he had whispered, tugging lightly on her tunic. ‘Old Mother,’ he had prompted in a louder voice as he crept nearer.

‘What is it, child?’

‘What happened to the ones who kept their promises?’

‘They were spared and came east over the seas. Good people. But so few . . . so few, at the end.’

His question answered, he had thought to creep away. But she had reached out with her fingers and grasped him lightly and securely about the wrist, her gnarled talons surprisingly strong. She fixed him in her gaze, and drawing him near, leaned forward to whisper in his ear. Step up, little one, when there is need . . . will you promise this? In his own childish way, a little afraid of her and wanting to please or appease her, he had nodded his head ‘yes’. ‘Good, good,’ she had uttered in a soft voice almost to herself as she released his wrist. He had turned to scurry back to the safety of his family, when he heard her call out after him. ‘Remember to keep your promise, little one.’ Rôg turned back once to look at her but she was already swallowed up in the press of people that surrounded her.

~*~

The camel came to an abrupt stop. Aiwendil lurched forward, nearly dislodging the little bird from his shoulder. ‘Water, I think,’ he heard the old man say as the camel turned of its own accord toward an old covered cistern in a clump of scraggly palms. Dismounting, they both lugged the heavy cover from the shallow tank, and were rewarded by a few inches of standing water. It was brackish, tinged with silt and sand that stirred at the slightest touch. Still it was water, and they refreshed themselves as best they could.

Rôg let the camel drink his fill, then bade him kneel down to let Aiwendil mount once more. Once the old man had arranged himself in as comfortable a position as he could, Rôg flew up to his shoulder and settled in again for the remainder of the journey. The camel moved along at a slow, steady pace. Rôg plucked up his courage and moved close to the old fellow’s ear.

‘About that Star Isle . . . I was just wondering . . . what had you heard about those who kept their promises? Were they all drowned? And what had you heard about the eagles . . .?’

Rôg cocked a feathered eye toward Aiwendil. He was determined, in some manner, to sort out his quandary. Had the old fellow misspoke when he said he had been to the isle? Had he confused hearing the story for being there? Or were his memories true? And if they were true . . . what sort of creature was he?

The little bird narrowed his eyes as he considered his companion. A barely perceptible mutter escaped him as he turned his own questions over in his mind and awaited the answers to his others.

‘. . . and just how old does he think he is, I wonder . . .

[Estelyn Telcontar]

tap, tap, tap...tap, tap

Wyrma looked up from her paperwork with a start. The knocking on her window shutter was no chance movement of the wind; in fact, she knew this particular signal well and hastened to open the window. A desert owl sat on the ledge; its sandy colour made it almost invisible in the dusk. It flew into the room and transformed into a dark-haired young man, taller and somewhat broader than Tinar, but with an unmistakable similarity.

“Kumat!” she exclaimed, “Is something wrong? Do you have a message for me?”

“Thank you for your warm welcome,” her third son replied with only the faintest touch of sarcasm. His mother did not intimidate him, at least not much, but he had a healthy respect for her wrath and treated her with deference. “If I were to tell you that I came for the pleasure of your company, you would not believe me. Yes, something is wrong. No, I do not have a written message; Hálfr thought it would not be wise to send something that could be intercepted or lost, so I bear the message myself.”

He motioned her to the elaborately carved chair at her desk and took another for himself when she was seated.

With an impatient gesture, she waved aside the decanter of wine that he proffered her before pouring himself a goblet. “Is all well with Markal? Have Hálfr and his troops been attacked?”

“Markal is as always,” he answered, with barely concealed disdain for his staid oldest brother. “Hálfr and my brother Walat have their troops well under control, and there has been no open hostility within or without the city.”

“Then what?” she snapped.

“The stones and bricks that were stored for building your main headquarters have been destroyed,” he said, leaning forward to emphasize his words.

Wyrma’s thoughts raced. Building in the desert was a costly and difficult undertaking, since building materials were few. It had taken much effort and no little money to import enough to build not only houses, but to provide a solid foundation as well. They had had to proceed carefully and with some stealth so that Falasmir’s spies did not realize how monumental their plans were.

“But how? And by whom?” she asked the obvious questions. Stones could not be destroyed that easily!

“That is the problem,” he answered, his brows furrowed. “To all appearances, an oliphaunt rampaged among them – there are tracks everywhere amidst the broken stones. But there are no tracks leading away from the storage place. No one heard anything, since it happened during a storm.”

Her mind leapt to several conclusions simultaneously. “If there are no footprints coming or going, it cannot have been a normal beast. Should there be a rebel Maenwaith somewhere who can take the form of an oliphaunt? This would be new in the history of our people and indeed a danger to our plans!”

[Mithadan]

A tale? Mithadan thought quickly about the many voyages of the Lonely Star and decided to tell an amended version of its greatest voyage. But first... "I will gladly tell a tale," he said in Quenya. His words were greeted with blank stares or looks of confusion. He laughed and shook his head in mock apology. "I'm sorry," he said. "Sometimes I forget what land I am in when I speak." He turned to Airefalas and spoke quickly in the High Elven tongue again, with a laugh and a smile. "Watch your words with the young one. He entered the dinner yesterday with the Lord's entourage." Airefalas laughed in turn and nodded.

"Yes," continued Mithadan in the common tongue. "I will tell a tale of my ship. The Lonely Star is a fine vessel, quick and agile. I do not know if she can outrun a corsair for she has never been in such a race, and hopefully never will now that our peoples are friends. But she is a worthy vessel.

"Several years ago, the Star was hired for a journey. Not a trading voyage, but rather a mission of mercy. We were asked to search for the relatives of a young woman that had been lost at sea. We sailed far and long, and, at length, found a great island where we thought the lost ones might be. But we could not find them easily. Fortunately, we had one on board who could help. She was a good friend, a friend of my wife and I, and she had some special talents. Have you heard of the Beornings?"

Members of his audience shook their heads, though one or two seemed to recognize the name. "The Beornings are a race of men who dwell in the Vale of the Anduin," he continued. "They dwell far from Gondor, though we sometimes hear news of them. They are shapeshifters!" Korpulfr seemed startled by this, but Mithadan spoke on. "They can take the shape of bears. I tell the truth! Our friend Bird was a fosterling of the Beornings, raised from her infancy by them. But she was not of their race. She could not take the form of a bear, but she was nonetheless a shapechanger. She and my wife Piosenniel were goog friends and had journeyed together for many years. And on this voyage, she was part of our crew. When we encountered the island, she took the form of a jackdaw, a black bird, and she flew out over the island searching for the lost ones. After several days, she returned to the Star and told us that she had found them. But they had not been shipwrecked. Rather, they had been seized by evil men and were being held against their will. So we sailed to a nearby river and anchored there. Then we took up arms and went up the river in boats. Under the cover of night, we crept into the place where they were being held captive and freed them. There was great fight, but we rescued our friend's relatives and made our way back to the Star. We sailed quickly east and evaded any pursuit. The captives were saved thanks to the help of Bird, the shapechanger."

"What happened to Bird then?" asked one of the children. "Is she still part of your crew?"

"No," replied Mithadan sadly. "She went off in search of her kin. She journeyed here, to the southlands, looking for them. We have not heard of her in some time. She is one of the reasons that I traveled here. I hoped to find her, or some news of her. Have you by any chance heard of Bird or her kin?"

[Nerindel]

Kórpulfr

Korpulfr was not the only one to become uncomfortable with the captains chosen tale, several eyes glanced uneasily in his direction at the northern mans mention of shape changers, but all he could do was smile reassuringly and listen as the captain continued his tale. Mithadan’s recount of the Beornings tugged at his curiosity, he had heard tales in his youth concerning distant kin that could take the form of great bears, but until now he had believed them to be only myth, for there was none among their race who could successfully take the bear form. The captains telling of his friend... this bird also intrigued him, she had to be Maenwaith, but how she found herself so far north was a puzzle to him. The storytellers told nothing that he could recall of any of their kind leaving these lands. He then began to wondered if perhaps this bird might not be one of the young taken when the darkness cast it’s long shadow southward, but he soon dismissed this thought when the captain told of the long friendship the Maenwaith had with his wife, which denoted that she was older in years than those dark times.

“What happened to bird then, is she still part of your crew?”

The child’s innocent question pulled him abruptly from his thoughts, he had seen no women on the ship that morning, but he had not been looking for one, let alone one that might have been Maenwaith. The captain shook his head, telling them that she had gone in search of her kin and that he had not heard from her in some time. The man’s sadness seemed genuine enough and Korpulfr found himself wishing he could give him some hope by telling him that he had found her kin. But the memory of man’s foreign tongue, renewed his guarded and suspicious nature, many was the time that he himself had used the tongue of his people to relay thing’s he didn’t want others to hear and he now wondered if the tale was not a trap set to trip them up.

“No I am afraid we have not heard of this extraordinary woman or any of her kin!” He answered shaking his head in feigned sympathy and looking regretfully to the expectant faces of the youngsters.

“But I have to admit it has been a long time since I have heard a tale that has so piqued my curiosity, come I should like to her more of these shape changers and why this friend of yours would think to find her kin in the barren deserts of the southlands. Then perhaps in return I could enquire among the various clans as to weather they have heard of your friend or the kin that she seeks, when next I travel the desert trade routes .” he continued warmly, adding the offer of help in order to gain the mans trust.

Several women then rose and began ushering the children out of the room. “aww we want to hear more about bird!” they chorused, but the women quickly tried to settled them with promises that Korpulfr would retell any new tales another time, the children then looked in his direction for confirmation.

“I promise to tell you all of what I learn,” he laughed. This seemed to satisfy them, for they turned and followed the women from the room. Chattering excitedly to one another about the shape changer who was friends with strangers, something uncommon among their people. Kor was only glad that the children now spoke in their own tongue, so the innocence of their words would not give them away.

“It must have been a great asset to have had someone with such great talents among your crew?” he heard Hasrim ask dryly, his dark eyes studying the captains face with suspicion, but if the captain took note he did not show it. Instead answering simply that his friend had seen them out of many a tight spot and for that, he was truly grateful. Korpulfr raised his hand and a young man approached, Korpulfr lifted his goblet for him to fill then gestured that he should refill those of his guests.

“Now tell me more of this fascinating woman and her kin and I will see what I can do to help.” He smiled warmly, gesturing for Mithadan to continue.

[Mithadan]

Mithadan nodded appreciatively (and took note) at his host's interest in Bird. "She is a bit older than you. Slight of build and a few inches shorter than you. Her skin is dark, olive not swarthy, and her hair is black save for a white streak nearly in the middle. If you come across her or hear of her whereabouts, please get word to me, for we miss her."

Korpulfr nodded thoughtfully, but replied, "She is not familiar to me but I shall ask about. If I hear any news I shall find a way to notify you even if you are in Gondor."

Tinar had listened with interest to Mithadan's story and his description of Bird. Now he leaned forward and asked, "What shapes does she take?"

Mithadan's face remained impassive, but he was surprised at the interest in his long lost friend. All others that he had spoken to, save Rama, had scoffed at the notion that shapechangers even existed. Yet Korpulfr evinced no hint of skepticism and now Tinar, who had entered Falasmir's reception in the company of Umbar's lord and the one named Wyrma, was asking for more detail about her in a serious fashion as if the shapeshifters were a quite typical subject of discussion! Mithadan's natural sense of caution came to the fore and, despite his desire to find Bird, he chose to say less than he might.

"The bird form, the jackdaw that I mentioned, is the only form of hers that I know. Can a shapeshifter take more than one form?"

Tinar opened his mouth to respond, but Korpulfr spoke before the younger one could reply. "We have heard of the shapeshifters," he said with a sharp look at Tinar. "They are but a legend to us. Indeed most do not believe they exist. But we will look out for your friend, legend or no."

Mithadan nodded and changed the subject to the strange color of the sunset that evening. But even as he spoke, he filed away the conversation for later consideration. Clearly, his host knew more than he admitted. His last interjection had been too hurried and fit poorly with the attention these Southrons had paid to his tale. Shapechangers were no strangers to Korpulfr and the people of his house. But now he must take care, for he and Airefalas already had enemies in Umbar and did not need to make more.

The conversation now wandered from subject to subject as after dinner drinks were served. Mithadan excused himself to take a bottle of strong liquor to the guards in the courtyard (who continued to grumble at the poor reception they had received) before returning to the common room. He continued to speak amiably with his hosts about trade prospects and goods, but his mind began to wander a bit as he became concerned about the time. They had been at Korpulfr's home for more than three hours if he was any judge, and his thoughts turned to the Lonely Star which, by now, was quietly preparing to get underway.
As politely as possible, he stood with a wide yawn and said, "Loath am I to depart from such fine hospitality, but this is our second late night in a row and I grow weary. I am sure the drink has a bit to do with it as well." His hosts laughed politely and rose as well. From the corner of his eye, Mithadan saw Airefalas pick up his bag and reach inside to check upon the knives secreted therein.

Korpulfr rose and bowed slightly to his guests before taking Mithadan by the arm. "Come," he said. "We will show you to the door."

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil: Arrival on the Outskirts of the Eagle Clan

Those who kept their promise?

Aiwendil peered quizzically over at Rôg and wondered if he had revealed too much about himself through his story. He chose his next words with considerable caution. "The old tales relate that a few of the faithful, those Men whom you call the Dúnedain, heeded the warning signs and fled eastward on tall, strong ships. But even they could not wholly escape the mountain of water. The storms battered their vessels and tossed them here and there, with some folk landing in Lindon and venturing overland to Eriador, while others were blown southward into the Bay of Belfalas and from there sailed north up the Great River towards what became known as the kingdom of Gondor."

The istar glared disdainfully at Rôg and scowled, "Surely you know this! Do they teach children nothing today? For these are common tales, not only preserved in books or in the courts of the great, but recited from memory around campfires or even set to music with timbrels and harps. Or so it was when the world was younger."

Aiwendil wondered how much of the past had slipped away, faded and forgotten, like his own missing knowledge and skills, especially now that so many of the Elves had journeyed towards the West. He suddenly felt a dawning compassion for Rôg and all those left behind with only a few tattered fragments of the story of what had gone before. No wonder Men had such difficulty when they could not even hold on to their memories! Perhaps he was here to remind them of such things. He shuddered uncomfortably at the thought of taking on such a task.....he who had not even be willing to poke his nose out of the woods and who had avoided Men as much as possible.

Uncomfortable with the responsibility that such a burden would carry, and not used to sharing his feelings, Aiwendil snapped out a rebuke in gruff, chiding terms, "How can you know right from wrong when you have forgotten all the tales and the wisdom they contain?"

Perched on Aiwendil's shoulder, Rôg tartly responded, "Perhaps these stories are not so well known as before. But I did hear tales of the star isle, and the Great Eagles, and the bright shining ones, and the other followers of the Lord of the West who could even take on shapes. Yet only a few tales, and these were passed on like precious drops.... " the small bird wistfully added.

"It will have to be enough then," Aiwendil spoke more to himself than to Rôg. "What you took from your youth.... For I have forgotten so much and it seems as though Men have forgotten even more. Still, I have hopes that some knowlege can be relearned." The camel plodded on for several paces before the istar spoke again. " Truthfully, that is the main reason I came on this journey. Umbar and its deserts are ancient places, older even than the haven of Pelargir, and I wondered what goodness and knowledge might still be tucked away in secret spots."

"This place? Goodness?" countered Rôg dryly. "It is said that the only tales preserved in the scrolls of Umbar are penned by those Men who were not overly fond of goodness."

Thoroughly exasperated, the old man wagged a finger just inches from Rôg's beak, "I am not talking about the Black Numenoreans! Have the maenwaith forgotten everything then? Pashh! Your people came here long before the travelers from the star isle, back when the Eagles of the Encircling Mountains mingled with the free folk in their battles against Morgoth. Your fathers and mothers fled to this land hoping to preserve a good and decent way of life. Some of your own people can take on forms of the giant wyrms and eagles. How could they possibly do such a thing unless their kin had once seen the great beasts themselves? Or perhaps, all those skills have been lost too?" Aiwendil abruptly clamped his mouth and refused to say anything more. He recalled certain misty tales of happenings from long ago that were said to have transpired between the maenwaith and the Eagles, stories that Rôg might or might not know, but this was not the time to get into such things.

Silence fell between them, as the camel ploughed patiently onward through the hills of sand. Even after the sun had set, the silver moonlight provided enough illumination that it was possible to keep to the trail, with the stars providing sure guideposts so that they would not lose their way. The pair agreed to continue on for another hour or so until an inviting grove of trees suddenly loomed before them. These sat next to an old watering hole that was half-dried up. Aiwendil started to set up camp, while Rôg flew out to have a look at things to make sure the surrounding area was safe. In a few moments, he returned and quietly announced that he could make out the distant outline of the maenwaith camp just over the next hill, the same one he had visited earlier that week. Aiwendil kept strictly to himself and, spreading out a blanket on the ground, was soon snoring loudly. Relieved to have fulfilled his earlier promise to make sure the old man arrived at this spot, Rôg flew out to have a closer look.

[piosenniel]

Gondor - 2 weeks prior to the dinner at Korpulfr's

A number of days after the trip to the library with Baran, the invitation had arrived. There was a knock at the door in the late afternoon, and a polite exchange between Cook’s country bred voice and some soft, undistinguishable male voice, followed by an excited ‘Oh my!’ on the part of Cook. A coda followed the closing of the door, in more restrained tones. ‘I’ll wait right here if you don’t mind, goodmistress.’

Pio, and the children were in the kitchen and had heard the knock through the opened doorway to the short hall that led to the entryway. The words of the man’s last sentence had but left his lips as Pio rose to see whom Cook had let into the house. The children of course bustled after her, not wanting to miss out on the unexpected visitor. Before they had passed through the kitchen’s door Cook had come puffing in at top speed, one hand holding up her skirts as she sped along, the other brandishing a large, square white envelope, black and silver ribbons fluttering from the wax seal on the flap.

‘Mistress Piosenniel!’ Cook wheezed out, nearly colliding with the little group. ‘From the city . . . the King . . . and an answer is expected . . .’

Cook and the children crowding about her, Pio slipped her finger beneath the seal and prised out the folded, black vellum card from the envelope. ‘Ooh! Pretty!’ came the excited cry from Cami, as she spied the front of the invitation. The silver tracing of the White Tree and Stars against the dark background twinkled in the lamplight.

Pio scanned the invitation quickly, a mildly exasperated look passing over her features as she read it through. Tossing it on the table, she hurried out to speak to the messenger. Isilmir followed after her, leaving the remaining three to discuss in excited whispers, the invitation from the King.

The messenger said he would return in three days for her answer. This was to be a reception honoring several new trading groups that had been brought into the fold since the spread of the King’s Peace. A number of the prominent merchants and their wives had been invited to meet the representatives from Rhûn, Khand, and Near Harad in two weeks time from today. It was the sort of gathering in which personal connections could be made, the way eased toward forging links in Gondor’s widening network of trade.

It was also the sort of gathering that Pio did not relish attending. And even as she closed the door behind the King’s messenger, she was already composing her reply as to why she would be unable to make an appearance.

~*~

Isilmir had read her intention in the posture of relief as she leaned her back against the now closed door. His quiet voice startled her as he admonished her on her reluctance to go. ‘Father’s gone away. You’ll have to be the one to show up for our family. He’d want you to go and greet the King and the new traders.’ He stepped closer for a critical look at her saying, ‘And you’ll need to have a suitable dress, I think.

Gilwen had come up to by then to add her opinion. ‘It’s the King’s party, ammë! You have to have a pretty new dress.’ Little Cami nodded her head solemnly, wondering all the while if there would be cakes and other sweets. Eyes sparkling in anticipation, she piped up with a suggestion for a new bag to go with the outfit. ‘A pretty one . . . and big, too,’ she murmured at the end, thinking of the treats that might be brought home in it.

The Elf had opened her mouth to protest, when Cook shook her head, saying it was no use to try to get out of this. ‘Mistress Rilwen is coming tomorrow, early. You know she will hound you about the propriety of making sure the family is represented. You might as well give in now, don’t you think?’

Pio had shaken her head and burst out in laughter at their concerted effort. ‘Alright, then,’ she had said. ‘Promise me there will be no more talk of pretty this and pretty that, and no word of my reticence to Auntie Rilwen. Tomorrow we will all go into the city to see about making me suitably acceptable!’

~*~

It had been a long, hot, disgruntling day spent at the dressmaker’s shop. Were it up to Piosenniel alone she would simply have pointed to a bolt of some acceptable material of an unobtrusive hue; given some vague instructions to the seamstress about not making it too tight or too long. And no, she would not be needing a cloak, slippers dyed, scarves, or any fussy items for the hair. Her patience had grown thin as the measurings and discussions had gone on.

She was almost at the point where she would rather have pulled some gown from her wooden chest, shaken it out, and called it ‘good’. Raised eyebrows from Rilwen and a restraining hand on her arm had caused her to bite back her words as her well meaning sister-in-law took over the orchestration of ‘the outfit’.

~*~

Now the group found themselves at the Seventh Star Inn. The discussions about material, the cajolings about ‘fashion’ and the innumerable measurings were done for the day. The seamstress had promised to have it ready for a fitting in two day’s time, further promising that it would be the final fitting. The Elf had an exasperated look in her eye by the end of this tedious process. The dressmaker wisely chose not to discuss accessories, simply tucking away in the back of her mind what would be appropriate. She would present the entire outfit when Pio returned.

‘Look, ammë!’ Gilwen’s voice broke in on her thoughts as she sipped her cup of wine. Pio turned to see her daughter standing beside her chair and pointing at the figure coming down the stairs into the Common Room. ‘It’s Baran!’

[piosenniel]

Rôg

The silence that fell between the two companions hid the little bird’s anger. It had been with great restraint that he held back from taking a large chomp from the old man’s finger as it wagged within inches of his beak.

What right had this creature to judge him and his people . . .

‘How can you know right from wrong when you have forgotten all the tales and the wisdom they contain? Aiwendil had snapped out in a gruff, rebuking manner. Rog snorted at this accusation.

We have forgotten nothing!

Especially the ways that outsiders have dealt with us. Right and wrong! Pah!

Thoughts such as these had stewed in his mind until the two had cleared the sandy rise that led them to the little oasis. Changing back to mannish form, Rôg had unloaded their packs from the camel and spread a thickly woven rug on the sand for Aiwendil to rest. The old man seemed distracted, lost in his own thoughts. And tired, too. Once he had heard they were quite near the encampment he had lain down on his rug and gone quickly to sleep.

Rôg hunkered down beneath one of the palms, his back resting lightly against the fibrous trunk. He had gotten them this far, as Aiwendil had requested. When day came he would take the old man to the encampment and see him into their safekeeping. He looked west to where the mountains hid under the cover of night. He had information for his clan leader, and here in familiar surroundings he missed his family dearly.

The old man was snoring when Rôg flew off toward the encampment. The little bird planned to take a look-see about and bring his findings back to the old man - the sooner done, the sooner he would be free to leave on his own errand.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Thorn

It was night by the time Thorn reached the slumbering camp of the eagle clan. In his weariness he noted the familiar gray barred pennants affixed to many a tent, blowing in the light breeze that drifted through the encampment. Stopping only to whisper hasty greetings to the guards that approached him in the gloom, he quickly made his way to the center of camp where Ayar's tent might be found.

Heartened to see the pale thread of lamplight bordering the tent flap as he approached, Thorn advanced briskly. But when his arm reach out to grasp the canvas edge of it, a low growl was heard beside the opening, and a brown mottled dog stepped out of the shadows baring white teeth.

"Surinen!" Thorn declared, recognizing the dog's markings at once in the dim light. The animal immediately bowed its head and with wagging tail met him. "Shouldn't you be off guarding Dinsûl's stores against mischief?" Thorn queried, placing his hand on the dog's brow. But the dog only whined hearing the familiar voice, and sliding away from Thorn's indulgence, took up his position again, sitting tall by the entrance as he watched his friend slip noiselessly inside.

By the feeble light of the oil lamps, Thorn could see the silhouette of a young woman who sat softly singing an ode Thorn knew had been written by Ayar's father. The sight of Narika brought with it a measure of peace to him, but it was too brief, for at her side lay the leader of the eagle clan, feverish upon her thin mattress, the dark hair that framed the beloved face now clinging to her damp skin as she struggled against some illness. At the flames' flicker, Narika turned to see who had entered, and as the light held her face Thorn could see grave concern in her expression. Silently she gestured for him to wait, and after finishing the last verse she quietly got up. With a warm smile tempered with care she hurried over to Thorn and took up his hands in hers. "It is good to see you Thorn! Many times I have wished for your presence and now not the least of them. Even this afternoon I have sent out a messenger asking for your return and Rama's also. Perhaps you met him along your way?"

"No, I did not see him or your sister, but found that Ráma had wisely had left Umbar even before I myself managed to. Hopefully the boy will have the sense to return quickly back, for that city grows restive and is no place for him. But tell me fully what has happened here, Narika, and why have you sent for us?" he asked with foreboding. "For I have seen the signs of warning, and now find Ayar is unwell."

"I wish I could say with confidence that it was nothing," Narika said in low tones. "But my mother is seriously ill, as you see, and we will not be moving camp until she is able to travel. I do not think she could now bear the stain of it and do not wish to test her so." Rising unbidden to her eyes, tears gathered eyes as she spoke so that she lowered her glance to the floor, no longer able to continue.

"There is more to this, I see it in your demeanor," Thorn said gently lifting Narika's chin. "What manner of illness could it be to have you so troubled? Fever?"

"One that has followed a course that I confess is strange to me, and my skill has not relieved her of it.” Narika confided, her voice betraying her emotion. “I have consulted your sister Yalisha, and she suspects it may be some poison. She has heard of such things in Umbar, things delivered through the skin by dart. And though she has given many herbs to use, still my mother suffers great discomfort. Oh that this illness could be overcome and we both could give you welcome!"

"Being with you truly is welcome enough.” Thorn said trying to take in what he had heard. “Come, you are weary. Let us keep watch together…when did this sickness begin?" Thorn asked dreading her answer.

"The evening before last."

Closing his eyes, Thorn felt helpless, for he too had heard of these barbarous poisons and their reliable outcome.

"Yes please Thorn, and speak with me of what we should do, for Surinen had reported a strange maenwaith that he and Narayad had met earlier at the next well on our path. He spoke that he thought this same one might have visited our camp without our detecting him. And I find I do not know what tomorrow might bring, or the day after. But if this is some act against us, I can not let it pass."

Thorn raised his dark eyes at this, "A maenwaith, you say?"

"Surinen and Narayad seemed quite sure of it," Narika replied, leading the traveler to sit at her mother's side. "They said they saw him fly away toward the sea."

"Did they say if they saw him in a mannish aspect also?" Thorn pursued, troubled by this news. It had not occurred to him that the figure he had seen in Umbar could be anything but of Haradrim descent, but it now appeared he must be, for how else could his clan be found so rapidly.

"Why do you ask? Have you seen him as well?"

"I may have, though I hope not, for the one I saw had an evil intent and surely one of our kind would not be so low as to accept payment to …." He trailed off looking at Ayar and lowered his head to his hands. After a short time he spoke, his voice and words chosen carefully. "Narika, this one I saw, Wyrma had engaged for some malevolent course against us, against your mother. This is why I have come; this is the news a carry, a warning of a threat. And now I find that it may have already come to pass! Ordered and carried out by a maenwaith's hand? I cannot believe it! I do not believe it!"

Just then Narayad's wife, Latah, entered carrying a steaming wooden bowl. She hesitated seeing that she had come at an awkward time. "I've prepared the infusion," she said waiting by the door.

"Come, come Latah," Narika said.

Her mother groaned, wincing as together she and Latah gently rolled Ayar on to her side so that they could bath her neck, Ayar eyes flickering at the touch of the warm water. Feeling the gravity of the situation, and reeling with the rapidly shifting in the position of the eagle clan, Thorn watched absently as the women finished their duty and he pondered what he had learned.

“Latah!” he called as the Narayad’s wife drew open the canvas to leave. “ Please ask Surinen to come here as you go. I need to speak with him, and fetch Narayad as well.” The woman nodded and closed the flap behind her. Then turning to Narika he said, “I wish to hear all he knows about this strange maenwaith”

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Surinen

Sitting cross-legged in the darkness outside the tent, Surinen stood up as Latah emerged into the clear night air. “How is the Meldakhar?” he asked as she stopped to address him.

“She is no better, Suri,” she said looking worried. “And the flush has now crept further down her back. But I will speak to you of it later, cousin. Thorn has asked for you, and I go now to find Narayad and tell him to come here also. I will bring coffee when I return for it will be a long night tonight.”

Surinen entered the tent with his right foot first, as was proper, and carefully smoothed out the flap behind him so that no draft might enter to disturb the leader of his kin. Walking over to where Narika and Thorn sat by the bedside, he prepared to wait patiently until they were ready for him, but Thorn, seeing him arrive was eager to speak immediately.

“Sit here with us Surinen," he said. "Narika has told me that you and Narayad have met a stranger lately on your path, and that you felt he might have been at our camp as well. This is unfortunate given the health of Ayar, and I should like to have you tell me all that you noticed about this maenwaith.”

“Yes, yes, of course. All that I know!” he replied settling down cross-legged beside them and pulling his legs close. He was glad that Thorn was back; he would know what was to be done with such news.

“When did you see this stranger, Surinen?” Thorn prompted him.

“Narayad and I had just finished repairing a well, the day before yesterday. We were waiting at night for the water to fill it when a voice called for help from outside our shelter.”

“Asking for help?”

“Yes,” Surinen said. “This man, he had somehow gotten stuck in the well and could not get out.”

“This is no time to jest, Surinen…”

“No Thorn, I would not with the Meldakhar sick. No, he was stuck, and Narayad and I got him out and gave him coffee to warm him, for it was night and he was drenched.”

“What was he like? Did he threaten at all?”

“He was a pleasant guest,” Surinen shrugged, “not threatening. He said his name was Rôg, but would not tell us more, though he did not grow angry with my questions either.”

“Ah but what did he say? What did he look like?” Thorn pressed.

“He did ask what we were doing here, but I don’t think the answer interested him much…. I think he was elder to me and maybe a bit shorter, lean and with a round shoulder. I thought him a tattoist at first for his hands looked like a young woman’s with well-kept nails and he had a stain on one finger. Ah yes and he wore a golden stud in his ear here,” he said pinching the top of his own. “But he was pleasant Thorn, I don’t think a threat, but a bit nervous. Maybe a spy? If so, then certainly a clumsy one.”

“Well,” Thorn said turning to Narika. “This does not sound like the one I saw so briefly in Umbar, even were he to disguise his true intent. But I am sure that spies and cutthroats know how to be innocent too. You of all people Surinen should know that the same teeth that smile at you are the ones to bite you!”

“Yes, I do know,” he said with a broad smile. “The troubling thing is that I thought I had picked up his scent again by the fire circle on our return, but there was also some other odd smell and the prints of a heavy horse, outside camp.”

“Yes that is worrisome…” Thorn said, looking at Ayar as he was thinking. But suddenly he spoke again “He fell in the well you say?”

“Yes,” Surinen acknowledged, smiling. “And he grew nervous when we found him a great buzzard outside. So nervous, he gave us back our coffee before flying away.”

“That was not pleasant of him.”

“No, you are right it was not kind.”

“Friend, Narayad should be on his way here. I would like you to meet him and go back to the place where the odd smell came from. I know that the storm must have destroyed all trace now, but I would like you both to keep watch on our boundaries starting from there tonight. See if you can find any new scents, while you are out or more of the same. There is undoubtedly something happening, and I would like you both to join in the guard.”

Surinen glanced at Ayar, than back at Thorn. “Don’t worry Suri,” Thorn said comfortingly. “I will stay with Ayar while you are away. You go and help protect our kin.”

Surinen, bowed slightly to Narika and walked toward the door. He did not wish to leave, but slowly and obediently went in search of Narayad.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ráma:

Peering out from under the overhanging cliff that marked the beginning of the complex of caves, Ráma impatiently watched the late afternoon sun inch lower in the sky until it finally sank beneath the horizon. She was still bitter at Mithadan and Airefalas for placing her in this predicament. The small voice echoing inside her head that had earlier urged her to leave Umbar and return to her family was becoming more insistent. For over an hour, she debated back and forth whether her promise to the Men was binding, when they had so casually dismissed her aid. Despite her desire to believe otherwise, she could not help but feel that a pledge given in good faith should be honored, even if those who were its beneficiaries had shown less than full trust and gratitude.

Still, this did nothing to assuage her thirst or discomfort. In her desire to shield her friend Lena from the unwanted inquiries of the stranger, she had ridden out of the Inn only half prepared to travel, the most important omission being that she had neglected to fill her water skin. This large leather pouch with the clan’s eagle crest, the one she normally used to store water for treks across the desert, hung flat and limp at Kyelek's side.

Since crossing the desert without sufficient water would be reckless and irresponsible, Ráma felt compelled to pay a visit to one of the nearby neighborhood wells once it was fully dark. She planned to wait several hours until traffic on the streets had thinned out a bit, but before the brigands and thieves had come out to ply their trade. Traveling on foot seemed like the most unobtrusive way to reach the well, which was no more than a few streets away, but there was still the possibility that her unknown pursuer would surface and require her to adopt a faster means of travel. Reluctantly, she concluded that she needed to saddle up Kyelek and ride over to the public square, filling her leather pouch and returning as quickly as possible.

By the time Ráma set out, the citizens of Umber were shuttering the windows of their homes and latching their doors for the night. Songs and snippets of conversation still floated out onto the street from those public houses whose doors were flung open to welcome travelers seeking shelter. Ráma listened as intently as she could, but could hear no references to troubles in the harbor or other news of the visitors from Gondor. Mithadan and Airefalas had seemingly vanished with the Star and would likely never return.

Ráma dismounted and approached the well on foot, leading her horse behind her. Only a few latecomers lingered in the public square chatting with each other or heading back towards their homes carrying containers of water. Ráma stood beside the well and let the bucket down, and then cranked it back up again, repeating this process several times until the bag was full. With some difficulty, she shifted the heavy skin onto Kyelek’s back and secured it tightly with a rope before turning and preparing to leave the square.

At that instant, her departure was unexpectedly delayed by a long line of servants striding in from a side alley and trooping purposefully through the square, their livery identifying them as retainers of Falasmir. Ráma instinctively backed off into a nearby cubbyhole to avoid being seen, as she peeked out at the parade that was now making its noisy way back towards the palace. There were large cages set atop flatbed wagons bound all around with chains. Inside each of these square metal boxes were imprisoned one or more large predators---leopards, hyenas, jackals, and wolves---discontentedly pacing in circles or staring out with sullen eyes. Most of these unfortunate beasts were desert dwellers taken from the wild and now bound for Falasmir’s palace menagerie.

Ráma looked at the scene with disdain. She would not hesitate to hunt down these beasts for food or to protect her kin from attack should that be needed. Yet to collect them in some haphazard fashion and force them to fight against each other, as was commonly done in the palace menagerie, seemed to go against everything she had been taught about respecting these beasts and the elements of swiftness, strength and grace they embodied. These were creatures who deserved to live free in the desert, not here in the miserable cages that the Lord of Umbar deigned to provide for them. She glanced at one wagon near the end of the procession where a single spotted leopard glared out through the bars, snarling in protest and exposing a line of razor-sharp teeth.

When the creatures and their keepers had finally passed by, Ráma slipped into the alleyway, forcing the distasteful image from her head as she prepared to lead Kyelek back to the caves. Suddenly, and with no prior warning, a wave of nausea and lightheadedness overcame her. Unable to keep her feet, she lurched awkwardly to one side and staggered a few paces over to where her horse was standing. She leaned against Kyelek's withers in an effort to steady herself until the dizziness let up. Several citizens of Umber scattered around the square stared curiously at the stranger who was apparently drunk or ill. But to Ráma's dismay, there was no letting up. Her physical form began to waiver and merge into another shape. This time it was not a housecat, but a larger beast, the one she had been contemplating just a few moments before. There were screams of dismay from the onlookers as a spotted leopard (http://web.ask.com/redir?bpg=http%3a%2f%2fweb.ask.com%2fweb%3fq%3dspo tted%2bleopard%2bpicture%26o%3d0%26page%3d1&q=spotted+leopard+picture&u=http%3a%2f%2fwww.gotexoticsonline.com%2fafrican-spotted-leopard-pictures-breeders-babies%2fafrican-spotted-leopard-0001.shtml&s=a&bu=http%3a%2f%2fwww.gotexoticsonline.com%2fafrican-spotted-leopard-pictures-breeders-babies%2fafrican-spotted-leopard-0001.shtml&qte=0&o=0&isimageSearch=true&fromImagePage=False&iskey=spotted+leopard&thumbsrc=http%3a%2f%2fimages.picsearch.com%2fis%3f 429521570754&imagesrc=http%3a%2f%2fwww.gotexoticsonline.com%2fa frican-spotted-leopard-pictures-breeders-babies%2fpictures%2fafrican-spotted-leopard-0001.jpg&thumbwidth=85&thumbheight=128) paced in a circle beside the well, glared back towards them showing a row of razor-sharp teeth, and then turned to pad away.

Ráma tried to push down her feeling of panic and the rapid thumping of her heart. This should not be happening. To be late in taking on forms was one thing; to be unable to control those forms once they came on was something far more serious. There was nothing in her culture or upbringing to prepare her for this. She veered out of the square, with Kyelek trotting alongside her. Far behind, she could glimpse several of Falasmir’s liveried servants who had run back from the long procession with chains and sharpened spears in their hands, apparently intending to recapture the wild beast whom they assumed had escaped from one of the cages.

Aware of her danger, Ráma took off like a bolt of lightning slipping through alleyways and squeezing under gates to shake off her pursuers. She raced on silent paws through Umbar's maze of streets and courtyards, which were thankfully free of too many onlookers, by springing from shadow-to-shadow and charting a random path. She finally managed to shake off the Men with their hated chains and spears. Even with her convoluted path, she had been careful to stray not more than a few streets away from the city gate and the safety of the caves. Under cover of darkness, she managed to slink outside the walls without attracting more attention.

Once back, the first thing Ráma noted was that Kyelek had also managed to return to the caves with the waterskin tied to his side. She threw herself down at the rear of the first cavern, too frightened to venture out again and not really understanding what had happened to her. Again and again, she tried to shift into her human form, but with absolutely no success. Ráma finally fell asleep on the sandy floor, still in leopard form but too exhausted and confused to think about the men from Gondor or to wonder what would happen in the morning.

[piosenniel]

Rog

The little bird flew to the rocky outcropping that stood on the edge of the camp. Hidden in the recesses of a scraggly desert bush he poked his head out to see if the way were clear. A young man, patrolling the edges of the camp, drew near his hiding place, and Rôg just had time to withdraw his head from sight. He wondered, as the fellow paused for a moment to bend over and retie a loose sandal strap, that the man’s ears could not pick up the loud, wild thumping of his heart. An eternity passed, or so it seemed to the little bird as he stood frozen in place, before the brawny legs went on and out of sight.

Rôg hopped out to the edge of the twiggy bush and flew quickly to the top of one of the outlying tents. There was a light breeze that riffled his feathers as he clung to the pole that held a pennant. A grey barred pennant, he noted. This was indeed the camp he had spied out that previous night, he nodded in a pleased manner to himself, remembering the glint of the firelight off the small streaming banners that fluttered round the story-teller’s campfire. He cocked his head, looking for the tent on which he’d perched to hear her tell her stories. And there it stood, further in at the hub of the encampment.

The tent flap was closed, but he could see a small streamer of light come out from beneath it, and there at the top, a small stream of smoke bent in the wind and flew east. He was about to fly closer to this central point for a good view of the camp, when the flap of the tent was thrown back quickly and a familiar looking figure stepped out into the moonlight.

Surinen!

So this was the camp for which he’d been an outrider. Worry warred with duty on the man’s face, and duty won as he shrugged his shoulders back and hurried off on some errand. A sense of sadness had passed over his features as he turned from the tent. ‘What’s this?’ wondered the little bird, gliding quickly to one of the tent’s poles, and peering down the hole from which the smoke was escaping. He could hear the quiet, worried murmuring of voices from below . . .

~*~

A small, unremarkable brown moth clung to the fabric of the tent and inched its way into the shadowed valley between the folds. Below him on a low bed lay an older woman, face turned up toward him, eyes closed; her dark hair lank as it splayed out on her pillow. Her skin was flushed and damp, her breathing shallow and a little rapid. The light covers that were drawn over her chest fluttered up and down but barely. She was quite ill, he could see, and the two who sat near her bed spoke softly so as not to disturb her, though often their hands lay lightly on her arms or forehead when some tremor came on her.

Her face looked familiar, and for a brief moment he thought he was looking again at the one whose stories he had heard round that earlier fire. But then the woman who sat on the mat closest to her bed sighed and arched her head backwards, easing the strain of worry from her shoulders for a bit. This was the story-teller! The lovely features of her aquiline face were now pinched with concern for the woman beside her. Her daughter, thought Rog to himself noting the similarity in their features. Rôg strained his tiny moth ears to pick up the muted conversation of the pair below.

‘. . . poisoned,’ he heard. Something unknown to them; they could not stay its course as it crept through the older woman’s system. Talk of someone or someones unknown who had been in the camp . . . Rôg’s antennae twitched uncomfortably at this, thinking that one of those scents was probably his. He caught the name, ‘Ayar’, and with it the man had spoken of her as ‘the Meldakhar.’ His breath already suffering from the smoke’s egress, caught in his throat.

Some one had tried to kill the clan’s leader, and it looked as if the attempt would prove to be successful . . .

~*~

The little moth stayed a little longer, wanting to hear the man speak. He could tell from the way he sat close at the clan leader’s side he was fond of her, and fonder still of her daughter, his eyes straying often to assess her worried face. Thorn’s words, he had heard the woman use that name, brought a chill to Rog’s heart. He was speaking of some news he had hurried to bring from Umbar. News of one of the other clans moving against this one. Wyrma, it was, the leader of the Wyrm clan and the supposed leader for all the maenwaith clans had contracted with an assassin.

An assassin! Maenwaith killing maenwaith . . . the idea so appalled the little moth that he lost his grip on the tent fold and went spiraling down toward the floor, tail end over antennae. His six feathery little legs scrabbled frantically in the warm air current from the fire until he had righted himself, and was able to open his wings to catch the rising thermal. His faceted eyes caught the movement of the man as he turned his face upward to see the falling moth. A few flaps of his wings and Rôg was out the smoke-hole and heading toward the meager camp where Aiwendil had bedded down.

~*~

Flying as a moth was tricky business - progress subject to the whims of any breeze. As soon as he was beyond the perimeter of the camp, Rôg quickly changed back to his Bee-eater (http://www.greglasley.net/Images/litbee3.jpg) form and flapped furiously until he had reached the old man’s snoring figure. With an unceremonious landing by the sleeper’s face, he kicked up a cloud of dust with his feet trying to halt his forward motion and careened into the man’s nose.

‘Wake up!’ he squawked, backpedaling with his wings to avoid the hand that had come up to push away the disturbing ball of fluff and feathers. Rôg grabbed hold of a long tangle of grey streaked hair and gave it a decided yank.

‘Wake up! You were right about there being some trouble. If you have any talents as a healer you’re needed.’ Rôg bent down and cocked his head to look at the blurry eyes just coming to wakefulness.

‘You’re needed . . . did you hear me?’ he asked again. ‘Some awful creature has poisoned the clan leader . . .

[Ealasaide]

As the evening progressed at the home of Korpulfr, Airefalas found himself remaining silent, for the most part merely listening to and observing the company around him. Although the food was quite good, he ate and drank lightly, only enough to be polite, not wishing to be sodden with heavy food and drink when he and Mithadan later made their move toward freedom. Surprisingly, the portion of conversation he found most interesting was the bit in which Mithadan told about his friend Bird, who had once sailed with him on the Star. Remembering his earlier impression that Mithadan had been concealing a secondary purpose in coming to Umbar in the first place and remembering his captain's lack of surprise at the shapechanging abilities of their friend Ráma, he felt certain that he had not only been correct in his impression, but also that he now knew what that secondary purpose was. Mithadan was using their little trading mission to search for his friend.

While the idea barely caused Airefalas to raise an eyebrow in reaction - had it been himself in a similar situation, he might have done the same thing - he found himself wondering why Mithadan had chosen to confide this information to this particular group of individuals. Their hosts seemed to tense noticeably as long as the subject of shapeshifting dominated the conversation, only to relax once the topic moved on to that of trade or the availability of certain goods needed in Umbar that might be obtained in the future from Gondor. That did cause him to raise an eyebrow. He noticed, too, the way that Mithadan carefully omitted any mention of Ráma. Obviously, Airefalas decided, there was more happening here than he fully understood. With that in mind, he also decided that he could best serve himself, his captain, and the situation by keeping his mouth shut. He would find out what he could from Mithadan later, provided they found the opportunity to talk.

Finally, as Mithadan rose and with a wide yawn began to take their leave of their hosts, Airefalas rose as well. As casually as possible, he picked up his bag and, reaching inside, checked by touch that the knives they had secreted inside were still there. Satisfied that they were, he gave an almost imperceptible nod to Mithadan as Korpulfr escorted them to the door.

Airefalas listened quietly as Mithadan and Korpulfr continued to chat amiably, even as he and Mithadan retrieved their swords from where they had left them at the door and buckled them into place. Then, as they were leaving, Airefalas bowed politely to their host, thanking him for his hospitality.

On an afterthought, he added, “Good fortune be yours in the days to come.” It still troubled him that the merchant could be endangered by the timing of his and Mithadan’s planned escape. Korpulfr had thus far shown the two of them nothing but kindness and courtesy. Airefalas wished no ill to befall him or his house as a result.

The Umbarian merchant merely nodded in polite response. “And be yours,” he answered, but any further remark he might have made was cut short by the intrusion of Seft, Mahat, and the other guards from the palace.

“Yes, and be all of ours as well,” grumbled Seft. “It’s about time we were heading back to the palace. The hour grows late.”

Airefalas glanced up at the cloudless night sky, his gray-green eyes idly cataloguing the many constellations of stars that littered the heavens above them. “Oh, it’s early yet,” he said amiably, remembering the instructions Mithadan had communicated to him earlier. “Seeing as we’re so close, I thought we might take a turn around the markets before going back.”

“It’s out of the question,” answered the guard. “The markets are far too dangerous at night for foreigners such as yourselves.”

“But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” asked Airefalas. “I should think that four of you would be quite ample to protect us from anyone who might wish us ill. Besides, we‘re armed ourselves, you know, which makes six of us altogether. That should be more than enough swords between us to fend off anything short of a small mob.”

“What’s too dangerous?” asked Mithadan, joining the conversation late after bidding Korpulfr a final good evening and seeing the doors to his house closed behind him.

“Your friend here wishes to go to the markets,” explained the guard. “I’ve tried to explain to him that while the markets are not safe during the day, at night they are treacherous. It would not be wise to venture in at this time of night.”

Mithadan laughed. “Oh, poppycock! I think it’s a capital idea. I’d very much like to walk off some of this dinner before retiring for the night. Besides, Airefalas is right. We have more than enough swords between the lot of us to keep any troublemakers at bay.”

The guards exchanged disgruntled glances between the four of them, clearly trying to decide if they had the authority to veto the plan outright. In watching them, Airefalas noticed that two of them, his old friend Raal for one and another whose name he did not know, seemed to have taken generous advantage of the spirits Mithadan had had sent out to them. Though they tried to mask it, both seemed at least three sheets to the wind. The other two seemed a little flushed but otherwise well in control. Airefalas grinned at them pleasantly, then shrugged and fell into step behind him as Mithadan began to walk purposefully in the direction of the markets. The discussion ended by Mithadan’s abrupt departure, the guards followed, grumbling, at their heels.

Jogging a few paces to catch up, Airefalas fell into step beside Mithadan. “Two of them are quite drunk,” he said softly in Quenyan. “They can be dealt with fairly easily. The other two may present a problem.”

Mithadan nodded. “I noticed that as well,” he answered, also in Quenyan. “We must watch for an opportunity and seize it.”

Airefalas nodded.

Upon arrival in the marketplace, the Gondorians found the atmosphere in the night market much changed from the daytime. Most of the day’s vendors of dry goods and wares had closed their booths and gone only to be replaced by all manner of food and wine vendors. Open fires burned at intervals up and down the rows as street performers took charge of nearly every street corner, wowing the mostly male and mostly drunken crowds with amazing feats of acrobatics, fire-eating, and sword-swallowing. The smell of spice and roasting meat filled the air. Looking around, Airefalas smiled to himself. The potential for chaos was boundless. No wonder the guards had been leery of coming here.

Falling back slightly from Mithadan’s side, Airefalas soon found himself walking beside Raal, his drinking companion of the day before. He noticed with amusement that Raal now walked with a slight weave. They had not gone far when Airefalas paused before a booth where a young woman danced to the accompaniment of a pipe and a dumbek, his curiosity piqued not merely by the beauty and grace of the dancer but more by the image of the cobra she bore tattooed on her bare stomach. In the flickering firelight, the snake seemed to twist and slide with a sinuous movement of its own. Raal stopped beside him, also staring at the figure of the girl. Seeing them, the dancer beckoned to them to come closer with shapely arms that were bare but for dozens of jangling silver bracelets and a single upper arm band in the shape of a coiled snake. The ruby-colored eyes of the snake flashed in the firelight. When neither Airefalas nor Raal made any move to enter the booth, she danced toward them, her slender hips twitching gracefully to the beat of the drum.

She stopped before Airefalas, her delicate hands reaching out and closing around the hilt of his sword. Fighting the sudden urge just to let her have it, Airefalas smiled and shook his head. He removed her hands from his sword and pressed a gold coin into her palm instead. The dancer fluttered her long eyelashes at him in thanks and slid the coin into her spangled belt. Then, with a swirl of skirts and brown skin, she moved on to Raal. Before the inebriated guard could react, she reached out and pulled his sword from its scabbard. The blade flashed red and gold in the firelight. All Raal could manage was a surprised, “Hey!” as she spun away from him, the sword held high above her head.

As the guard took a step toward her, two men appeared out of the shadows to bar his way, daggers drawn. Airefalas watched as they positioned themselves between Raal and the dancer, who swayed enticingly just beyond his reach, his sword balanced on its edge across the top of her beautiful head. As much as Airefalas would have liked to see how this little tableau played itself out, he knew enough to recognize an opportunity when he saw one. Mithadan and the remaining three guards had already moved on into the market. If he could lose Raal here, that would leave only three guards rather than four for him and Mithadan to contend with later. He turned and slipped away into the crowd.

Catching up again with the others, it was a few minutes before Seft turned on him angrily. “Where’s Raal?” he demanded.

Feigning surprise, Airefalas turned and looked back in the direction from whence he had come. “He’s not here?” He paused, then shook his head in bewilderment. “I was watching one of the dancers. I thought he was behind me when I left.”

“Well, he’s not,” answered the guard.

“What dancer?” asked Mahat, rounding on him as well. “Where did you leave him?”

Airefalas shrugged. “I don’t know. It was the snake lady. She had a snake tattooed on her stomach.”

The two guards exchanged a look.

“Jazeera Badu,” said Mahat grimly.

Seft added for the benefit of the Gondorians, “It is said that she bewitches the unwary then leaves their bones to bleach in the desert.”

“The wary, too,” murmured Airefalas under his breath, remembering the fleeting temptation he had felt to give her whatever she wanted.

“Perhaps you should send someone back for Raal,” suggested Mithadan helpfully.

Seft nodded and with a gesture dispatched Mahat back into the crowd. “We wait here,” he said to Mithadan and Airefalas. Mithadan nodded agreeably, but as soon as Mahat had vanished from view, he wandered across the street into the tent of a food vendor. Airefalas followed. The vendor grinned at them broadly and gestured to a deep cooking pot suspended on a tripod over a low fire.

“A true delicacy,” he exclaimed, pointing down into the pot. “Steamed in nothing but water and cayenne.”

Curious, Airefalas leaned forward and looked down into the pot. His stomach lurched as he realized that it contained nothing but hundreds of steamed black scorpions. Perhaps if I were starving... he thought to himself. He smiled at the vendor and shook his head. Just then he felt a light touch on his sleeve.

“Now!” said Mithadan sharply into his ear.

Turning, Airefalas saw that the fourth guard, the one whose name they didn’t know and who along with Raal had had a bit too much to drink, had chosen that moment to be violently sick in the street. Seft looked on with an expression of profound disgust. When Airefalas turned back toward Mithadan, it was just in time to see him disappear through a slit in the side curtain of the vendor’s tent. Moving quickly, Airefalas followed. By the time the two of them had rounded the back of the vendor’s tent and could spare a glance back into the street, they saw that Seft had already noticed them missing. He cuffed the other guard angrily upside the head and strode swiftly across to the scorpion man’s tent. They didn’t have much time.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Still half-asleep, Aiwendil groggily shook his head, unsuccessfully trying to claw his way up to consciousness and untangle what Rôg had said. At first the message sounded like gibberish until the single word ‘poison’ etched itself all too clearly on his mind. Acutely aware of the degree of agitation that underlay his friend’s quiet plea, Aiwendil rubbed his eyes with knobby knuckles to clear away the sleep and struggled to his feet. He turned back to the camel’s saddlebag and pulled out a small leather pouch filled with herbs and tiny bottles of potions already mixed and prepared. Hanging down from the camel’s side was a wooden staff that Rôg had rarely seen Aiwendil use. The istar hesitated and then, with a sigh of resignation, solemnly untied it and clutched it in his hand. He balanced the staff lengthwise in his palm as if it was a fine sword, sliding his fingertips over its well-worn facade, still unable to remember the last time he had actually used it.

His bright eyes darted nervously back at Rôg, “You know, I can’t just walk into the center of camp in the middle of night as if I belong there. I am scarcely an expert on the maenwaith , but I imagine they are skittish of strangers even in good times. No matter what I say, they’ll never let me within arm’s length of a leader who has been poisoned....”

Seeing the glint of alarm in his companion’s face, Aiwendil hastily reassured him, “I’m not saying we should sit here and do nothing. Give me a minute to think.” Toting his leather pouch and staff, the old man retreated over the top of a nearby hill, which neatly obscured him from Rôg’s view. He stared out at the distant encampment, hoping to find out how many of the desert dwellers were still awake. Rôg might have flown out to retrieve that information, but, with his new found resolve, Aiwendil felt an old streak of stubbornness surface. He was determined to do some things himself. Sitting cross legged with closed eyes, he let his mind wander out in the familiar manner and, to his surprise, met no resistence either within himself or among the folk of the settlement. A hasty perusal of the fea inside the camp showed him that most of the maenwaith were asleep, even those in the clan leader’s tent. There did not seem to be a guard on duty, and those few Men still awake had gathered in one or two tents on the far side of the compound, seemingly engrossed in conversation.

Aiwendil gathered his belongings on his lap and pulled back within himself, whispering a silent plea to Yavanna. He hunched over and imagined the form he wished to assume as well as the poor woman lying sick in her bed who needed his aid. There was no resistence or hesitation. This time, the transformation came instantaneously with a single flash of light. A small moth, almost a twin to Rôg’s, fluttered on tiny brown wings towards the desert camp, calling back to the small bee eater to follow as he flitted toward the tent where Ayar lay.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Tinar was thankful for the darkness that hid his burning cheeks. In his eagerness to hear more about the unknown Shapechanger, he had almost given his people away! He would have to be more cautious with these strangers; despite their friendliness, they could be enemies. His boyish trust was unworthy of Wyrma’s son. What could the Northerners be planning? It would be good if someone were to follow them and observe where they went, he thought, and a resolve began to form in his mind.

He accompanied Korpúlfr to see the guests off and drew him off to the side as soon as the door closed, speaking in low tones. “Did you hear that? They want to go to the markets. Wouldn’t it be a good idea for one of us to follow them and see what they do?”

Kor hesitated. “Yes,” he responded thoughtfully, “I had considered that as well, but as the head of this house, I cannot leave my guests unnoticed.”

“I agree,” Tinar answered. “But I can go – not many know me, and they would only think that I have gone back to the palace.”

“You?” Korpúlfr exclaimed, checking his voice and looking around to be sure they had not been overheard. “But your mother would never permit you to roam the streets of the city alone, and that at night! You do not know how dangerous it can be, and she would never forgive me if I allowed you to come to harm.”

“Well then, you will not know about it; I shall simply say ‘good night’ to you now and leave. I can take care of myself better than you think, and certainly much better than my mother or brothers expect.” With those words, he bowed in mock deference and quickly moved out of the door before Kor could intervene. He disappeared into the shadows and a moment later, a mangy mongrel of a dog emerged. Sniffing, he followed the scent of the Gondorians and their guards.

When they reached the markets, the dog had to be mindful of the many feet which could easily have trampled on him, and dodged numerous legs to keep up with the men he followed. The scent of alcohol which wafted from the guards had been overpowering at first, but now it was difficult to discern amongst the many scents of sweaty, perfumed, or drunken bodies, and the heady odour of cooking food and hot drinks mingled with it. He nearly lost the trail when they entered a crowded food tent, since he could not risk going inside, but luck had it that he went around it at the right instant to spot the sudden movement when they escaped their guards. As they zigzagged between tents and stands, veering through alleys and lanes, he realized that they were heading in the direction of the harbour. A feeling of exhilaration flooded over him – his instinct had been right! They had planned an escape!

Tinar did not stop to think what would happen next; all of his thoughts and strength were concentrated on following the two men in the darkness through streets that were unknown to him.

[piosenniel]

Gondor – night of the King’s Party; present time

Ignoring the stares that greeted her entrance into the Common Room of the Seventh Star, Pio strode to the bar where Mírënin stood waiting for Morien to fill her orders of ale and spiced wine. Murmurings of approval rose and fell behind her. Though one old voice, Halfred, a regular at the Inn, spoke up more loudly declaring that it was just Mistress Piosenniel all gussied up for the King’s party. ‘Owns that merchant ship, The Lonely Star. Sails on her too, with her husband, Captain Mithadan. Got three lively little ones she brings in for a visit now and then.’ A tablemate of the old fellow, a little bleary eyed from his second pint, looked the Elf up and down as she passed by. ‘Looks like one of them El . . . dar,’ he said, drawing the word out in a slurred manner. His eyes were bedazzled by the numerous tiny gems the seamstress and her assistants had managed to sew onto Elf’s party dress. ‘Reminds me of stories of that witchy Elf that lived up north in that golden wood. All sort of shiny and all.’

Halfred kicked his companion soundly in the shins. ‘Best shut your trap on that particular one,’ he warned his companion. ‘The Queen’s own grandma she was . . . or is.’ His voice trailed off, unsure of how to refer to someone who’d sailed West.

Mírënin giggled at the comments on the Elf. Pio sighed, drawing her cloak about her, and raised her eyebrows at the young woman. ‘Well, you do look rather . . . glittery . . . tonight,’ said Morien in the girl’s defense. He leaned over the bar to get a look at Pio’s feet. ‘Shoes, even! And not your old boots.’ He leaned conspiratorially toward Mírënin. ‘Though I’ll bet a free round on the house that the Elf’s got a knife strapped to each leg.’

‘Well then, you will pay up, Morien!’ Pio pulled her dress above her knees and twirled about. ‘A round of drinks for all on the house!’ She laughed as the chorus of patrons raised their mugs to her with an approving shout.

Pio let her dress drop back to the floor and bending down to Mírënin, asked if she would run upstairs and fetch Baran. As the girl scuttled off to do so, Morien spoke low to the Elf. ‘You’re taking him to the King’s party?’ ‘And what is wrong with that?’ rejoined Pio. ‘His race is not often, indeed if ever, seen in Gondor. I would think the King happy to meet a representative of his subjects from the Vales of the Anduin.’ ‘All I’m thinking,’ said Morien, ‘ is that there will be plenty of eyebrows raised at his presence.’ Pio laughed, ‘Yes, well . . . it should make the party more interesting, eh?!’

She turned, scanning the stairs for Baran’s appearance. ‘Oh, and by the way,’ she chuckled, as Morien moved to fill orders for drinks. ‘You should have guessed my forearms . . .’

[Nerindel]

The Desert calls

A large shadow swept over the wolf clan residence and as it did the guards looked up, seeing them at the last minute the eagle swooped down behind the stables out of sight, she then flew around the back of the building and climb upwards behind the west tower of the house, perching herself atop the conical roof. She had followed the young raven, (as she had chosen to call him) all day and the more she observed his actions the more the feeling of wrongness filled her mind. From the Harbour, the young man went to the market and then to the palace, which did not seem out of place as he seemed to be a trader of some kind. However, her closeness to the palace stirred a great fear within her and the sight of the heavily armed guards who dutifully patrolled the palace walls, did even more.

The sound of a whip cracked disturbing the quiet stillness of the Haradwaith desert, the stinging brought tears to her eyes as the leather tip found purchase and tore at her sweat ridden skin, the salty sweat burning as the she struggled to rise from the blow.

“Move!” was the harsh order that followed. Many Dark skinned Warriors surrounded them and ahead the pennants of Umbar waved in the hot desert winds. However, their destination was not for the great city of the Corsairs instead they had remained on a northerly course, steering east as the desert ended and they neared the river Harnen. Ahead Dark Mountains loomed ominously and she feared that their peoples doom and the doom of all men lay just beyond.

A wrinkled sun blistered hand grasped tenderly at her arm and she looked up into to the concerned eyes of the old Woman she had earlier stopped to give her ration of water too, gaining her the bite of their captors whips. She managed a weak but reassuring smile to let the woman know that she was all right, even though the pain was beginning to become almost unbearable. Nevertheless, she did bear the pain she had to for them! Her gaze took in the other prisoners, mostly mothers and their children who where innocents in this world and should not have been subjected to such fear and uncertainty. Also bound were several young men, no more than boy’s who were just beginning to develop their skills, but had not yet the control to enable their escape. The children were all purposely separated from their parents and she now looked on them with sorrow filled eyes, pulling at her binds as one of the children stumbled and was roughly pulled back up by one of the dark warriors. The whips of her captors again tore at her back and a rough hand gripped her chin pulling her up

“I would learn restraint if I were you, for the revennors of the dark Lord are not so lenient!” the man hissed, his hot breath on her face making her feel nauseous, he pushed her head away and laughed wickedly, "You will see, you will all see!"

“No!” Her pained cry had almost alerted the palace guards to her presence, but thankfully, they had looked down and had not the presence of mind to believe that a bird had made the cry. However, she did not give them the chance to reconsider, she soared high into the clear sky and flew away from the palace and the vision its guards had stirred within her.

She returned to the young mans house, knowing that he would eventually return. And he did, just before sunset. Followed shortly by the two men from the White City. They entered the courtyard accompanied by four guards all dressed in the same fashion as the ones she had observed at the palace. The guards where not permitted to enter the house, which eased her heart greatly, for her instincts told her that these men were not honourable and should not be trusted. But as she listened from her perch to their grumbles and complaints, the uneasiness she had felt before at the palace returned, these men or what they represented frightened her. She launched herself into the air and circled the tower once reluctant to leave, but her fear was too great, memories of dark places filled with death and torment, filled her mind, she had to get away!

She flew into the desert to find quiet solitude in which to sort through these confusing images and to make some sense of them, not far from the city she found a series of caves and rockfaces. Perching herself on a craggy ledge near a large opening, she nestled herself in for the night, preening a few stray feathers before closing her eyes for the night.

“Why did I come here!” she sighed, unable to get the rest she desired. She knew she was not like other eagles and for over a decade, she had been able to forget the pain of her past, but three days in these lands had brought back memories now unfamiliar to her. A wise friend had once told her that she would not be able to hide from herself forever, Perhaps he was right, perhaps now was the time for her to find who she really was.

For the past eighteen years she had remain an observer in this world content to simply learn through observation the way’s of the races of Middle earth, but it was a lonely existence and she often longed for companionship. Although she gained much knowledge from studying the various races, she feared to interact with them, afraid that they would find out her dark secret. In these times of despair, she would flee to the solitude of the mountains, and there she would remain until her curiousity and thirst for knowledge eventually drew her back out into the world.

It was after one of these retreats that she came again to the lands that men called Gondor, and to the port town of Edhellond. The men of this town where Fishermen; tall and strong who relied heavily on fishing and trade to feed and support their growing community, but on this visit she observed that things were not well, the fishing boats returned day after day with empty hauls. arguments and disputes broke out all over the usually peaceful town. More than ever, she felt the desire to help, rather than watch all that these people had achieved fall apart, because of misfortune. She flew out to sea and searched for many weeks looking for some sign or silvery shadow that would denote large shoals, or signs of other animals whose diet consisted of fish.

After two weeks of searching, she found a small isle and basking on its eastern shore were seals and many sea birds of varying types, and to her delight, she saw the silvery shadows of large shoals of varying fish, enough for both the Kelvar of the isle and the men of Edhellond. Flying swiftly back, she found the fishing fleet just outside the bay of Belfalas. She circled the lead ship screeching loudly and flying southwest, but they did not understand and would not follow. So she quickly flew back to the isle and swooped down plucking a fat herring from the water and flying back to the ship and depositing it at the feet of the lead ships captain. Then when the captain looked up, she screeched again and began to fly toward the isle, this time the fleet did follow.

However, as the isle came into view the large fishing vessels stopped. “Meneltarma, Atalantë!” some of the men whispered, but she did not understand their hesitation, again and again she swooped down plucking fish from the sea and depositing them at the feet of the captains, but still they would go no further west. Not understanding she perched on the side of the lead ship and cocked her head at the ships captain. He was tall and strong of build, but for all his long days, at sea he was fairer than the other men of Gondor were and as he regarded the confused bird, his grey eyes sparkled with an ancient sorrow and knowledge.

“I am sorry my friend, but we can go no further, that Isle is all that remains of the once great kingdom of Númenor or Akallabeth as it is more commonly known by those who remember their history of old.“

Although the ships would go no further they did cast out their nets, three days passed with no avail but on the fourth day their patience finally paid off and they pulled the largest haul they had ever seen, catching a bounty of large deep salt-water fish. The return journey was a joy for her to watch, their spirits lifted they spent the evenings in song and storytelling, their voices lifted in mirth and laughter.

She made several journeys with the men of Edhellond, and learned much listening to the tales of the fishing captain, who the others called Aerandil. The sailors of the fishing vessels saw her as a good omen and she often helped them to find good fishing spots, but often her gaze would turn westward hoping to to catch a glimpse of the sacred lands to the west that Aerandil had spoken of in his sad tales about the Lords of Númenor.

One day when the fleet returned to the fishing grounds near where the star isle once stood, she decided to go see if she could see the fair towers of the Eldamar of which Aerandil spoke. But as she passed over Meneltarama, a great storm arose from the sea and engulfed her, before even she could return and warn the ships of its approach. She fought hard to stay in the air, but the strong winds pulled her down and with her feathers water logged she fell to the ground. How long she lay unconscious on the small isle she did not know, but when she awoke the memory of a dream remained with her and no longer did she desire to travel west, instead an urgency to head south grew within her.

In the dream, a large stone city rose from the sands and cast a dark shadow over the desert lands. In this dream, she also saw a strange battle, small olive skinned men fighting each other and animals of varying shapes and sizes aided both sides. Above them, all loomed a large dark shadow that she could not make out, in the blood red of the setting sun.

Remembering the dream, she shuddered. It was now five years since she first had the dream, and although urgency had initially welled within her, the further she got from the isle the more she thought the dream unimportant and no more than a feverish nightmare. She strayed from her course, lingering for a time in the forests and mountains of the North, but over the past year, the dream returned, haunting her and in the hope of finding some release from its torment she came south, if not only to prove to herself it was nothing but a dream.

But the longer she remained in these lands the more uncomfortable she felt, finding the young man in the desert was hap stance or so she believed. But now as she thought on her feelings regarding the young mans presence in the city and how wrong and out of place it had seemed, she realised that it was not only him, but his whole household and even herself, who did not belong in the city of the Corsairs, In the city she felt caged and restricted… suffocating! But out here in the desert, she felt free and at one with the land, a freedom that brought with it a strong sense of familiarity.

As she tried to digest these thoughts and the fear she had experienced at the sight of the cities soldiers along with the slowly emerging memories of her past, something caught her eye. A rider less horse! The beast stopped just outside the cave she was perched above and a moment later a spotted leopard darted past into the cave, but the horse remained un-startled, stranger still the beast followed the dangerous predator inside.

After some debate with herself about the danger, her curiosity got the better of her and she flew down to the ground and cautiously walked inside. The horse much to her relief was still alive and stood quietly just inside the opening, venturing further she saw the big cat curled up, seemingly asleep at the rear of the cave. Cocking her head, she watched the gentle rise and fall of the beast’s chest as it slept.

“What a strange friendship!” she mused quietly. The leopard stirred causing her to jump, suddenly realising how venerable she was in this enclosed space she tried to get out quickly, but as she jumped up to take quick flight she misjudge the height of the caves roof and hit her head hard, falling to the ground.

“Ouch” she whispered, groggily, rubbing her head under her wing.

[Mithadan]

Saelon sucked on his lower lip as he sat watch at the helm of the Lonely Star. It was a moonless night but, by the movement of the stars, he estimated that two hours had passed since nightfall. The crew appeared to be below decks, resting from a hard day's work. In reality, the work continued below, as all cargo was being secured and, where necessary, lashed down as they made ready to get underway. Saelon glanced over to the larger of the two corsairs. Several men were above decks, cups in their hands, chatting and sometimes singing. It was time.

"Duilin!" he hissed. "Bring up the barrels."

Several men brought up oak barrels from the deck below. Two were large and the third a smaller cask. Wax seals covered holes at their bases and southron runes were written on their sides. "Seems a right shame to have this go to waste," said one of the men. Saelon smiled. "Oh, it won't go to waste if all goes well," he answered. They laid the kegs atop of a cart and wheeled it carefully down the gangway. This action caught the attention of the guards stationed on the dock.

"Oi there!" cried one. "Where do you think you're going?"

Saelon smiled and lifted the smaller cask from the cart and brought it over to the guardhouse. He placed it on a piling and then pulled a spigot from his pocket which he hammered through the wax seal. "Compliments of Captain Mithadan," he said. "We wish to thank you for your help and hospitatility." One of the guards drew a cup from the cask and sniffed at it. Then he smiled and drained it in a gulp. His mates laughed as he coughed at the strength of the draught, but none refused a cup of their own. "And what of these other kegs?" asked one.

"For the crews of the corsairs," Saelon answered. "Its a tradition in Gondor to give gifts to your hosts and show respect to other captains." The guard nodded, but watched carefully as the kegs were delivered. Drink or no, he made sure that the men of the Star returned to their ship before the revelry commenced. Soon, both the docks and the corsairs were alive with loud voices as the contents of the kegs were tapped.

Saelon sat at the helm and watched with a nod of approval. Then he ducked down below decks. There in the hall were four other large casks. He patted them affectionately before ascending the ladder again. An hour later, the voices on the docks and the corsairs were singing off-key and not a few minor arguments had erupted. One or two men were already slumping down onto the decks. All was well. But where were Mithadan and Airefalas?

[piosenniel]

Rôg


Where does the old fool think he’s going? Surely he can’t be thinking he’ll hoof it into the camp . . . the stick is hardly a disguise . . . and to be quite honest, with his hair all awry from sleep and blowing in the breeze, he looks half mad . . .

Aiwendil had grabbed a small leather pouch and some old walking stick and tottered over a small rise, dropping for a moment from the little bird’s sight. Rôg rose into the air and flew after him.

Ah, good! He hasn’t gone far . . . in fact, he’s stopped . . .

Landing on a thin twig of a nearby leafless thorn bush, Rôg cocked his head to one side and watched as the man stood staring at the distant camp. His face had gone soft, unfocused, and he seemed to be listening to something. Rôg turned one feathered ear and then the other in the direction of the camp; he could hear nothing other than the night’s breeze rattling the little bush he’d perched on. He was about to fly to his companion's shoulder, to tell him to come back – they’d figure something out to get him into the Eagle camp.

And then the old man sat down. Planting his scrawny haunches firmly in the sand, Aiwendil had gathered his stick and pouch onto his lap and hunched over them. A look of pained concentration played on his face in the moonlight for the briefest of moments, making Rôg wonder if he had been overcome with some illness.

Fur and feathers! The strain of the journey has been too much for him . . . add to that the news I blurted out . . . it’s knocked him over the edge to be sure . . . This stream of thoughts dissolved in a sudden shimmer that blurred the little bird’s eyes.

Aiwendil had disappeared!

Rôg flapped frantically to where the old man had been seated. Save for the shallow indent in the sand where Aiwendil had sat down, there was no sign of him. And then, a little way in the distance came a tiny voice . . . calling to him . . .

~*~

‘And just what have you done with my companion!’

Rôg’s words came out slightly muffled. He had the moth gently, but quite firmly, secured in his beak, his question leaking out round the fuzzy torso of the small brown insect. He had flown back to the thorn bush and was threatening to impale the protesting moth if the truth were not forthcoming.

‘Well?’ he prompted, joggling the moth a bit as if to shake the answer from him.

A stream of gruff invective preceded not an explanation but a command.

‘You featherbrained skinchanger!’ ‘Put me down, now!’

The moth’s antennae twitched irritably as the bird sat him on a twig. ‘Nothing’s been done to your companion!’ The little brown moth peered up at his suspicious captor and sighed. ‘I’m right here. And time’s wasting away for the clan leader you spoke of while you question me.’

Rôg stumbled backward, fluttering his wings to keep himself from falling off the branch. ‘A maenwaith!’ he spluttered. ‘All this time you remained hidden; you never told me?!’ He looked down his beak at the insect. ‘And just what clan are you from?’

‘We don’t have time for answers right now, Rôg. The story is long . . . and . . . complicated. It can wait for a later time.’ Aiwendil fluttered his wings in preparation to fly off. One had been crumpled slightly, when Rôg had interrogated him, causing him to fly crazy spirals in the breeze as he took off.

The bird shook his head at the erratic, ineffective pattern and launched himself after the old man. One small foot reached out as he flew over him and enclosed the moth in a taloned cage.

‘Just hang on . . . I’ll get us there.’

Aiwendil, being a captive audience, had to endure the endless string of questions the little bird threw at him. Answers from the moth were not forthcoming. And it was with relief that he finally crawled from the Bee-eater’s grasp as they landed on the clan leader’s tent.

‘Down there,’ whispered Rôg, poking his beak into the smokehole. ‘Can you see her?’ he went on, as the moth peered over the rim of fabric . . .

[piosenniel]

Gondor - the party is over/the night passing

Standing at the edge of the great hall, Pio took advantage of the heavy dark draperies swagged back with thick silvered cording along the pillared alcoves. A moment before, a liveried serving man had come round with flutes of wine, chilled whites and the warmer reds; the glasses winked at her in the brilliance of the of the numerous many-branched candelabrum that stood on stone ledges along the walls.

The elf had smiled graciously at the man as she removed two goblets, one red, one white. ‘Non-partisan,’ she said as the man quickly covered a look of surprise. His face composed itself into a perfect non-committal mask as she downed the white and sat it on the stone bench near her, next to a small line of other emptied goblets, all queued up quite neatly. He moved on as she sipped the red, pausing ever so quickly to whisper to another server that the lady needed her empty goblets removed.

Pio moved further into the shadows and watched as the King spoke at length with Baran. She could see the clusters of other invitees from the merchant community in Gondor clump together in whispery groups, their eyes straying often to the King and the Beorning, their faces expressing mistrust of the giant of a man and ill-hidden repudiation of his right to be here at the party, or in Gondor at all if she read their demeanors correctly. They were disposed to cover their sneering looks quickly whenever the King looked round; he had made it clear that he welcomed the Beorning to this party as an emissary from north western Rhovanion, and that he was eager that Gondor and the Beornings be in good standing with one another.

Derylin had come up quietly behind the Elf, chuckling softly at her quiet assessment of the party. ‘I thought you would not be here,’ he said quietly as he sipped his own wine. ‘And I would not have been so,’ she said not taking her gaze from the clutch of Master merchants who now stood together, their mouths gawping in some exchange of conversation, like a school of hungry carp. ‘Not at all, but that my hand was forced by the concerted efforts of my children, their aunt, and not the least, Cook.’ Pio sighed, turning toward her dueling partner and raised her wine to him. ‘To be sure, I would rather be crossing blades with you at the moment, than feinting at words with the members of this party.’

They stood in companionable silence for a while, Derylin growing skeptical as a look of deviousness pulled up the corners of Pio’s mouth. ‘Now what?’ he asked himself as she turned toward him with a considering expression. ‘I propose we give the good folk something else to chew over for a while,’ she said placing her hand lightly on his arm and prompting him out to the dance floor. The small ensemble on the raised stone dais at the other end of the room had just begun the lead in for one of the dances popular in Gondor.

Soon eyes and tongues had turned to the couple on the floor . . . the married woman . . . what was she thinking! . . . her husband gone away on a mission for the King himself . . . and here she is dancing with the very single, deliberately uncommitted handsome man . . . make that heartbreaker, snickered some . . . has she no sense at all . . . and her with three small children at home . . . and wasn’t she the one who came with the Skinchanger to start with . . . Tongues wagged on, their unsought comments rising and falling with the notes of the music, as the couples on the dance floor swirled past.

It was later that night, as the party wound down to its conclusion that Pio gathered up Baran along with her cloak, and saying her good-byes to the host and hostess maneuvered them through the remaining throng to the coach portico. A tired man brought round her cart, holding the horses steady as the Elf and Beorning clambered aboard and took their seats. Pio took a deep breath of the cool night air and laughed as she flicked the reins lightly along the horses’ flanks.

‘I hope you had a passably pleasant time this evening, my dear Baran,’ she said, grinning impishly at him. ‘I did, for the most part.’ She glanced up at him, letting the horses take their lead down the pathway to the bottom level of the city. ‘I do regret we did not have the chance to dance.’ She maneuvered the team round a stack of barrels just delivered to one of the upper level inns. ‘And you . . . how was your night? I saw you long in conversation with the King. How did you find him?’

She eased herself into a position of comfort and watched the withers of the horses move up and down in a slow rhythm. He shifted his bulk on the cart seat and she turned her gaze toward him for a moment, one brow raised in question.

[Nerindel]

Hálfr (Raakaharn/ Wolf chieftain)

A stocky well built man in his early fifties sat at his desk, thoughtfully stroking his well kept greying beard as he looked over the maps and notes that littered his desk. It had been a long and troubling day and it was not yet over, he put down the map he had been studying and rose to stretch the stiffness out of his legs, arching his back and letting a tired yawn escape his lips he wandered over to the large arched windows of his office. Opening the wooden shutters, he looked out into the clear desert night sky and onto the growing Maenwaith city.

All had been going according to plan, with many of the residential builds already complete, but the larger and more important buildings were taking a little longer to build, as it was proving more difficult than first imagined to gather the raw material, without drawing unwanted attention. However that was soon to change, several months ago with the approval of his mother Markal had established another smaller settlement, about three days south east of the city on the banks of a river that ran it course to the inner sea where the outriders had reported fertile lands for crops and livestock. The outriders also reported finding a thick grey coloured mud that dried hard when left in the heat of the sun to dry. It had been agreed that they should see if this new discovery could be put to use, and that evening a messenger from the village arrived reporting that they had managed to make strong bricks by mixing the dark clay with the sand of the desert and that they would send a shipment for them to examine.

Slowly he drew away from the window rubbing his temples, that had been the only good news of the day, the Stone meant for Wyrma’s main headquarters’ had been destroyed during a seasonal desert storm And all indications pointed to a rampaging Oliphaunt. The odd thing was that there did not seem to be any tracks leading to or from the storage area. Shaking his head wearily he sat back down, almost instantly the rumours had spread that there was a Maenwaith that could take the form of one of these mighty, but unpredictable beasts, Even Kumat Wyrma’s third son was inclined to believe that the destruction was an act of sabotage from one of the rebel clans. This troubled him greatly, he had faith in his men and could not believe that someone or thing could have got past them undetected, but it had, be it saboteur or simply a wild Oliophant whose tracks were covered by the shifting sands in the storm.

By now, Kumat would be delivering the news to his mother and in the morning, they would have her orders. But in the mean time, he would concentration on another possible problem that his son had relied to him in a message. Pushing his left hand into his pocket he pulled out the folded piece of parchment and carefully unfolding it, he read over its contents once more. It spoke of strangers from the northlands, who asked openly of their kind, in the city of their enemy. He could tell from reading that his son was not only concerned that the strangers would find what they where looking for, but also that they would inevitably alert lord Falasmir to their presence, which would undo all that they had so far achieved.

A curt knock at the door, made him look up and in entered Wyrma’s second son and his chief lieutenant, Walat. “You sent for me, Raakaharn?” Walat said standing tall and straight before his desk. An approving smile crossed his lips, of all of Wyrma’s son’s Walat was the only one to display any regard for discipline and order, he also displayed the traits of becoming an admiral tactician and his skill with the sword was remarkable to say the least, he had been his most impressive student to date. But his candidness and straightforwardness left him being un-liked by many, but not Hálfr he liked the man’s candour.

“Yes, Walat. Korpulfr has sent some troubling news for the city” he handed the message to Walat watching the expression of his lieutenant as he quickly read the news.

“You want me to increase the watch?” Walat asked looking up and handing back the parchment.

Hálfr nodded, “But I think we should also send out a few scouts, just to keep an eye out for any strangers,” he added.

Walat nodded his agreement and his eye showed that he understood that Hálfr was not only referring to the northerners but of the uninvited visitor, they had apparently missed earlier.

“Be sure that the scouting party are made aware that they are to keep out of sight and report any unscheduled passage, no matter how insignificant it might seem!” He added as Walat turned to leave. The young man nodded curtly and left to carry out his orders. Halfr grinned certain that Walat would chose to lead the scouting party himself.

Hálfr rose again and looked west in the direction of Umbar, “Soon!” he grinned subversively raising his hand and clenching his fist. “Yes soon I will have my revenge and those who thought to destroy the wolf clan or abandon them to their fate, will regret having let me live!” he hissed coldly into the dark night.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Child's post

Aiwendil peered intently in the direction Rôg had pointed. He could barely discern the shadowy outline of what appeared to be a young woman, enfolded in a great cloak and asleep on a mat drawn up near the foot of the bed on which her older patient lay. Relieved to find no one else in the tent, the small moth fluttered closer, alighting on a wooden stool that stood close by. Aiwendil slipped back into his original form, still supporting the staff on his lap and bearing a leather pouch with herbs and potions that had been slung over his shoulder.

Aiwendil glanced quickly from one woman to the other. The striking resemblence between the two suggested they were kinfolk, quite possibly mother and daughter. From the taut look on the younger woman's face and the damp rag draped through her splayed fingers, Aiwendil suspected that she had crumpled to the mat exhausted from her bedside nursing vigil and had immediately fallen into a deep slumber.

The istar quietly approached and, leaning over, placed his hands on either side of the older woman's brow. He hesitated for a moment, uncertain what to do. Then he glanced upward, hoping that he could see Rôg somewhere nearby and gain some reassurance from the presence of a friend. But the tiny bird was nowhere to be seen.

Aiwendil's skills as a healer had been learned long ago in the household of Yavanna where he had tended the birds and beasts that dwelt within the golden gardens. More recently, he had practiced those same skills in the forests of Mirkwood working with a host of different animals, but he had little experience or knowledge to draw upon when dealing with Men. Cautiously, he let his mind inch outward to meet with hers. The old man met no resistence to his gentle probing, but neither did he feel an answering response.

Still, it was not difficult to do. He probed a bit deeper and, skirting around the welter of tormented hallucinations that afflicted the woman's mind, was able to catch the name by which she went and glean some idea of who she was. He reached out again to initiate more intimate contact, but drew back suddenly when he sensed how precariously she lay suspended between the forces of life and death. Her fea was like a pitiful candle that had burnt dangerously low, whose tiny flame might flicker and die at any moment. There was painfully little he could do to help a mortal who lay so close to the realm of Mandos.

A cursory outward examination of Ayar did nothing to allay his fears. Aiwendil could see the inflamed wound on the back of Ayar's neck through which the poison had entered her body. With a sigh, the istar turned to his bag of herbs and potions. He could not stop the inevitable course of the drug, but perhaps he could soften some of the pain and even draw the woman back to consciousness so that she might speak with her family one last time. First, he administered a tincture of poppies, the bright red flower that can bring gentle respite from pain. Then he probed deep within Ayar's mind, looking for ways to draw her back from her nightmare visions so that she might again see and speak with those around her.

Just as the old man sat back on the stool from his work, tired and less careful than he should have been, the staff lying across his lap slipped loose and clattered noisily downward, hitting a large silver pot in which incense burned, then bouncing off and thudding to the ground. The young woman sleeping at the foot of the bed stirred in her sleep, then sat up abruptly, focusing shocked eyes on this unbelievably tall stranger who now sat no more than two feet away. Narika half-stifled a scream, then willed herself to gain control. In an instant she had changed from human to eagle form and, half thrashing her way through the tent's smokehole, rose up on sturdy wings high above the encampment to sound the alarm that one or more dangerous strangers were in their midst.

Aiwendil hastily considered whether it wouldn't be wise to shift shapes himself and make a speedy retreat from this settlement. However, something inside his head inconveniently whispered that this was not the right thing to do. He quickly retrieved his staff and leapt to his feet, standing to face the entrance of the tent and preparing for the inevitable assault. The tent flap was suddenly drawn back from the outside so that he could see a party of maenwaith in human form, all carrying arms of various types. At the front of the group stood one who was obviously their leader, his eyes full of fury as he prepared to lunge forward and avenge the woman he loved whose tent had been violated by this unknown intruder.

For a moment, everything hung suspended as Thorn drew back his weapon and prepared to strike. Then, from the rear of the tent, a familliar voice cried out a plaintive warning. Struggling to sit up amid the tangled bedclothes, still weak and pitifully ill, Ayar called out commanding her people, "Wait! Do not harm him. He is a friend....."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pio’s post – Rôg

Rôg kept his eye firmly fixed on Aiwendil as he fluttered down toward the stricken woman and then changed back to mannish form. ‘Hurry up!’ he muttered to the figure below, his piping admonition blown away in the night’s breeze. Only the younger woman who sat drowsing near the sickbed remained of the tableau he had seen earlier. ‘Hurry, old man! The clansman I saw may come back,’ he called out softly again.

There was no response and naught to do but get closer to his companion and hasten him along. With a small leap he jumped down, aiming for the cowl of Aiwendil’s robe. He had landed, but barely, when the clatter of the old man’s staff rang loud against the metal of some pot and a loud, high pitched scream filled the small area followed by the rush of wings upward. Aiwendil rose up quickly tensing himself for the expected assault, and in doing so jostled poor Rog’s precarious grasp on the neckline of the robe. The young man fell willy-nilly down inside the material covering the old man’s chest. His six legs scrabbled wildly to find purchase and turn himself upright. Climbing quickly to the edge of the neckline, he peeked over, antennae waving wildly at the sound of running feet and loud cries approaching the tent.

‘Well here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into,’ he hissed up at Aiwendil as the tent flap was thrown back and the armed men entered. One of them, the fellow that Rôg had spied previously in the tent, raised his sword preparing to charge. The young man’s eyes bugged out and he crept along the collar’s rim to hide beneath the old man’s hair.

As he waited for the inevitable blow to fall, a commanding voice from behind called out. Silence followed, and Rôg rubbed his wings in a nervous, rapid rhythm as the moment stretched out.

‘Thorn!’ cried one of the male voices that had entered. ‘I’ll be a billy-goat’s uncle if you don’t hear it . . . but isn’t the old guy’s hair chirping (http://www.insecta-inspecta.com/crickets/field/MusicMakers.gif) . . .’

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Thorn & Surinen

Thorn was troubled when he left the tent, striding through the night to see if the guards had discovered any new signs in the deep darkness. Troubled that Ayar showed no signs of improvement from the many tinctures and infusions that his sister had continued to send, troubled that Surinen had not yet returned, and that in continually tending to her mother, he was doubly concerned that Narika had not allowed herself the rest she needed to meet the demands of either mother or clan. And though he had tried many times he could not persuade her to do otherwise. Still she sat close by Ayar in the dimness, through the weary and bleak hours of the evening.

So it had been when Thorn left them, but now in the pitch black of night, a scream was heard across the camp and the heavy beat of an eagle wings circling low over the encampment once, twice, three times, shrieking all the while before leading those to responded quickly to the well known tent that lay at its hub. There were only very few in the clan who knew the eagle’s ways intimately. And this bird, this voice Thorn knew well. Together they had winged many hours above the desert, enjoying the thermals of the mountains, gliding over the cliffs in their less burdened days. But now her cry invoked a surge of fury within him.

Without taking his leave, and without biding the guards to follow, Thorn sprang into motion at that sound, his taut nerves rebounding as he anticipated the worst. Running across the packed sand, without stopping he grabbed the first lance he came to, holding it poised over his shoulder in warning for all to see as he ran for the leader’s tent. His heart pounding by the time he finally cast it aside, and drawing his sword threw back the tent flap intending to pierce the first stranger he found there, pinning him to the ground he stood upon. Poising himself to strike down this intruder, Thorn noticed movement behind the elderly man he was met with. Ayar was struggling to raise herself up upon her elbows.

“Wait!” she said in a commanding voice. “Do not harm him, He is a friend….”

Thorn hesitated, wanting to obey the direction of his leader, but questioning her presence of mind. She might not know of what she spoke, and a delay might prove costly. But then this stranger made no attempt to defend himself or escape. Thorn slowly lowered his sword seeing that the guards had followed him into the tent.

From behind him he heard a familiar voice saying “I’ll be a Billy-goat’s uncle if you don’t hear it…but isn’t the old guy’s hair chirping?” Indeed the old man did appear to be chirping somehow. But Thorn did not allow himself to be distracted, amusing as it was.

"Who are you, old man? And what is your business with us, that you should enter unannounced and unaccompanied?" Thorn shouted sharply. "It is late and do you not see there is great sickness in this tent? Why have you not approached those outside, instead of troubling the ill and the sleeping?" Pausing expectantly, Thorn waited for some plausible explanation, but the elderly man gave none, and only rubbed his jaw carefully as if lost in thought behind the bright blue eyes that had stared at this fierce show, considering what might be done. After a few long moments, Thorn grew impatient and demanded again, "What are you doing in our camp? Should I know you?"

"That is the question," the old man finally sighed leaning heavily on his staff as he glanced from Thorn to Ayar and back again, waving absently at an insect that could be seen for a moment apparently intent upon the old man’s ear. Thorn didn't know what to make of this old man…this tall, albeit bent, foreigner -no doubt a grandfather many times over - who stood before him. He had as much of a threatening air as a child who accidentally spills a jar of water and stares at those who would reprimand him not guessing the seriousness of it.

But seeing now that Ayar was still awake and had managed now to sit up weakly in her bed, Thorn softened. "Which is the question? I have asked you many questions!"

"The question? 'Why am I here?' That is the question. To help… I've come to try and help her ", he said gesturing toward the bed were Ayar was seated among her cushions intently watching the proceedings. “Surely, she needs help? Is it not so?"

“Yes, this is so.” Nodding subtly toward the leather pouch the old man carried, Thorn changed his line of questioning, "But what have you done? What tonic have you given her that she is now awake and relieved in her illness?” But even before these words had left his mouth, Thorn heard someone hailing him from outside the tent, and turning, he saw that many tanned faces where now peering in the tent opening, jostling one another for a better view. And through these as well as the ring of those armed, quickly pushed a wiry man with curling black hair. Once perceiving the stranger so close to his leader, this maenwaith slowed in his purpose, growing wary, with rapidly changing expression.

“What is it Surinen?” Thorn heard Narika ask as she followed him into the tent working her way through the throng to her mother’s side. Surinen looked the stranger up and down, reluctant to answer.

“It is alright, you may speak,” Thorn encouraged his friend, watching Narika to see if she appeared to be hurt.

“We have found a camp site outside our borders.”

“Are there others to be found aside this one that we have here?” Thorn asked.

“No, we have found no one else,” the outrider replied slowing walking up to the old man who was chirping very loudly at this point. Surinen sniffed the air, his eyes widening as a smile returned to his face. He bowed slightly to the old man. “But there is one other we have not seen, or so it would appear,” he said over his shoulder to Thorn. “Excuse me grandfather, but I think you carry an acquaintance of my mine.” Slowly reaching out to pluck the cricket from his hair, the old man blocked him quickly with his staff. “That is alright, I can see you are acquainted as well. I will speak from here if it is all right…. Rôg? ” He said peering at the old man’s shoulder. “Rôg, I think that I have finally found your camel if you have indeed lost it. It is outside the tent just now.”

The scruffy old man shook out his arm, as if it has gone quite stiff, and looking up toward the smoke hole and the stars beyond, he took a slow deep breath. Surinen stepped back a pace, “I am sorry grandfather. I do not mean to crowd you. It is stuffy in here.”

But Thorn turned back to those gathered at the door, addressing them in the clan's dialect, saying, "We have two strangers in our midst tonight. And they shall be staying with us until such time we decide they are free to go. If they or any other is found drifting though the camp, they are to be dealt with strictly." Then speaking again to the elderly man he said, "I have told these people that you are not to leave or wander until such a time when we decide to let you. Do you understand this? It is for your safety as well as ours, for we are suffering the ill favor of some that would sorely harm us, and we cannot be overly careful."

The old man nodded, not meeting Thorn’s eyes, but looking to where the upturned pot of incense had smoldered and small yet lively flame grew dancing upon the edge of the grass mat.

[Mithadan]

Mithadan and Airefalas walked quickly through a small crowd which stood swaying and clapping as a musician performed. Then they dodged quickly into a dark alley where they paused to remove the extra knives from their bags and cloaks and slip them into their belts. Airefalas stepped carefully from the alley into the wider street, looking both ways before motioning for Mithadan to follow. The road led roughly to the north and they moved rapidly along, keeping to the shadows.

In the late evening, the market was a sea of darkness, lit at places by lanterns and fires where the locals were gathered for entertainment. Here and there, alleys branched off to the left and the right, some guarded by men with spears or clubs and others shadowy as a cloudy night. The Gondorians avoided the brightness of the lamps and fires, but skirted the pools of light closely enough so that they could see the people around them. It seemed to them as if everyone they passed paused to examine their clothing as if weighing whether they were a worthy target.

After several minutes, the road forked. They paused briefly to examine both routes. The road to the right seemed to continue on to the north while the way to the left took a westerly course. By silent agreement, they chose the fork towards the west and, they hoped, the docks. For a while, it seemed as if they had chosen well, but after a time, the road curved gradually to the left again. The islands of light grew fewer and farther apart as they moved along uncertainly. "We are heading south again," hissed Mithadan. "We must go back." Airefalas examined a narrow alley which led off to the right for a moment, then nodded in agreement. They turned and retraced their steps, only to find their progress blocked by three burly men. Each held a spear on one hand and a bottle in the other...

-------

Time seemed to fly at the docks, as Saelon peered out into the night. Duilin stood nest to him when he was not pacing the decks. "It is well after midnight," growled Duilin. "And our friends on the corsairs appear to be asleep. May strong drink bring them sound slumbers."

Saelon descended from the helm to the main deck and leaned on the rail while looking down at the docks. There was no sign of movement in the guards' tent either. He sighed. "We will wait a bit longer," he said nervously. "But we cannot wait long. The next shift of the guard will arrive in perhaps an hour or so. We cannot risk running afoul of their arrival."

"The Captain..." began Duilin.

"The Captain warned us not to wait," growled Saelon. "As he should. His first duty is to the crew as is ours. If we wait too long, we will be fighting on the docks against insurmountable odds in the morning. He has given us a chance. We must take it...soon."

The minutes passed faster than Saelon cared to think. Below decks, he could hear the tense murmurs of the crew as they awaited the order to depart. But at last, he knew he could wait no longer. "Bring the next set of 'deliveries' to the corsairs and the docks," he instructed. "And Duilin, be quiet. If you run across anyone awake and asking questions, do not hesitate. Kill them if you have to..."

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aewindil nodded and shrugged his shoulders, mumbling a few words of reassurance that he had no intention of trying to wander off from camp. The istar wondered if Rôg would show the same good sense, but kept his doubts to himself. Out of the corner of his eye, the old man caught a glimpse of an overturned incense pot whose glowing cinders were just beginning to spill out over the mat. With all the excitement of the past few minutes, and the dark shadows that flickered and played along the walls of the tent, no one else had yet noticed that the pot had overturned.

Searching for an excuse to turn away and look at things more closely, Aiwendil hastily bent down to retrieve his leather pouch that he'd set on the floor shortly after he'd finished working with Ayar. He ran his eyes along the ground, noting that a tiny sheet of flame had already escaped from the pot of incense and was beginning to run silently along the mat of woven grass in the direction of Ayar's bed. For a moment Aiwendil did not react. He frequently had difficulties coping with the vagaries of life in Middle-earth and could not comprehend that something like this could be happening in the middle of someone's tent, especially when he was surrounded by a contingent of armed Men.

As realization set in, Aiwendil excitedly blurted out a warning in Quenyan, which no one in the room could understand, and lunged for the broom that the servant girl had left leaning against the chest where Ayar normally stored the family's clothes and linens. Seizing the broom and raising it high above his head, the istar brought it down authoritatively several times in a series of grand thumps, hoping to smother the flames and keep them from spreading. Unfortunately, the only thing he accomplished was to fan the blaze still further. The small leaping tendrils of fire caught hold of the old straw broom and began to shoot up even higher.

[piosenniel]

Rôg

‘I must remember not to ride on his shoulders all that much in these smaller forms.’ Rôg dug his little spiny feet into the fabric of Aiwendil’s robe as the old fellow shrugged his shoulders. He was beginning to feel a bit queasy as the waves of robe rose and fell.

There was a sudden drop in altitude as the old man bent down to retrieve something from the floor. Looking for a good place to hop off, Rog’s eyes took in the low sheet of flame that crept along the grass mat. Hundreds of tiny flames flickered across his multi-imaged vision, running like a small destructive river toward the ill woman’s bed. The cricket froze in place for a moment, his only thought to escape.

With a dizzying lurch the old man had now gotten to his feet and yelling out something in a strangled voice. The others in the room, brows now furrowed in confusion, looked at him in and uncomprehending manner, the warning lost on them. They don’t speak any Elvish tongues! Rôg shouted in a small chittery voice. The words were lost on Aiwendil who grabbed a nearby broom and began beating at the flames . . . to no avail. The greedy fire leapt onto the long, dry straw with a whoosh, sending smoke and little licks of hungry flame flying out to devour whatever they landed on. Shouts of alarm and the loud tumult of bodies moving in a disordered way through the growing smoke filled the tent.

With a leap born of fear, Rôg jumped in the direction of the head of the pallet where Ayar lay, her eyes wide at the scene in the tent. Assuming his mannish form he knelt near her and leaned in close to speak quietly in her own dialect. ‘Have no fear, Meldakhar,’ he assured her as best he might in his shaky voice. He pulled the thin sheet over her nose and mouth to hold out what smoke it would; then thrusting his arms beneath her frail body, he cradled her close against him and pushed out through the loose fabric at the rear of the tent. ‘Close your eyes. There will be fresh, sweet air soon,’ he murmured as if to a small child, reassuring himself as much as her.

There were shouts and the sound of feet running. Rôg had taken only a few steps away from the tent with his burden when a chorus of raised voices called out for him to stop. The angry men swirled about him, ringing him in, clubs and lances bristling . . .

[piosenniel]

Mus’ad and Nizar on the job at the Party

Mus’ad held his breath, offering a quick plea to some random patron spirit as he rolled the well worn bones. Across the hardpacked dirt of the alley, in the flickering light of two small torches just beyond the kitchen’s entrance, they skittered, bouncing off the rough stone wall of the compound and coming to a final rest just inches from the man’s toes.

‘Last time I ask you for help,’ Mus’ad muttered, casting one eye upward at the dark night sky.

He kicked out at the two offending coiled bush vipers who glared up with their malevolent carved eyes from the knucklebones. He spit on the ground and shook his head as the man he was playing against collected the few coins piled in the clay bet dish. Pouring himself another mug of wine from the skin the three kitchen-boys had brought out, he leaned against the scraggly tree that stood alongside the stone wall and watched another fellow pick up the dice to try his luck. The smell from the tray of left over savories brought out from the party enticed him. His belly grumbled in anticipation as his hand reached down and snatched up a few.

Some time later, a mug or two of wine and several handfuls of spiced pastries under his belt, and he felt ready again to try his hand at rolling the bones. His fingers, licked clean of crumbs, hovered just above the dice when he hear the worried nasal tones of his brother call out to him.

‘Did you see him?’ asked Nizar, ignoring the usual irritated look Mus’ad threw him as he stood up.

‘Why are you not in the Wolf’s house? Keeping watch on our friend, Tinar.’ Mus’ad whispered low in his brother’s ear. Wyrma had directed them to keep an eye on her young son, make sure he didn’t get into any trouble, or worse yet, get Herself and her precious plans in trouble.

‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you!’ Nizar drew the ragged end of his neck scarf under his red, and dripping nose, eliciting a scowl from his brother. He had been in his dung-beetle form, the one he did most easily, and the dust from the curtains he’d hidden in had stuffed up his rather large nose, causing it to run.

‘Well . . . ?’ prompted Mus’ad, itching to get back to the dice game. One of the other players had picked them up and fortune must have smiled on his throw as he uttered a loud whoop of excitement.

Nizar related the events of the party, speeding up as Mus’ad’s eyebrows twitched in irritation. ‘. . . and then those two foreigners left . . . with Tinar following! . . . can you imagine that! . . .’ he finished up in a breathless rush.

Mus’ad’s head was beginning to throb. ‘Tinar . . . left?’ he squeaked out. Wyrma would have their heads if they didn’t find him. He rubbed ineffectually at his temples, his mind racing furiously to come up with a plan. He grabbed his brother’s shoulders and spoke slowly to him. ‘You go back to Wyrma’s place.’ He whispered the recent password to get past the many guards at Herself’s place, and had his brother repeat it a number of times until Mus’ad was satisfied it was imprinted on Nizar’s memory. ‘Tell her what Tinar has done and that I am following after him. Ask her if she has any instructions.’ Nizar stood nodding his head at his brothers list. ‘Where’m I gonna meet you if Herself has things she wants done?’

‘You said they went toward the markets. I’ll meet you at the booth that flies the scorpion flag.’ Nizar’s eyes lit up at the thought of the peppery delicacy. ‘We’re not meeting for dinner! Pay attention!’ Bring your news from Herself and we’ll go on from there . . .’ Mus’ad pushed his brother off in the direction of Wyrma’s place and turned in the direction of the marketplace.

‘Now just how would that young pup think to follow the foreigners?’ he thought as he trotted down the alleyway, making for the vendors’ place . . .

[Mithadan]

Saelon, Duilin and two other crewmembers slowly and carefully carried three large barrels down the gangplank of the Lonely Star. No cart would do for this delivery, for they could not risk the noise that wheels would make on the wooden planks. The first barrel they carried to the larger of the two corsairs, easing their burden quietly up the vessel's gangway. As they had suspected, the crew was fast asleep having imbibed deeply of the fiery drink they had delivered earlier. Stepping over a prone and snoring Southron, they deposited the barrel beside the rail facing the Star at about amidship.

The second barrel was similarly situated on the second corsair. During this delivery, a drunk and bleary-eyed sailor roused himself briefly to ask the Gondorians what they were about. A tense moment followed during which Saelon and Duilin rested their hands upon the blades of their knives while they explained that Captain Mithadan had instructed them to deliver wine for the following day. The besotted sailor nodded happily and rested his head on the deck. In a matter of minutes he was snoring again and the Gondorians were beating a hasty retreat from the corsair.

The third barrel was placed upon the docks just outside the tent that the guards had erected. Judging from the snores coming from within, a dozen barrels could have been delivered without rousing the guards, thought Saelon.

The men returned to the Star, pulling up the gangway once they reached its deck. "On my order, cut the lines," hissed Saelon. Then he looked forward to where other crewmen were positioned, ready to raise the ship's sails. He held up a finger, one minute, and looked down to the docks in hope of seeing Mithadan and Airefalas emerge from the shadows. But the docks remained silent and desolate. Reluctantly, he called three men forward. Each held a bow and arrows with oil-sodden cloths wrapped just behind the steel arrowheads. Each also held an unshuttered lantern with the wicks burning merrily. "Take your positions," Saelon whispered tensely.

As the bowman crawled to their spots, Saelon scanned the docks one last time. Then he signalled for the lines to be cut. A second wave directed the sails to be raised. The ship lurched as the breeze caught the billowing cloths and the bow of the Star swerved and struck the larger corsair with a loud crash. Voices rose in surprise and concern on the black ship as men were roused from their drunken slumbers. Then Saelon nodded to the bowmen even as he raced to the helm. Each lit an arrow and they raised their bows, drawing the strings back in smooth and practiced motions. The arrows whistled as they were loosed and flew straight and true, eack piercing a barrel. In an abundance of caution, each bowman shot a second flaming dart, even as the Star eased from its berth.

With a whoosh, the lamp oil within the barrels ignited, bursting the staves and spreading burning liquid over the wooden decks of the corsairs and the docks. The cries of alarm turned into shouts and screams as the crews of the corsairs sought to wake their comrades. Men rushed to bring up buckets in an attempt to quench the growing blaze, but it became quickly apparent that the conflagration would overwhelm both the ships and the docks. On nearby vessels, horns sounded and bells rang and soon there were a dozen and more ships underway in the harbor, seeking to evade the blaze. A fishing vessel ran its bow into the rigging of a trader, blocking several other ships' route of escape.

On shore, long lines of men assembled to pass buckets of water along in an attempt to confine the flames to the docks. While a nearby warehouse caught fire, the wind rose in the east, blowing both the flames and the smoke away from the city. When the sun rose hours later, the fires were under control, but the toll of the damage could be discerned. The corsairs and the docks were a total loss. Three other vessels had been badly damaged and longboats patrolled the harbor plucking men from the water. Two warehouses were now smoking ruins. A portion of the harbor was blocked by vessels that had collided and become entangled. But despite the chaos, few men other than portions of the crews of the corsairs and three guards who had been on the docks had suffered injury. By this time, the Lonely Star was well underway and was many miles north as it fled back towards Gondor...

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil hastily snatched up his staff, sprinting towards the crack at the rear of the tent where Rôg had pushed his way to the outside just a minute before. The istar had slipped half-way through the opening when a large contingent of maenwaith surged forward, angrily shouting as they shoved him to the side. Several of these Men, carrying buckets of water, were racing forward to extinguish the flames. Others remained outside the tent, reinforcing the phalanx of armed guards who by now had completely surrounded Rôg.

Aiwendil found himself hurtling to the side and landed in the middle of a puddle of water barely inches away from where the fire had started. The force of the fall left him dazed and confused. The istar could feel a sharp object jabbing unmercifully in his back. Even in the confined space, he managed to wriggle it out from behind him and have a closer look. It was the incense pot that had started the fire. Aiwendil turned the object over, scratching his head in puzzlement, and then tucked it beneath the folds of his robe where no one could see it.

Those fighting the fire paid little attention to the befuddled old Man who seemed unable to sit up straight. Bucket after bucket of water was carried in and hurled onto the flames until the floor of the tent was a muddy morass. Narika and Ayar's tent had been destroyed as well as most of the things in it, but at least the fire had not spread to the rest of the encampment.

Shortly thereafter, two of the maenwaith stomped forward and yanked Aiwendil to his feet, half-dragging him to a canvas lean-to that had been hastily constructed beside a small cooking fire. The guard dumped him unceremoniously on the ground. To his enormous relief, Aiwendil saw that Rôg had already been conveyed to the same spot. He looked tired and disheveled but was definitely in one piece.

The Man backed away with suspicion in his eyes. "The Lady Narika wishes to speak with you," Then he sidled up to Rôg and muttered under his breath, "And if either of you harm her in any way, I will split your heads in two." With that, the guard clutched his sword menacingly and backed away as Narika stepped forward.

The young woman lost no time in making her displeasure known. Her initial words were sharp and with little warmth. "Part of me wishes that I could send you out in the desert with no food or water. We want no strangers here, especially ones that bring trouble in their wake." At this point she stared at Rôg and sighed, "But I will respect my mother's wishes. She apparently believes you were trying to help her. You will stay here under guard until I say otherwise."

Narika seemed ready to turn away, but then hesitated and glanced at Aiwendil, asking in a probing manner, "What did you do to her that she suddenly awoke? Is the sickness leaving her body?"

Aiwendil sadly shook his head, "Lady, I wish I could say so, but it is not to be. Your mother has been poisoned and there is no way that I can stop the drug from doing its deadly work. I merely used some remedies to push back the pain and let her speak with you. She will rest easy, but the end will not be far off. I truly wish I had other news."

Narika frowned, "You are not the first to say this to me. And I thank you that my mother now sleeps without pain. Still, I wonder if her awakening is for the best. I think she understands what is happening. That is a strange thing to say, but the wise ones of our people often sense when their time has come."

"I do not doubt it," Aiwendil nodded and bowed. "But those who have such wisdom often have the grace to deal with such things."

"Perhaps. In any case, before this is over," Narika continued, again staring at Rôg, "you may wish you had never come here. Battling the blaze has exhausted what little water we had. The hole itself has run dry, and yet I hesitate to move the clan when my mother is so ill. Sometimes, I think we should have let the fire burn itself out. Nothing is more precisous than water." She shrugged her shoulders and began to walk away, her mind absorbed by the dilemma of how to provide for so many people in the clan. Aiwendil stared after her but said nothing as an idea began slowly taking shape within his mind.

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

"Rôg,.....psst.....Rôg," Aiwendil put his finger to his mouth and gave a quiet "shush", pointing to the guard who was lightly dozing. He pulled the pot out from under the voluminous folds of his robe and nodded, "I wanted you to look at this." The old Man inched closer to the fire, cradling the pot gengerly between his hands. "Incense pots like this always have a latched grate to prevent the cinders from falling out. I couldn't understand why this one didn't. It's probably nothing. But I wanted you to see it....."

[Nerindel]

Korpúlfr

Korpúlfr watched the young maenwaith disappear into the shadows, before shaking his head and turning back to rejoin his guests. Tinar’s sudden and unexpected offer to follow the northerners had caught him of guard, allowing the rash young man to act before he had time to gather enough wit to stop him. Tinar had professed to being able to take care of himself, but Kor was not so sure! The boy did not know the city as he did; the dangers were many even for those who possessed their abilities. Not only were there thieves and cutthroats on every corner watching and waiting to pounce on the unwary and unsuspecting denizens of the city. But there were the scavengers, nocturnal animals that would emerge form dark places to scavenge for food and to whom other smaller creatures would present but a delicious treat. Also, he could not forget the wild dogs, vicious creatures that many of the less reputable inns and taverns kept in order to keep their even less reputable clientele in check.

Entering again the hall of tales he pushed his concerns temporarily aside, he had already resolved to have Hasrim go out and ensure that the boy did not run into trouble. Thankfully, another tale had begun allowing him to return to his seat with only a few members of his household staying his course and only long, enough to gain from him assurances that there was nothing to be concerned about. As he took his seat, he looked to his cousins, who both quietly moved to join him.

“Tinar is following the northerners!” he told them in a quiet whisper, looking at each in turn, as he spoke.

Asrim as usual wore a concerned but thoughtful expression, he knew that the more diplomatic man would be thinking further ahead and contemplating the repercussions should anything go wrong. However, Hasrim was another kettle of fish altogether, his deep scowl relied clearly his feeling on the matter, and it did not stop him from airing them verbally.

“The boy is a fool!” the warrior snapped trying hard to keep his voice to a low whisper, “he almost gave us away tonight, if not for you quick intervention, he would have unwittingly told that captain exactly what he wanted to hear.”

Korpulfr nodded his agreement with a slight frown lining his worried brow. The fault was not Tinar’s alone, he had underestimated the Captain and even as he thought back on Tinar’s mistake, he realised that the question had been carefully placed to catch them out. Thinking again on his own hasty reply he could not help but feel that the captain had gotten exactly what he had wanted.

“That may be the case…” he continued, pushing the thought aside. “What’s done is done. Should he succeed it would put him in good standing with his mother and in more of a position to be considered as her successor!”

“And if he fails, or worse goes and gets himself killed?” Hasrim retorted, his bearded face turning a deep shade of purple as his frustration increased. Korpulfr took no offence to the mans heated reply, he knew full well the warriors feelings regarding Wyrma’s youngest son, he saw the boy as an unnecessary liability and so far Tinar had done nothing to change that opinion.

“Wyrma will listen to no excuses if something untoward happens to her son!” Asrim added coming out of his silent contemplation, “she will hold you accountable, weather you are or not.” he warned.

“Then we will just have to insure that nothing untoward does happen, won‘t we” he replied solemnly. “Hasrim as you have so little faith in Tinar’s abilities you can go and keep an eye on him, ensure that he does not get into any trouble and that no trouble finds him, if you know what I mean.” Hasrim nodded knowing that he meant for him to keep the boys path clear of the more dangerous residents of Umbar.

“Only intervene if it becomes absolutely necessary to do so!” Korpulfr continued, “You never know he might surprise us.” Hasrim still not entirely please with the situation nodded his understanding and silently stole from the house in search of his quarry, while Korpulfr remained to carry out his duties as host and head of the wolf household in Umbar.

~*~*~

As the night steadily wore on, he remained distracted, his thoughts for a long while remained on Mithadan’s story of the shape changer, Bird and the effect her presence would have on the Maenwaith’s current situation. He knew that there were those among their kind who did not hold with Wyrma’s great plans. Treacherous Rebels his father called them, though he himself had seen no such treachery, but he had no cause to disbelieve his father’s words. And what if this bird character found these rebels? He thought to himself. Would she with her northern knowledge aid their rebellion? He quietly wondered if it were not best for them to locate this woman first. Asrim too was concerned with this stranger’s presence in their lands, for when the tales and songs had ended and his guest had all departed for home or retired to their rooms, he spoke to him of his concerns.

“What if the Captain lied about their friendship and she is no more than a valuable commodity that he has lost and is seeking to retrieve?” Korpulfr shook his head at his friends suspicions, “No, his concern seemed genuine if not a little guarded.” he replied thoughtfully guiding his cousin towards the study were they could talk more freely. For several hours, they debated this and many other concerns that had arisen from that nights proceeding.

Finally tired of talk that seemed to be getting them nowhere and growing more and more concerned that neither Tinar nor Hasrim had yet returned he turned to the widow reaching out to open the thick heavy drapes hoping to get a little air with which to clear his head. Pulling back the drapes he gasped, Asrim immediately joined him and together they both watched the thick dark smoke rising from the harbour below, both catching a fleeting glimpse of white sails before the dark blanket of smoke totally obscured their view.

It now seemed that at least the Northerners and their captain were no longer a concern.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ráma sunk to the ground exhausted, frustrated at her seeming inability to reclaim her human shape. She slept fitfully for several hours, as uncomfortable memories surfaced in snatches of dream. She had glimpses of herself chasing after Narika, unable to catch up with her. Just at the point she managed to draw even, Thorn flew between the two sisters in the guise of an Eagle and sternly forbade Ráma to continue.

As children, she and Narika had been virtually inseparable. Yet, however similar they were in appearance, the girls' temperament and interests were markedly different even at this young age. And since their mother was clan leader, this dissimilarity was a matter of public note. Their personal attributes were the subject of frequent if private discussion among the elders, a situation that Ayar disliked but could do little to change.

Ráma had been the rash, impetuous child who rode through the desert like a storm and outran the boys in footraces. She was warm and spontaneous, bubbling over with gaity, a little butterfly who had trouble sitting still. Interested in everything that was not between the pages of a book, she talked with outsiders whenever she could, even though the elders had explicitly warned her not to do so. She did not openly scorn tradition, but was willing to question certain practices if these seemed to interfere with more important things. Her personal inclination was to deal with problems head on, and although she was far from belligerent, she was not afraid to fight.

It was not that the elders expected Ráma to sit home quietly embroidering tea napkins. No one in the clan felt that way. Both men and women could take on the shape of dangerous beasts, so it made little sense to pigeonhole girls or discourage them from leading an active life. If Ráma had been the eldest daughter in a lesser household, her prowess with weapons and her willingness to battle for what she believed would have earned praise and encouragement.

But she was not the eldest daughter of a lesser household: her position was more critical to the clan. Although clan governance was not hereditary, many a bright son or daughter stepped forward to become the next leader, either individually, or in tandem with a beloved spouse. Rama's impetuous nature, her tendency to strike back and ask questions later, even her willingness to deal with the outside world, made the elders nervous. For long years, the maenwaith had safeguarded their heritage by maintaining a fierce independence, using deception and deceit to trick enemies and then slinking off laughing into the shadows. Preserving the peace by trickery was deemed far more honorable than engaging in open warfare with its resulting loss of life.

Narika seemed to embody those traditions that stood at the core of the maenwaith heart. Grave and reflective, she had been a gentle child who loved lore and old tales and who could play the harp and sing with skill. Despite her introspective nature, she showed wisdom in the ways of the desert and could be physically tough. She brought out the best in all those around her. Wary of outsiders, and inordinately proud of her own people, she was unusually skilled as a shapeshifter, and thought things through very carefully before deciding on a particular path. She was, in effect, everything that the elders wanted. Able to shift into the form of an Eagle or a poisonous adder, Narika was an effective fighter, but one who never forgot that there were other ways, perhaps better ones, to safeguard her people. In that, she closely resembled her mother.

Ráma loved her sister fiercely but had made a separate life for herself as a trading agent and spy in the city of Umbar. But the increased tensions between the people of the desert and those of the city, along with the growing ambitions of Wyrma, seemed to be eroding the ground on which she stood. Ráma's inability to control her own form, and the recent news that Thorn intended to wed her sister, had placed her in a more uncomfortable position. All of these matters were simmering at the back of her mind, when a loud "whack" interrupted her sleep and she abruptly awoke. Looking out, she glimpsed one of the strangest sights that she had ever seen.....

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

The jaguar's eyes widened as she saw the great bird collide with the jagged roof of the cave and fall back to the ground with a thud. No longer tired or confused, Ráma instinctively leapt up and raced over to see what was happening. The single word that escaped from the Eagle's mouth provided the only clue that she would need. This was no simple beast, but one of her own people, most likely a maenwaith who was kin to the Eagles, since few outsiders could master such a form. And such a magnificent creature! The bird had dark brown plummage speckled with grey, stood nearly three feet high, and could boast a wingspan of more than seven feet.

But was she friend or foe? As a child, Ráma would never have raised such a sorry question when dealing with a fellow maenwaith, much less one who could claim some kinship with her own clan. But times had changed. There had always been enemies from the outside; it was the ones within that gave her pause. She could not overlook the possibility that this might be the mysterious stranger who had forced her to flee the Inn.

Ráma warily padded forward on velvet paws, genuinely curious about the stranger but still uncertain whether she could trust her. Still, if the great bird meant to attack, her behavior gave no indication of it. As luck would have it, she had tumbled down at the very back of the cave and could not leave without first confronting Ráma. Boxed into a corner, she stood as silent as a statue, glaring out at the jaguar. Only the gleem in her eyes betrayed the fact that she was very much alive. The Eagle's eyes were a deep brown flecked with gold. In their depths, Ráma could read wisdom, akin to that her mother and sister held, but also a deep sorrow born of some mystery that was beyond the young woman's understanding. The sadness and fear in those eyes finally tipped the balance, compelling Ráma to let down her guard.

"Please, I do not mean to hurt you. But who are you, and what are you doing here?" To her surprise, Ráma had regained control over her body. She quickly shifted back into human form and was rewarded with a slight softening of the hardness in the bird's eyes.

Ráma was never certain of the exact details of the conversation that followed. Either the bird was speaking in a foreign tongue, or did not fully understand what Ráma was saying, or perhaps some combination of both. The young woman could pick out words and phrases here and there, but many of the Eagle's words were simply impossible to decipher. Still, she did learn one or two things. The maenwaith's name was Sorona. She had come from miles away, and did not have a permanent home or clan, something that Ráma found very strange. In the middle of the discussion, Ráma caught hold of the word "North", another term that surprised her. As far as she knew, her people did not live or journey to the far northern lands, so this reference was extremely puzzling. Yet, whatever difficulties they'd had in communicating with each other, Ráma was convinced of two things. Sorona was indeed one of the mainwaith and she was not an evil creature, only one who seemed lost and sad.

As Sorona turned to made her way back to the entrance of the cave, Ráma bent down to offer her goodbyes, "I do not know if you can understand me, but very shortly I will leave these caves to journey to my clan. You are welcome to come along in any guise you choose. The sands are open and inviting; the mountains beckon just south of where my family camps. Many times, I've left Umbar with a heavy heart and found peace and friendship out in the desert. It is up to you, of course. But we would welcome your presence." The Eagle nodded in acknowledgment, slipped out of the cave, and flew off into the sky on her own.

[Ealasaide]

"We are heading south again," hissed Mithadan. "We must go back."

Airefalas examined a narrow alley which led off to the right. It had an evil smell about it like the backyard to a slaughterhouse and somewhere in the darkness beyond their sight, he could hear snarling as though two dogs were fighting over leftovers. Overall, it did not look promising. He nodded to Mithadan, and the two of them turned and retraced their steps only to round a corner and find their way blocked by three burly Haradrim, each bearing in his hands a spear and a bottle. The bottles were, for the most part, empty.

The Gondorians stopped in their tracks.

“Well, well, well,” said the foremost of the Haradrim. He paused to take long drink from the bottle in his hand. Draining it, he tossed the bottle to one side where it shattered against the stone wall of one of the buildings that lined the narrow street. “What have we here?”

“Foreigners, I’d say,” said the man to the leader’s right. He grinned, exposing his two black teeth. “Prob’ly off’n that Gondorian ship ‘at‘s anchored down the harbor.”

“Got money,” said the third man. “Remember? Got some Gondorian coin offa some o’ them kitties the other day before their captain wouldn’t let ‘em go ashore no more.”

The Leader reached out and flicked Mithadan’s lapel with the point of his spear. “Are you Gondorian kitties?” He asked with an oily grin. Then his eyes hardened. “Give us your packs and your purses.”

Airefalas watched as Mithadan glanced down at the spear point resting against his chest, then shook his head.

“No,” said Mithadan calmly. “I’m afraid we can’t do that.”

“And why not?” asked the Leader, pressing down a little harder with his spear.

“Stick him!” urged Two Teeth from behind.

“We need our things.”

“Well, we need your things, too,” said the Third Man. “You!” he said, turning to Airefalas. “Give us your pack.”

Airefalas shook his head, mentally debating whether he would have time to draw his sword should the bandits attack or if he should look for another weapon. From the corner of his eye, Airefalas’ glance fell on a pile of wood and building materials stacked against the wall to his right. One piece was about the length of his sword and slightly more than two inches thick from the look of it. Airefalas’ eyes narrowed.

A pace ahead of him, Mithadan still argued with the Bandit Leader, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, as overhead the stars moved steadily in their courses across the heavens. Time was passing. Beyond the bandits, Airefalas could see that the way was clear but for a skinny brown dog that nosed around in the shadows near a closed storefront. If they could just get past these bozos, they might actually still make it back to the ship. Mithadan half drew his sword as the Bandit Leader pulled back his spear as though in preparation to strike.

“Stick ‘im! Stick ‘im!” chanted Two Teeth. The sniggering quality of the bandit’s voice grated on Airefalas’ nerves. He hated everything about Umbar so far and this snaggle-toothed idiot seemed to epitomize the entire Umbarian experience for him.

Abruptly, Airefalas patience snapped. “Mithadan! Look!” he barked in a tone of command that he had not used since losing the Amarantha. He pointed down the empty street. “Falasmir’s guards have followed us!”

The others, including Mithadan, all looked, the bandits snapping their heads around as though they half expected a platoon of guards to be standing behind them, swords drawn. Seizing the moment, Airefalas closed his hands around the piece of wood from the woodpile and swung it with all of his strength at the back of the Bandit Leader’s head. The club connected with the man’s skull with a loud whack!. The bandit fell to the earth like a sack of potatoes and didn’t move. Mithadan drew his sword. Holding his spear crossways across his body, Two Teeth charged Airefalas, driving him back against the stone wall. Airefalas saw stars as the back of his head hit the stones. For a few seconds, he grayed out, coming to with the shaft of the bandit’s spear pinning him against the wall and crushing his throat. Struggling to breathe, Airefalas dropped his club, and grabbed the bandit’s spear with both hands. At the same time, he drove violently upward with his knee, one, two, three times in rapid succession, each time connecting with the soft flesh under the bandit’s ribcage. The wind knocked out of him, Two Teeth fell back, gasping. Airefalas wrenched the spear from the bandit’s hands and struck him under the chin with the butt end, then, swinging it around, drove the point home.

Seeing that Mithadan had just slain the third man with his sword, Airefalas dropped to his knees, holding his throat and trying to regain his own breath.

“Are you all right?” asked Mithadan, leaning down beside him.

Airefalas nodded. “Good enough,” he answered hoarsely. Considering the crushing his larynx had just taken, it could be days before his voice returned to normal. Just a little unsteadily, he rose to his feet. “You?”

“Not bad,” said Mithadan, sheathing his sword. “But we have no time to lose.”

Nodding again, Airefalas followed as Mithadan turned and led the way back toward the fork where the roads split to the north and west. This time they took the more northern branch. They had only gone a short distance when the road took a sharp turn to the west. Mithadan stopped and pointed into the sky ahead of them.

“Look,” he said grimly.

Airefalas felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach as he looked in the direction of the harbor. A red glow lit up the sky that had nothing to do with the sun or the arrival of dawn. Saelon had set fire to the docks.

“Do we still have time?” Airefalas asked his captain.

Mithadan shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“I guess there’s one way to find out,” Airefalas murmured. Looking up at the line of rooftops that bordered the narrow street, he took off his pack and unbuckled his sword. “I’ll go up and look.” Having spent nearly his entire life negotiating the riggings of sailing ships, Airefalas could climb like a spider monkey. If there was anyplace for his hands or feet to find purchase, he would be able to pull himself up. Looking around, he chose the easiest-looking climb and moving from doorframe to balcony on up, Airefalas soon stood atop the tiled roof. The house he had chosen had good elevation and, when he turned toward the harbor, Airefalas found he could see everything. With a growing sense of desolation, he called down to Mithadan.

“She’s sailed,” was all he said.

“Is she under pursuit?” Mithadan called back.

Airefalas shook his head. “Not yet. The corsairs at the dock are aflame, but the Star’s abroad and making for open water.”

Mithadan nodded and, with a gesture, summoned his first mate back down again. “Then, I guess we should make for the Cat’s Paw,” he said when Airefalas stood beside him again at street level. “And hope that Ráma is still waiting.”

Putting on his pack and buckling his sword back into place, Airefalas nodded without much enthusiasm. They were still lost, and, so far as he could tell, the street patterns of Umbar made all the sense of old cow paths. Finding the Cat’s Paw on their own would be a clever trick indeed. Even so, it was now their only option.

But this time, luck would be on the side of the Gondorians. Not knowing where else to go, they continued on in the direction they had already been traveling. The farther they went, the more narrow and shabby grew the lane until finally they rounded a gentle turn and stopped in disbelief. There before them, centered on the block of buildings, was a squat and ancient hostelry. Over its door, swung the faded sign of the inn of The Cat’s Paw. Quickening their steps, the two Gondorians made for the door, which they found locked. Mithadan knocked softly.

A few minutes later, they heard the sound of movement behind the closed door, then the soft voice of a woman. “Who is it?”

“Our names are Mithadan and Airefalas,” answered Mithadan. “We are friends of Ráma.”

“You are foreigners,” said the woman, in response to their strange-sounding names.

“Yes,” Mithadan replied. “We are from Gondor. Ráma told us that we might find her here.”

There was a shuffling and scraping as if furniture were being moved, then a key turned in the lock and the door cracked open. “Come inside quickly,” the woman said, stepping back for them to enter.

“Ráma told me you might be coming, but she was unable to wait for you here,” continued the woman once the two men stood before her just inside the small common room. “She left camels for you in the paddock, but you must go at once. It would not be good for you to be found here.”

Airefalas and Mithadan exchanged a troubled glance. Guessing their concern, the woman bit her lip nervously, then went on: “Ráma said that if you still need to meet with her, she will be waiting at the Caves of Herumor, a mile north of the city gates. She will wait there until just after dawn, but only until then.” She touched Mithadan’s arm. “She does even this at great peril to herself, sir. There are evil folk about.”

Mithadan nodded and thanked her warmly. “Then we will not tarry. Show us to the camels, mistress,” he said. “And we will be off at once.”

The innkeeper nodded and led them through to the exit in back that opened onto a small paddock. Inside the paddock sat two camels, both of them saddled and ready to go. She handed each of the two men a full skin of water from just inside the door and then she was gone, the inn’s back door closing and locking behind her. Just outside the gate to the paddock were two sticks the approximate size of riding crops. Mithadan picked them up and handed one to Airefalas. Not quite sure what they were for, Airefalas took what was offered and followed Mithadan into the tiny enclosure. Choosing one of the two camels for himself, Mithadan fastened his water skin to the camel’s saddle and, swinging a leg over the camel’s back, settled comfortably into place. He touched the animal’s shoulder once with the stick, and it lurched to its feet. Riding out of the gate of the paddock, Mithadan turned and looked back only to see Airefalas still standing there, staring at his camel with a look of deep distrust.

“You can ride, can’t you?” asked Mithadan.

Airefalas nodded, still staring at the camel. “I can ride a horse,” he answered crossly. What he didn’t mention to Mithadan was that while he could ride a horse, horsemanship was not one of his strong suits. Seeing as he had spent most of his time at sea, he had not had much opportunity to refine his skills. Camel-jockeying, he was afraid, might prove to be something else entirely.

Guessing Airefalas’ thoughts, Mithadan smiled. “Just pretend it’s a goofy-looking horse.”

As if in response, Airefalas’ camel made a noise that sounded something between a honk and a belch and spat a gooey, tobacco-like substance at Airefalas’ foot. Then it smirked and settled deeper on to its haunches, lowering its long eyelashes at him like a coquettish female. Frowning, Airefalas reached out and tied his water skin to the saddle, but made no move toward mounting.

Finally, Mithadan lost his patience. “Get on the camel,” he snapped. “Now.”

It was an order. Grudgingly, Airefalas cleaned his boot with a handful of straw and threw his leg over the camel’s back, sliding nervously into the saddle.

“You throw me,” he grumbled at the camel. “And I’ll skin you. Make myself a new pair of boots.”

The camel turned its head and gave him a sly look, but when Airefalas touched its shoulder with the riding stick, it rose obediently to its feet. Another touch with the stick and it trotted to where Mithadan waited astride the first camel. They started off at once for the caves. To his surprise, Airefalas found that Mithadan was right. Riding a camel really wasn’t all that different from riding a gangly, long-legged horse. The camels proved remarkably fast as well, delivering them to the Caves of Herumor just as the first fingers of dawn touched the eastern sky.

Following a trail of fresh hoof prints, which they assumed must belong to Ráma’s horse, the Gondorians dismounted under the over-hanging cliff that marked the opening to the complex of caves.

[piosenniel]

Gondor

The patter of small bare feet down the stone floored hallway came to a sudden halt just outside her room; the soft slap-slaps giving way to hushed whisperings that curled round the cedar frame of the door. Pio pulled the quilt over her head, snuggling down inside the warm, dark cave of it. She was in that curious state between dream and waking; the place where a small effort of will might change the avenues of imagination, effect a more desirable ending.

What images she could capture were indistinct, obscured by darkness and the haze of fear. A ship . . . ships . . . and great blossoming fires. Small figures . . . some safe under the cover of night, some gone missing . . .

Her brow furrowed with unease, unable to move the passing phantoms into a clearer light . . .

Soft light . . . muted morning pushed its way through the loosely woven curtains to the side of her bed, falling warmly on her closed eyes. It drove away the last of the flitting dream, and wove itself pleasantly in with the sweet, sharp smell of cinnamon and sugar. One sticky finger tapped lightly on her cheek.

‘Are you sleeping, ammë?’

The wistful words proved the final breaking of the dream’s spell, one grey eye popping open to see Cami’s face near her own, a sanding of cinnamon and sugar about her lips. Someone had crawled under the covers at her back and now lay snuggled against her, back to back. Isilmir, it was, as Gilwen spooned in against her belly. With a groan of mock displeasure, Pio reached out an arm and drew in her youngest daughter, too; into the safe haven of the bed quilts.

‘Well, I guess I am truly awake now,’ she laughed, reaching back and forth to give them each a tickle.

‘Tell us about the party, then!’ coaxed Gilwen. ‘Did Baran really go with you?’ ‘Who was there? And what did the King look like?’ asked Isilmir, imagining the great sword hung at his belt. Questions and more questions followed, one upon the other. Pio’s own opinions of the party dropped away as she viewed the party through her children’s eyes. Magic wove through her narrative . . . candles in crystal holders . . . glinting off the shiny baubles worn by the party goers. Rich colored banners hung from the hall’s wooden beams, twined with shiny ribbons. The women were graceful, their dresses lovely; the men all tall and handsome in their finery. There was music and dancing and sweets piled high on silvered platters. It was a more enchanted scene, she knew, than what had really been . . .

Cook had come to stand in the doorway. She listened quietly to the story, a smile on her face. At a pause in the narrative, she rapped gently on the door frame. ‘Breakfast,’ she said, ‘if anyone’s interested.’ ‘Or still hungry!’ she laughed, as Cami bounced off the bed and went running for the kitchen a few steps ahead of her brother and sister. Pio drew on her robe and stood at the side of the bed for a moment, watching Cook follow after the trio.

Silence settled round the room once again. And from the corners the shadows seemed to grow darker. Pio shivered, drawing the robe closer about her. Remnants of the dream still lingered, niggling at the edges of her mind. A piping voice at her side once more dispelled the murky thoughts.

‘Hurry, amme,’ urged Isilmir, slipping his hand into hers. ‘Cook’s made griddlecakes and opened her last pot of strawberry jam to put on them.’ He pulled her quickly down the hall. ‘Come on! Or we won’t get any!’

[Estelyn Telcontar]

The dog panted for breath; keeping up with camels was no easy business, especially since he had to take care to keep cover. Tinar was glad that the Gondorians had slowed down and appeared to be looking for something – or someone? – in the caves that became visible in the early morning light. Would they travel on, he wondered? Why had they chosen to come here instead of going to their ship? Obviously, something had happened, and he was determined to find out what they planned to do, even if that meant following them into the desert. But he could not keep up with them if they travelled far at this pace. His sparrow form would not give him enough speed for a long distance; could he find a new form for this new task?

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

Wyrma repressed an aggravated sigh as she listened to Nizar slowly deliver his message. Why she had chosen to use those two bumbling brothers was a mystery to her; it had seemed like a good idea at the time to choose the most unlikely candidates, but it taxed her patience no end to deal with them. She regretted that Kumat had already flown back to their city; she was worried about Tinar and would have liked to have someone reliable following him to bring him back. Well, she would have to hope that Mu’sad kept on his trail.

Slowly and clearly she instructed Nizar. “I want the two of you not only to follow Tinar, but to bring him back to me here at the palace!”

“But how will we know what form he has taken?” the man asked, shaking his head in confusion.

“You mean you did not see his transformation?” Wyrma’s voice was menacing and cold. “Well then, go back to your brother and tell him to follow the Northerners and look for a dog following them – I would think that he has taken that form.”

“Bring back the dog,” Nizar repeated obediently.

“And hurry!” Wyrma exclaimed. “While you tarry here, they could be gone out of reach!”

[piosenniel]

Mus'ad and Nizar

By the time Nizar had made it to the vendors’ market his brother had already found Tinar. He had been keeping an eye on him from the tops of buildings that stood along the young man’s route. The young fool was loping after the two foreigners . . . in dog shape; they were wandering aimlessly, or so it appeared to Mus’ad. ‘How obvious!’ he’d snorted to himself, but then the two fellows Tinar was following had not seemed to notice their tail. The dingy blue-grey pigeon chortled in an unattractive way at this poor excuse for a joke, then followed it up with the thought that perhaps foreigners were as dumb as he had heard.

On his third flight back to the spiced-scorpion seller’s stall, his wings growing a bit tired, patience wearing thin, he’d finally spotted Nizar winging his way toward the booth. Sitting together on the large carved sign above the establishment, Mus’ad attempted to elicit from his brother what Wyrma’s instructions had been.

‘Let’s see,’ cooed Nizar as he bobbed his head at his brother. A blank expression crossed his feathered face for a moment, followed by panic. He’d tried so hard to remember the instructions, but it was dark and he couldn’t concentrate on both remembering what Wyrma had said and finding his way in the dark. In an effort to buy himself a little time to remember Herself’s exact words, he began preening his wing feathers, checking for fleas. Mus’ad gave an exasperated hop toward his brother and pecked him lightly on the top of his head.

‘Well?!’ Mus’ad urged. ‘What exactly are we to do?’

Nizar fluffed out his feathers and shook himself as if to knock loose the Mistress’ instructions. Hunkering down, he concentrated hard. ‘There were three things,’ he said, brightening. ‘Follow him. Don’t lose sight of him . . .’

Mus’ad looked expectantly at his brother, and clacked his beak in irritation. Nizar fidgeted on the wooden edge of the sign. His mind had gone quite blank. Below them, a hungry mongrel slinked along in the shadows. ‘That’s it! Follow him. Don’t lose sight of him. And look for his dog shape.’ He bobbed his head in satisfaction. ‘Yep! That’s it. That’s what we’re supposed to do!’ ‘Herself’s very words!’ he pronounced with certainty. In a few moments they were both winging their way back to the area Tinar had last been seen in.

‘I wonder what he’s left out?’ mused the lead bird . . .

~*~*~*~

They’d missed the fight between the foreigners and the drunken alley rats. And could barely resist the urge to have a look see at the fiery goings-on at the harbor. Mus’ad grew a little panicked at the sight of the burning vessels in the harbor and the confusion on the docks. Surely Tinar, foolish as he acted at time, was not involved in that mess! Wrapped up in his thoughts he almost missed it as his brother went flapping by him, nearly slapping him with his wings in his haste to circle about him and head in the opposite direction. ‘There’s those foreigners!’ Nizar said, dipping one wing tip at the street below. ‘And there’s the pup!’ cried Mus’ad, altering the direction of his flight. ‘Good eye, Stinkbug!’

Despite the hated nickname, Nizar’s chest puffed up with pride at the compliment that accompanied it.

~*~*~*~

The dog had fallen far behind the two camels. Which was just as well, thought Mus’ad, since day was coming and the dark of night would no longer hide the trailing cur. Both the birds were tired, their only advantage that they could fly high enough to see far ahead and keep their quarry in sight. The camels the foreigners rode were small figures far in front of the footsore Tinar. The pigeons could see where they had stopped on the rocky rim in the distance, the one that led down to the honeycomb of caves below it.

Tinar had now approached closer to where the two men were dismounting. His belly low to the ground, the birds watched as he crept up a small rise and peered at his prey. The foreigners spoke for a few moments then urged their mounts down the narrow path to the entrance of the caves. As soon as their heads had disappeared from sight, the dog went slinking behind a small rocky outcropping near the ledge. Blending his slender form into the shadows of the piled rocks, he padded silently along to a position where he could watch some of the area below the ledge.

The two birds sat huffing and puffing on the limb of a scraggly sand-whipped tree. ‘Oh, Mus’ad, he’s not going down into the caves, is he?’ The little dun colored pigeon huddled against his older brother. ‘If he does, you stay here and keep lookout,’ whispered Mus’ad. ‘I’ll go down . . . be easier for me to do it . . . you just keep lookout . . .’

The birds looked back to where the dog crouched, as still as the rocks about him. ‘Maybe we’ll be lucky,’ whispered Nizar, distracted by some bug as it crept along a nearby branch. ‘No such luck,’ muttered Mus’ad, lifting his beak in the direction of the dog. In its place was now a small sparrow.

With a fluttering of wings the sparrow dropped below the ledge . . . and with a sigh, the blue grey pigeon followed - landing on the edge of the rocky ledge. Now a small lizard, he slithered nimbly down the face of the overhanging ridge, senses alert for . . . whoever . . . whatever . . . was below . . .

[piosenniel]

Rôg

Out of the cooking pan, into the fire . . .

That old saw kept running through Rôg’s mind as he stared at the hissing embers of the small fire just beyond their little lean-to.

Lean-to! Hmmmmph! Prison, I should rather say!

Huddled against the back of the small enclosure, he screwed up his courage and inched forward, taking a peek at the guard stationed to the side of them. Narayad! The one who had wanted to kill him! The fellow was dozing, muttering something under his breath as his chin nodded near his chest. ‘I’m warning you . . .’ he snorted in his dream. Rôg leaned closer to hear the ending to the threat, and ducked back just as quickly, his heart pounding. The man slept with his eyes only half closed, lids twitching; the fire’s light glinting off his unseeing orbs. It was a sight to send shivers down the young man’s spine, and he made the old sign to ward off the evil eye.

‘Rôg,.....psst.....Rôg!’ With a slender finger to his lips, Aiwendil gave a ‘shhh!’ as his companion turned toward him. Nodding his chin toward the dozing guard, the old man fumbled in the folds of his robe and brought out an incense pot.

‘Fur and Feathers!’ thought Rôg. ‘He’ll have us pegged as thieves now!’ He grabbed his right wrist, already feeling the quick slice from the clansman’s blade which would strike off his offending, thieving hand. He could feel the fiery pain already as the bloody stump was plunged against the pan of hot coals to stanch the bleeding . . .

‘I wanted you to look at this,’ the old fellow went on, inching closer to the fire.

Rôg pulled his thoughts away from their depressing downward spiral to watch as Aiwendil turned the pot carefully in his hands. He drew Rôg’s attention to the clasp on the grate within. Curious now, the younger man took the pot and examined the grate and its latch closely. How strange!’ he murmured as he lifted the hinged grate up from the bottom half of the container. Turning the pot over, he inspected the maker’s markings on the bottom – a crossed tong and hammer with two vertical slash marks beneath them. Moving closer to Aiwendil, he spoke low, saying his father’s younger brother, a metals’ worker as were all the males in that family, had made this pot. ‘I have seen these particular pots made,’ Rôg went on. ‘They are a common design of his; well built; made to withstand the constant packings and movings on of the desert peoples. And all of them have a sturdy clasp . . . right here,’ he said running the tip of his finger along the front rim of the pot. He took Aiwendil’s finger and ran it over the smoothed edges of the grate and the rim against which it should have been tightly secured. They were both a little rough where the clasp and its latch point had been forced off then poorly filed.

‘This didn’t break of itself,’ Rôg said, placing the pot on the ground between them. ‘And someone would have noticed almost immediately that there was a problem when new incense was put in and the old ashes cleaned out.’ He raised his brows at Aiwendil. ‘Unless, of course, the last one to do so was very lazy and unobservant . . .’

‘Or unless the last one to fill the pot and light it was the one who removed the clasp . . .’ finished the old man.

‘A snake in the nest . . . you think?’ murmured Rôg. ‘But who will believe us here if we tell them?’

[Mithadan]

Kalir stood uneasily before the doors of Falasmir's chambers. Members of the Guard had rushed up to the palace even before dawn to report on the fire at the docks. But Kalir had elected to wait before awakening his Lord with the terrible news. Instead he first visited the chambers where the Gondorian Captain and his first mate had been housed. His unease, which had blossomed at the report of the fire, grew as he discovered that none of the guards were at their post and settled into a cold fear in the pit of his stomach when he found that their "guests" were not in their chambers.

He located a captain of the Guard and ordered him to find Mithadan, Airefalas and their guards...any or all of them. Then he received more news from the docks, little of it good. The two great corsairs had been destroyed in the fire and many members of their crew lost. The blaze had turned a portion of the docks into smoking debris and had also damaged or destroyed two warehouses. The northern portion of the harbor was nearly impassable due to ships which had run afoul of one another in their haste to escape. The good news was that the fire had been confined to the docks and had not entered the city itself. However, the worst news of all was that the northerners' ship was gone. Some said that it had fled the blaze, but Kalir noted that it had not returned or anchored in safe waters.

So now Kalir stood outside his master's doors, the bearer of ill-tidings. With a shaking hand, he knocked on the door. There was no response. He knocked again, then slowly opened the door. Falasmir was stretched out upon his bed with one of his wives...the new one... where he was snoring loudly. Kalir approached carefully, then reached out to tap his Lord's shoulder. "My Lord..." he whispered. Then he tapped again.

Falasmir spluttered and rolled over, seizing a curved knife from under his pillow as he stood and turned to face Kalir. Then he straightened slowly with a frown on his face. "What," he shouted. "Is so important that you could not wait for me to arise on my own, fool!" The shout woke Falasmir's young wife, who drew the sheets up about her and rushed off to a dressing room with a fearful glance at her husband.

"I bear ill news my Lord," stammered Kalir. He spoke quickly, telling Falasmir of the fire, the damage done and the departure of the Lonely Star, apparently with its captain and first mate. The Lord of Umbar's face turned white, then darkened until it was red as a beet. "Treason!" he screamed. "Treachery and piracy! Have every corsair capable of getting underway take sail and find the Gondorians! Send our ships west and south as well as north. I want prisoners! I want to slay Mithadan myself!"

Kalir bowed and beat a hasty retreat, relieved in part that Falasmir had not slain him in his fury. Within an hour, five corsairs had set sail with full complements of slaves working their oars...

[Nerindel]

Korpúlfr

A thunderous knock abruptly woke The young Maenwaith Merchant from his sleep and he was dismayed to see that he had yet again fallen asleep at his desk, “Hmm two nights in a row!” he wearily sighed, gently rolling his neck and rubbing at his shoulder muscles in an attempt to work out the stiffness he now felt. Again came the knock, louder and with much more urgency attached to it. “Come” he called, still rubbing at his stiff muscles.

“Ah, Hasrim” he started but seeing the grim seriousness reflected in his cousin‘s eyes he stopped, letting his hand slowly drop from his neck.

“What’s happened?” he asked gesturing for the older man to take a seat, Hasrim refused with shake of his head, “There is not time, you must listen.” Frowning Korpulfr nodded and gestured for him to continue.

“Not knowing what form Tinar would assume to follow our guests, I choose to follow instead the trail of the Gondorians and their escorts, knowing that if I followed them I would eventually find the boy,” Hasrim quickly explained. Korpulfr nodded seeing the logic in his cousin’s choice and continued to listen as his older cousin went on.

“It seems that after leaving here they took a walk to the Bazaar, where they seemingly gave their inebriated guards the slip. Their trail then became lost in the crowd but I managed to picked it up again heading north, I assume thinking they would reach the docks. However, they took the wrong turning and ended up travelling south. This is were I picked up another trail the paw marks of a dog defiantly following those of our guests, “ Hasrim Paused, looking up at him for confirmation that the paw prints would have been those of young Tinar. Korpulfr nodded thoughtfully, “Yes, Tinar does from time to time take the form of a sandy coloured mongrel.”

Confirmation received Hasrim continued, “Here they ran into a little trouble, Bandits most likely, but they seemingly had no problem in dispatching all three, before moving on back the way they had come. It was then that I saw the smoke rising from the direction of the docks.” Again Korpulfr nodded his head, “Yes we too saw the smoke and witnessed the escape of the Gondorian ship, but if what you say is true then the captain and his first mate where not aboard.”

“No they're not!” Hasrim continued darkly, “I continued to follow their trail, back towards the market, to an inn… the Cats Paw, were it seems they acquired some camels and headed out of the city towards the caves just north of here.”

“And Tinar?” Korpulfr prompted.

“I lost his trail, he must have shifted to another form,” his cousin replied shaking his head regretfully. “I search for over an hour but to no avail. With the dawn fast approaching, I decided to return, knowing that with the fire at the docks Falasmir would send his men here and that any sudden absence would be looked upon with suspicion.”

“You did the right thing cousin,” Korpulfr assured. “However I do not believe that Tinar’s foolhardiness will sit well with his mother and as he was our guest some of her irritation will undoubtedly fall on us. Hasrim solemnly nodded his head in silent agreement.

“I do not know what the boy could have been thinking going off into the desert without so much as a by or leave and with no food or water how far does he expect to get!” Hasrim snapped irritably.

“If the Gondorians have any sense they will make for the Harad road and leave these lands as quickly as possible and with any luck Tinar will see this and return immediately.” Korpulfr reasoned, but Hasrim did not agree, “Their tracks indicated that they were searching for something or someone!” he said shaking his head ruefully.

“Damn!” Korpulfr snorted, his patience finally spent; he slammed his hands down heavily upon his desk. “Then I will have to go to the palace and inform Wyrma personally of this recent development, and hope that I catch her in a decidedly better frame of mood than I currently find myself.” he said, looking up from his desk where he was carefully contemplated his next move.

Before his cousin could offer an opinion on the matter the door to his office burst open admitting a large burly dark skinned man wearing the livery of Lord Falasmir‘s personal Guards and behind him were several others, he watched as the decidedly smaller figure of Asrim irritably pushed his way past the larger men.

“I tried to stop them,” he offered apologetically, “But they were most insistent!” he continued looking frostily at the lead guard, who was obviously their captain and who he had just noticed was standing with his sword in hand.

“We are here by orders of Lord Falasmir!” the Captain put in authoritatively.

Korpulfr shook his head as if not understanding and the captain continued, “Lord Falasmir would like to have a word with you concerning your dinner guests of the previous evening.”

“The Gondorians?” Korpulfr asked still seeming confused. But the captain simply nodded offering no more on the matter and stood waiting for him to conceded to his Lords request.

“What is this about?” Korpulfr prompted.

“You mean you have not heard?” the Captain replied his eyes narrowing, watching him suspiciously.

“Know what?” he asked impatiently, looking to Asrim who he knew would play along.

“Again I must apologise cousin I was just coming to tell you about the attack on the docks when these gentlemen arrived,” he replied giving the captain another condescending look.

“Attacked! But by who… oh, wait a minute you don’t think that…. Oh, no they seemed so friendly and forth coming regarding our trading propositions.” Korpulfr finished feigning disappointment.

“We don’t think, we know!” The Captain scowled darkly, obliviously annoyed that he seemed more concerned about losing a profitable business deal than the destruction and loss of life at the docks.

“Oh, this is terrible, I will off course help in anyway that I can!” he offered.

The captain nodded obviously satisfied with this reply, “Then you will not mind if a few of my men remain to question your household !” he said as Korpulfr reached for his jacket, his tone of voice implying that it was not a question but rather a statement of fact. Korpulfr nodded accordingly, eyeing the captain suspiciously, “I do hope you are not implying that any of my people had any thing to do with the Gondorians unprovoked attack on the city, I assure you that when they left they were in the capable hands of several of your own guards!”

“Off course not!” the large man hissed though gritted teeth, “It is purely a procedure as you and your people were the last to see these traitors before their utterly unprovoked attack!” the captain barked utterly incensed by Korpulfr's reminder of his mens failure.

Korpulfr nodded accepting the captains assurances, “Then be my guest, neither myself or any of my household have anything to hide,” he said putting on his jacket and then turning to Hasrim he told him to make sure that everyone gave their full cooperation to the captains men. But his eyes gave a warning that every Maenwaith knew well, one that told the beholder to remain cautious.

Turning Korpulfr confidently left the room allowing Falasmir’s captain to escort him to the palace through the smoky haze that seemed to blanketed the city in the aftermath of the Gondorians attack.

[Mithadan]

It was late morning before Falasmir knocked upon the door of Wyrma's chambers. One of her guards opened the door and nodded as he allowed Falasmir to enter. The burly guard led Falasmir to a sitting room where he gestured to a chair as he turned to summon his mistress. Falasmir waited with ill-concealed impatience for Wyrma to appear. To his annoyance, it seemed that she took her own time before the door to her rooms opened and she entered, followed by two guards. Falasmir shot to his feet and began to speak as she approached him.

"The Gondorians..." he began.

She interrupted him with a wave. "I have heard," she said. "I warned you against this game that you played."

"We must catch them," he continued.

"So?" she replied. "I assume that you have sent out your ships?"

"Yes," he answered. "But we would apprehend the criminals much faster if we knew precisely where they were. Perhaps your people could help? Locate them, I mean?"

Wyrma's eyes narrowed. "My people are my concern," she said in a low voice. "I would not have them reveal themselves now. It is too early. But this is a moot point. There are none here in Umbar who can take the form of a bird great enough to fly so far."

"But you..." Falasmir began.

"Me?" Wyrma retorted with a laugh. "If I would not have any of my people reveal themselves in the shape of a bird, what makes you think that I would reveal myself? Think of how your people would panic! No, you will have to catch them by sea or not at all."

"But they return to Gondor!" he hissed.

"So?" she replied. "It will take them seven days or more to travel that distance. By that time all will have been done! You worry too much, Falasmir, my dear. And you should have more confidence in your mighty corsairs!"

He nodded, but her scorn burned his ears...

---------------------------

One corsair went south against the possibility that the Lonely Star would seek to evade them and hide in some quiet cove. The second went west. The third set out to the north-west and the remaining two made for the north, one travelling just off-shore and the second a mile further out to sea. The black sails billowed and the drums beat rapidly marking time for the oarsmen below. Even so, two days past and no sign of the Gondorian vessel was seen.

It was late in the afternoon of the third day when a man in the crowsnest of the Southern Storm caught sight of a distant sail, far to the north. Through a dark night, the Southern Storm and its sister ship, the Black Wind, sped over the waves. In the morning of the fourth day, the sail was closer and my early afternoon the corsairs had closed enough to see that it was indeed the Lonely Star. Still, it was late in the day before the Southrons drew close. The men of the Lonely Star appeared to be working feverishly with something on its stern.

The Black Wind drew within bowshot of the northerners and its men, armed and ready, arrayed themselves upon her deck. The drums beat a rapid tempo as the slaves below strained to bring their ship closer to their quarry. Aboard the Lonely Star, several sailors heaved something overboard from the stern of the vessel. The captain of the Black Wind laughed. Many were the occasions where he had seen his prey dump its cargo in the vain hope that lightening the load might allow it to escape. His laugh was cut short as a jolt shook the ship and it began to veer off to the side.

"What has happened?' he cried as the distance between the Black Wind and the Southern Star began to grow rapidly. His first mate rushed to the side of the ship and then to the stern, before reporting back to the captain. "Sir, the oars and the rudder are fouled," he answered.

"By what?" snarled the captain.

"A drift net," answered the mate nervously. "Its mesh and hooks have tangled the oars on the port side and fouled the rudder."

"Well fix it!" shouted the captain. But that was a task which was easier said than done. It was several hours before the oars and rudder could be cleared.

The Southern Storm passed its sister ship and closed rapidly upon the Star. This time, no net was thrown from the Star into the sea, or if one was, the Storm passed it by safely. It was nearly dusk when she pulled aside the Lonely Star and her men crowded the rail in preparation for boarding. But as the Storm edged closer, men from the Star threw lines with great hooks up into the Storm's rigging. Even as the Storm's rail came alongside that of the Star, the Gondorians began pulling on the lines they had thrown into the raider's rigging and with pulleys drew a second great net off the deck which swung over towards the corsair.

"Veer off!" cried the Sothron captain. But this was exactly what Saelon wanted. The net fell and draped itself over the starboard side of the corsair and fouled the oars of that vessel as well. The captain cursed, then laughed. "We'll be free soon enough and then we'll get them," he cried. But his mate tapped him on the shoulder and pointed as his eyes grew wide. "She's coming about, sir!"

The Star had swung around and was now charging towards the Southern Storm. It passed by on the Storm's port and a volley of arrows flew towards the corsair. But the captain was more alarmed at another sight. As the Star moved close to the Storm, the Gondorians lifted two great kegs from the deck and heaved them over the side. Each leaked a foul smelling liquid which floated upon the surface of the sea and quickly enveloped the side of the corsair. As the Star swept clear, bowmen launched flaming arrows into the slick of liquid. It caught fire, scorching the side of the Storm. Then the flames reached the barrels which erupted in great gouts of fire, sending a shower of burning oil onto the deck of the corsair.

As the Lonely Star again turned north, Saelon loked back at the corsair. It was listing to the port from damage caused by the explosions and its men were frantically fighting the flames which threatened to engulf that ship. The Star sailed on, and did not encounter any other ships of Umbar before it reached the city of Minas Anor nearly five days later.

[piosenniel]

Gondor

A few days later found Pio down at the docks. She passed from ship to ship, greeting the captains, asking for news of what was passing at the ports they had put into on their latest travels. Good tidings for the most part, save for the storms and squalls that bedevil any ship which has to brave them. But at the last ship, The Scuppered Gull, the news she heard from Faragaer disturbed her. There was nothing specific in the detail, just the feeling he had gotten from the small luggers that worked the Southern coast.

The main port in Umbar had a guarded feeling they felt, relations uneasy between the Corsairs and others not of Umbar. Going on these reports, Faragaer told her he had elected to land at a small cove farther south of the main city. A less used place, he told her, near where the mountains come down close to the sea. ‘The old tars used it in the times long before the new King and his Peace.’ He pulled out his book of charts and showed her the position. Something familiar niggled at the back of her mind as she looked at it. The old, captain’s log she’d borrowed from the library. The Sandpiper, that had been the name of the ship. She would have to read more closely what the captain had said about the southern coast in earlier days.

Pio asked after Radagast and his companion, and was told they had gotten off safely at the cove, and were moving north toward the city with a small caravan of merchants who had come out to trade with Faragaer. Faragaer laughed, thinking of Rôg and his unfortunate stomach, and related several amusing stories concerning him to the Elf. Wine was offered round by the First Mate and talk fell to personal topics. Yes, Pio’s children were fine and she was sure they would love the chance to sail down to the bay on one of the shorter trips that Faragaer made along the little trading docks on the river. Faragaer’s own wife was expecting her second baby, and Pio accepted the invitation to pay her a visit while the Captain was away. The focus was then turned on Haladan, the First Mate. The tips of his ears crimsoned with their good-natured ribbing. Had he announced his intentions yet to that girl’s father? Lyssa, wasn’t that her name? And when would they be receiving their invitations to the handfasting? Haladan bore it with good will. Politely telling them his business was his own, if they pleased. He ended his request with a wink, and Pio and the captain fell to laughing at this unspoken comment.

It was late in the afternoon when Pio returned home. The children under the care of cook for the day came running out to greet her as she rode up through the gate. They milled about her, their little voices vying for her attention, their eager fingers slipping into her pack for the promised treats.

‘Any news of Mister Mithadan,’ said cook, shooing the children off to suck on their honey and violet candies. ‘Not yet,’ returned Pio, shaking her head. ‘An old friend once said that no news was good news, and I am hoping that holds true for this.’ Rubbing the back of her neck, she thought of the rumours she’d heard from Faragaer; then, reminded herself that the Star would be home in a short span of days.

‘Something smells good!’ she said, changing the subject. ‘Yes, we’ve been busy,’ cook said, laughing at the mouthed ‘we?’ from Pio. ‘The children picked through the lentils and cleaned them. Isilmir and Gilwen gathered the vegetables from the garden to stew with them. And Cami, with her sweet tooth, helped me roll out the pastry for an apple pie.’ Cook nodded her chin at the littlest girl, who had obviously finished her few pieces of candy, and was looking quite hopefully at her brother, a person of greater restraint than she. Pio laughed and looping her arm loosely about cook’s shoulders led the way into the house . . .

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Thorn

Standing on the warm wet sand, as the first light of dawn touched the sky, Thorn shuddered in its bleak light. Around him lay the smoldering ashes of his leader’s tent, which had been lost as Ayar's watched silently from the blanket Latah had spread out for her a safe distance away. Even now she was still focused, her dark eyes reflecting the flames as she watched Surinen take off his shawl and beat a small blaze that had rekindled in the ruin. Once extinguishing it, the outrider threw mud over the stubborn embers, padding softly through the wreckage, hunting for others that threatened.

Calling her daughter to her side, Ayar spoke to her quietly, before closing her eyes and rolling onto her back. Immediately Narika arose, and crossing over to the blackened sand, she approached Thorn touching his elbow to gain his attention. "What is it?" Thorn asked in a whisper, seeing now Ayar laying with her eyes tightly shut. He wondered if she might be growing worse once more.

"My mother requests that we find our shelter in the tent of your family, Thorn,” she said distractedly, as though something of greater weight was troubling her. “She has sent me to tell you this."

"My own mother would welcome you gladly, but you had said that Yalisha is now in the encampment,” Thorn ventured, searching her face. “Would you truly rest easy with this?"

"It is my mother's wish, and she must be moved before the sun further weakens her," Narika replied. “But that is not all. My mother said that the one Surinen calls Rôg spoke to her in our own language."

Thorn pondered the revelation. How was it that this stranger could know such a thing? “This is most unexpected. But they will be all right for now. I have set Narayad guard over them."

"Some may not see that as a good choice I am afraid, even though these men apparently bear us no ill will,” said under her breath.

"Because he is not born of our clan?” Thorn said with an exasperated laugh. “Do not worry; he has a stout heart and strict disposition. What better way to prove his fidelity, then to keep watch over this doddering man and his companion? He is to be trusted, more than our own, for he is a member of the Eagle clan by his own choosing, not by the random chance of birth."

“Yes I know, but there are many others who would not agree with that view.”

Thorn knew that she was referring to the elders, some of who saw Narayad as a potential liability. But the respected elder, Fador, had surprisingly taken up this maenwaith drifter’s cause and had even given his blessing upon the outrider’s union with his only daughter Latah, further cementing his place in the clan, and the young man enjoyed his protection, to the chagrin of the majority of elders. “Well, after this many years you would think they would recognize good character when they see it,” he spat out.

Walking toward a group of young men, who stood by the water tank lamenting its level, Narika followed him. “We can not discount their opinions either, Thorn,” she said as she hurried along side.

“No we can not,” Thorn conceded. “But how would you have him be useful to the clan? By watching the flocks like a small child? And would Fador agree to that? I do not think so.”

“Then do you think that the elders are wrong to be cautious?” She asked candidly. Thorn stopped, turning to face her in the first warm blush of sunrise.

“No I do not think they are wrong in their wariness, only in their prejudice. Not all in a clan have a single mind and single will. True Narayad rebelled against his leader’s wish, but with good cause and in agreement with the ways of this people! Perhaps the elders fear the strength of his convictions!”

With that Thorn left Narika to join the young men, asking their help to transport Ayar to his family’s tent. And despite his initial reaction to her frank question, he found that he was asking himself, what if he was wrong? Had not the elders more wisdom than he? And so he decided to send Surinen also to the lean-to, for the bread baker’s son understood many tongues, indeed more than he could speak, and he would be an acceptable guard in the eyes of the elders.

[Mithadan]

Baran had enjoyed the reception immensely. The food had been very tasty and the wine very fine. He was also very impressed by Elessar, the King of Gondor. The King was well-spoken and had been familiar with the lands about the Carrock, allowing them to discuss his people from a base of common knowledge. The cheiftains of the Beornings would be pleased at the offers of trade which he had received as well. However, as it seemed that it would be some time before he returned to the north, he had suggested that Gondor dispatch an emissary to the Carrock to discuss these economic matters. Elessar had promised to send a representative to the Beornings when traders next travelled to Dale. "A fine man," thought Baran as he ambled back to the buffet tables. "And a fair ruler."

That had been a few days before. Now, it was late in the evening and he had spent many frustrating and tiring hours in the Library of Minas Anor that day, meandering through dusty trade records and the logs of vessels which had travelled to the south. These last were few in number and, by and large, many years old. It appeared that Gondor had not gotten along with its neighbors to the south for some time. Not surprising, considering the accounts of piracy by the corsairs of Umbar which he had come across.

He stretched and yawned mightily. The dim and close quarters of the library did not appeal to him. It was quite unlike the bright and airy chambers which held the records of Rivendell. As he rose, his stomach grumbled in annoyance. It was time to return to the Inn for a late dinner. Nodding to the librarian, who barely looked up as he passed, Baran made his way to the doors and the fresher air outside.

The library was located in the upper levels of the city, not far from the great hall where the reception had been held. Looking up, he saw a number of windows above him from which the flickering light of lanterns or candles could be seen. Even as he looked, one of the lights was snuffed as someone prepared for sleep. No doubt the quarters of the King and his family were among the rooms up above. He wondered briefly if the King was still awake before he continued on his way.

There were few people out and about in this level of the city. But as he reached the gate which led to the next circle down, two men walked past. They were cloaked and hooded in grey cloth and did not look at him as they walked by, intent upon some errand in the levels above. But as they passed, Baran paused and sniffed at the air. Some scent had reached his nose which, even in mannish form, was more sensitive than most. The odor niggled at him, familiar in some ways, yet at the same time strange and different. He glanced back at the two men. They did not turn and were soon lost to his sight, hidden by shadows. Baran shrugged and continued the long walk back to the Inn...

[piosenniel]

Gondor - Visitors in the night I

‘Hasten, brother!’

Wahid took hold of his companion’s elbow and hurried him to the gate’s entrance. Only one guard stood on either side, and both their attentions seemed drawn to someone passing down to the tiers below. Wasim picked up his pace, speaking low, ‘There lies only one last gate between us and the completion of our journey. One last thing to do, and then we can return home.’

As they emerged from the gate, Wahid’s brow puckered beneath his hood, and he drew his brother closer into the shadows of the wall. A quick glance had revealed the guard’s interest – a giant of a man was preparing to enter the gate to the fifth level. Wahid squeezed his brother’s elbow, both their noses catching the scent of the passing stranger.

‘Who was that?’ hissed Wasim as they made their way toward the final gate. ‘I know not. But he has gone now and does not concern us.’

A tall planetree in the courtyard of the Houses of Healing was their intended destination for the moment. Slipping into the shadows afforded by the leafy branches, they stood leaning against the flaky bark of the trunk to catch their breath, collecting their thoughts for the last leg of their journey. Their vantage point did not allow them a look at the buildings that stood in the upper tier, but then they did not need one. The images on the map they had been given were burned into their memories, as were the previous nights' flyovers they had done. Clear to them, though, were the number of guards that stood at the ready on either side of the entrance to the city’s last gate. And near to it stood the Guard House, many of the small windows in the long row down its side still lit by burning lamps.

The two brothers pushed back their hoods, nodding their twin heads to one another. A flutter of wings . . . a soft rustling among the leaves . . . and there in the top branches, two small crows perched, their dark brown eyes fixed on the King’s residence . . .

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Surinen

In the early morning light, as the confusion subsided and the people melted away returning to their homes, Surinen found Latah dolefully picking among the charred remains of Ayar's tent. Wrapping his arm about her shoulder he spoke gently, trying to cheer her and offering his help. And while their leader, the guardian of their people, was borne away by four men, each holding one corner of the sagging blanket, the outrider walked along side his cousin searching in the dust and mud for anything of value that could be saved.

Buckles, knives, metal goblets, ornaments and a few other things they gathered into a pile around a small scorched trunk, putting the rest aside to be later destroyed. But as they walked, Surinen's mind was in turmoil. "Latah," he said, his thoughts pressing him to speak. "Please do not spare me, but tell me of your father's thoughts in my regard, for I sense that he no longer trusts my judgment, and I do not know why that should be." Avoiding her curious glance the wiry man picked up an inkwell of discolored bronze turning it over in his hands, feigning an attempt to polish it with the end of his loose fitting sleeve. "Have you seen, or perhaps heard any rumor that I have done something to wrong him, or has Mîrya's shame cast this shadow of doubt over me? It would be a great relief to know why he might treat me so that I now feel cut off from him."

"I have heard of no complaints against you or your sister from anyone, cousin," Latah replied with sincerity, her faultless brow furrowing as she considered him. "But Fador speaks to no one of these things, least of all to his daughter. It was never his wish to burden me with such weighty matters," she said, frustration creeping into her words as she searched the ground once more. "And he only asks of my work, and shares none of his many troubles or vexations."

"I see," Surinen said, more than a little disappointed at this seemingly hopeless turn. "And has Narayad proved more willing to confide than Fador?" The outrider asked to divert the course of his falling spirits. For it amused him to think his proud friend might confide such things to this girl that he had taught to catch scorpions, in the days when her legs were as lanky as her braids, and she could not yet change shape.

Latah grinned, “He is learning cousin, learning.”

The muted clanking of a scabbard interrupted their conversation and they both looked up to catch sight of Thorn striding barefoot toward them, retying the leather thong that held his long hair as he walked. Stopping at the trunk, he surveyed the fruit of their searching, shaking his head.

“The vessel that held incense still has not been found,” Latah reported.

“Not yet,” Surinen added. “It must be here - somewhere. But how is the Meldakher now Thorn?”

“She still fights a great battle, but has been granted a reprieve for a time it seems, thanks to the ministrations of the man you have dubbed ‘grandfather’. But you should be more careful, my friend. He might take offense at the designation, and with his skill cause you great mischief.”

“But with age comes honor and experience,” Surinen said.

“Let us always hope so,” Thorn muttered. “But I have come to ask that you join Narayad in watching over our visitors until a place can be made ready for them.”

“As you wish,” the outrider said starting toward the lean-to, “I will go immediately.”

“One more thing that you should be made aware of,” Thorn called after him. “This one called Rôg knows our clan’s speech, so take care what you say in front of him.”

“Yes Thorn, I will be careful,” Surinen reassured him, before he grew silent trying to recall exactly the words had been spoken the night he and his friend had shared coffee with Rôg.

[Nerindel]

Korpúlfr

Korpulfr stood before the doors of Lord Falasmir’s main audience hall, an attendant took his jacket and a dutiful guard searched his person for any concealed weapons. An unnecessary task as Kor had already been searched at the gates, but a precaution he knew that the obsessed lord would deem necessary. Once satisfied that he was unarmed the guard gestured for him to continue, telling him that Lord Falasmir was expecting him.

‘Off course he is!’ he thought bitterly, knocking on the ornately carved door and waiting for a response.

Falasmir had already kept him waiting for several hours, sending his commander-in-chief to question him extensively regarding the events of the previous evening. He quickly realised that they were looking for someone to take the blame, to appease the unrest of the lords subjects in the wake of the Gondorian’s attack, but mostly to prevent giving one of Falasmir’s ambitious rivals an excuse to question his ability to rule and procure allies with which to usurp his coveted position. If he was not careful, he would end up being their scapegoat and that he could and would not allow!
“Enter!” a booming voice beyond the doors called. Taking a deep breath and steeling himself for the task ahead, he pushed open the heavy doors and entered.

Lord Falasmir impatiently paced back and forth on his dais, but instead of the lords usual assortment of ministers and couriers there was only Wyrma and three of the guards who had be charged with the supervision of the Gondorian captain and his first mate. As he drew nearer Falasmir turned and Korpulfr’s darks eye fell on the bloodied dagger in the man’s hand, his gaze immediately shifted to the three guards and it was then that he noticed the dark heap crumbled on the floor next to them, the fourth guard! He realised swallowing hard.

He off course like many others had heard the numerous rumours of Lord Falasmir’s temper and his deadly punishments for failure, but until now, he had never witnessed them. In fact, he himself had always believed the Lord to be a little past his prime and more than a little over indulgent, as could be seen in the lord’s, corpulent figure and the amount of gold that adorned his personage. However, as Falasmir looked in his direction his suspicious dark eyes considering him, Korpulfr saw a ruthlessness that he had not before perceived, realising that he hesitated he quickly dropped to his right knee and lowered his head in show of respect that he did not feel, consciously aware that Falasmir still held the bloodied dagger in his right hand.

“You sent for me my lord.” he humbly spoke to the marbled floor.

“Yes, now on your feet I still have a few things that need clearing in my head and I warn you lad I am in no mood for lies or deceit. Do you understand?” Falasmir spoke clearly his eyes narrowing to measure his response and the dagger rose to indicate the depth of his mood.

“Yes My Lord.” Korpulfr answered simply as he slowly rose to his feet.

“These men…” Falasmir began using the bloodied dagger to point in the direction of the disgraced guards, “Tell me that you prevented them from filling out their duties to their fullest capacity by not allowing them into your home, is this true?”

“My lord it is a rule of my house that no guest may enter bearing arms, a rule that I’m sure you yourself can well appreciate my lord.” he answered without hesitation. Then turning a sharp and disgusted look on the three remaining guards he continued. “These men refused to give up their weapons even after the Gondorian’s relinquished theirs, therefore they could not be permitted to enter.”

His tone lost the hard edge that had emerged and again became passive as he turned back to face Lord Falasmir, “However I did not turn them away, they were permitted to remain in the courtyard where food and refreshment was brought to them. When the Gondorian’s requested that they wished to retire for the evening I delivered them safely back into the care of their guards.”

“And just what did you and the treacherous captain discuss I wander?” Falasmir mused aloud resuming his contemplative pacing.

“Trade mostly my Lord, myself and many of the other traders present at my table were curious as to what trade customs the Gondorians adhered too and what other things of value the people of the north had to trade. In return, we educated the Gondorians in regards to our laws and customs. We also informed them how the nomadic traders of the dessert differed slightly in their approach to such things. Then after supper there was song and storytelling as is the custom of our people; Captain Mithadan even entreated us to a tale of his own.” Korpulfr answered honestly, though he left out any mention of shape shifters, confident that the Lords men who had remained to question his household would have received roughly the same response. Falasmir’s reflective gaze and the slight nod of his head indicated that this was so.

“And at no time did you get any indication of the Captains intended treachery, nothing unusual or out of place?” Falasmir pressed.

“No, My Lord, I assure you that if I had I would have most certainly informed your guards at once. However, as it was Captain Mithadan and his First mate seemed friendly and forthwith concerning our many questions regarding trade and I had no reason to hold them with any suspicion.” Korpulfr paused for a moment as if remembering something.

“What is it, you remember something?” Falasmir pressed seeing his thoughtful repose.

“Hmm well it might be nothing, but now when I think on it, it was a might strange…”

“Well spit it out man what is it!” Falasmir snapped spraying him with saliva.

“Like I said it may be nothing, but the Captain did excuse himself on several occasions taking with him on each occasion a very large and very expensive may I add bottle of liquor. I had thought at the time that perhaps the good Captain had a bit of a drink problem, it never occurred to me that he may have been … er well… or that they….” he finished uncomfortably shifting his gaze to take in the already disgraced guards. Falasmir followed his gaze his eyes glittering with rage and dissatisfaction.

“He lie’s my lord!” Two of the guards chorused fearfully, but the third who Korpúlfr knew as Seft just glared at him contemptuously, “It is him and his dessert filth, they helped the prison…” one began pointing an accusing finger at him.

“Enough!” Falasmir bellowed before the man could continue and in two long purposeful strides, he was upon them his dagger held threateningly close to the startled guard’s throat.

“I have already had the vendors in the market questioned and they seemed to think that several of you where quite intoxicated, one even commented on the fact that one of you had trouble keeping down his supper!” he growled throwing the guard back in disgust.

Falasmir now looked between the four of them; Korpulfr did not miss the glint of suspicion in the Umbarian lord’s eyes, as he looked his way nor the tightening of his hand about the hilt of his dagger as he considered his guards. For a horrifying moment, he felt almost certain that Falasmir was just going to kill them all, when Wyrma stepped forward, placing herself behind Lord Falasmir and began whispered in his ear.

Korpulfr had completely forgotten she was there for during the entire proceedings she had said and done nothing, but now she held the infuriated lords ear. He could not hear her whispered counsels, but Lord Falasmir’s anger seemed to abate and he now looked on him contemplatively, which made him feel more uncomfortable than when the man seemed just about ready to kill them all. Finally Falasmir nodded and Wyrma left his side and made her way from the room without so much as a glance in his direction.

“It seems you hold the favour of my newest advisor,” Falasmir said, re-sheathing his dagger and looking him up and down with a cursory glance. “It is lucky for you that she seems to think that you speak the truth and that her counsels have not yet failed me!” his eyes narrowed dangerously and Korpulfr took in the silent warning they conveyed.

At that moment, Wyrma reappeared with half a dozen well-armed guards. Falasmir stepped back at her entry then addressed the armed guards. “These prisoners are to be escorted to the dungeons where I will see to their punishments personally,” he ordered, pointing in the direction of Seft and his companions. The guards hesitated looking at their lord not understanding.

“NOW!” he bellowed, “they have failed in their duties and will be punished accordingly.”

The guards immediately carried out their lord’s orders and escorted the pleading men from the room, lifting the dead body of the fourth disgraced guard and taking it with them, Kor watched them leave then turned remembering that he was not alone.

“Lady Wyrma would like a word with you before you leave master Korpulfr, if you will excuse me I have business to attend too.” He said dryly, indicating the door. He then nodding curtly to his advisor, before following after his guards.

Once Falasmir was gone, Korpulfr turned to tell Wyrma about her son and the Gondorian’s but she raised her hand to stop him. “Not here, follow me,” she whispered. Korpulfr nodded then followed the Matriarch through a secret door to the rear of Falasmir’s dais, she lead him in silence through a number of narrow passages, until they seemingly reached a dead end then bending down the woman slipped her hand in a small hole and a door sprang open. Then grinning at his obvious surprise she gesture for him to enter, closing the secret passage behind her as she followed him out into the opulent drawing room of her quarters.

“Now we can speak,” she said sitting herself down on an ornately carved ladder back chair and gesturing for him to do like wise. Taking the proffered seat, he began by telling her of Mithadan’s tale regarding the skin changer named bird and his mention of the Beornings their cousins in the north. If Wyrma was concerned or shocked by anything he told her then she did not show it, her age weathered face remained impassive and thoughtful as he continued.

“At the end of the evening Tinar decided that it would be best to follow the Gondorians to see what they were up to, I tried to dissuade him but he would not listen and before I could stop him he was gone. My own disappearance would have been noticed so I sent Hasrim to find Tinar and make sure he was alright, he does not know the dangers like we do,” He explained. Wyrma nodded then indicated for him to continue.

“Hasrim returned this morning, it seems that Captain Mithadan and His mate Airefalas did not make it back to their ship and were forced to find another route. They left the city and headed north.” At this revelation, Wyrma rose from her seat and walked towards the large bay windows that looked over the city, her hand clasped firmly behind her back.

“And my son, “she asked her back still turned to him.

“I’m sorry he took flight and Hasrim lost his trail. Hasrim is an expert in tracking but even he cannot track birds.” He replied regretfully.

There was a long silence as Wyrma stared out of the window seemingly contemplating how these new events would affect her plans, then as she turned to look north Kor saw a grin spread across her face. Not a warm or satisfied grin but an evil grin that chilled him to his very core, but as quickly as it had appeared it was gone and Wyrma turned fully to face him her face again impassive making him wonder if he had not just imagined that frightening image.

“Korpulfr you will look for the Gondorian’s and my wayward son, then continuing to extend the hand of friendship as you have done you will tell them that you have heard word of their friend and that you can take them to her. You will then lead them to our city where I will decide what is to be done.” Wyrma said returning to her seat and opening a draw in her desk.

“To the City!” Kor exclaimed a little puzzled.

Wyrma stopped what she was doing and looked up and he caught a slight hint of annoyance in her gaze. “Yes, Korpulfr to the city, they know to much of our people to be allowed to walk free at this tenuous time.”

She then returned to the draw pulling out a single leave of parchment and smoothing it out on her desk. Still Korpulfr was not content. “But what of this shape changer… this Bird?” he pressed. Wyrma again looked up and this time an amused grin traced her thin lips.

“You worry to much, Master Korpulfr, but if it will put your mind at ease I will have your father send out a search party. If this Meanwaith is truly looking for her people then she will not be to hard to locate, then perhaps your story to the Gondorians will not turn out to be a lie after all.” Then not waiting to see if he reassured she flipped open her ink well and dipped her quill into the black ink. then began to write, continuing to speak to him as she did.

“There should be two others already following the Gondorians, Mus’ad and Nizar Brothers of the Wyrm clan, you will give them this!” However, Kor was not listening he was distracted nothing about the Gondorian’s had made them seem a threat; he knew that appearances could be deceptive… but what if they were wrong and Gondor was not their enemy!

Noticing that Korpulfr was no longer listening and perhaps perceiving his doubt Wyrma spoke again this time like a mother speaking to her child. “You have not forgotten Gondors part in your people’s losses, how they stole lands that belonged to the people of the south planting the first seeds of hatred that they later blamed the Umbarian lords of planting themselves.”

Kor’s mind burned with hatred, “Yes! If not for that hatred, the Umbarians would never have allied themselves with the dark one and sought to enslave our people. They are both to blame!” he snapped bitterly all his doubt now forgotten. “They are not to be trusted liars and deceivers all!” Wyrma finished handing him the now sealed envelope.

“What of Falasmir?” Kor asked slipping the envelope into his pocket, “Let me deal with Falasmir, now go or the Gondorian’s will have almost a full day on you.”

“So it is said it will be done!” Kor replied rising and pressing his fist to his chest and dipping his head in the required sign of respect, then turning sharply he left Wyrma’s quarters and hurried back to his house.

Hasrim as perceptive as ever already had two horses packed and ready to go, However Kor insisted that he pack another for Tinar. It was early evening before they were finally ready to leave, which suited both men fine as the cooling of the searing afternoon heat would make it easier for them to travel at least until the freezing of the cold night was upon them. The desert was a harsh land but the desert people and the Maenwaith had both long ago learned how to survive, travelling was done in the cooling periods from dawn till noon and then again after dusk, the times in between where either too hot or too cold. A man could burn to death in the searing heat of the afternoon or freeze to death in the bitter cold nights if he was not careful.

With a final few parting words with Asrim who he was once again leaving in charge, he and Hasrim set off towards the place where Hasrim had last seen their quarry.

[piosenniel]

Gondor – the King’s residence

‘Tomorrow, then, Arwen . . .’

Elessar closed the doors to the Queen’s chambers smiling as she bade him a good night. ‘A long night, more likely,’ he thought to himself as he trod the short distance to his set of rooms. There were several small stacks of agreements and forms to be got through before he rested. He nodded at the three guards stationed along the way; the one to the side of the Queen’s door, the one at the head of the staircase, and the guard at the entrance to his own chambers.

‘M’Lord,’ said the man said, opening the door as the King approached. A quick glance round the front room showed that all was in order as he ushered Elessar in. ‘Have you just come on, Halmir?’ the King asked as the man opened the other doors and checked them also. It was a routine he had done innumerable times, yet each time he did so, he looked with fresh eyes at the familiar surroundings. Halmir turned with a nod to Elessar. ‘I’ll be here until just past midnight, m’Lord,’ he answered walking back toward the entryway. ‘Just call out if anything is needed,’ he said as he went out closing the door behind him.

On his way to the small office just off the main room, Aragorn paused to open the shutters of the large window that looked southwest toward the Anduin and leaning on the sill, surveyed the night’s view. Most of the city had gone to their rest. But there were soft lights shining in a few of the windows of the Houses of Healing, and lamps scattered here and there along the pathway to the lower levels, safely guiding the footsteps of those few still out and about. And there, on the lower levels, still glowed the lights that marked the city’s busy taverns.

A fresh breeze blew in, riffling the sheaf of papers held in his hand; a reminder that he’d best be about his business if he wished to sleep at all. With a sigh, he entered his office. There to his right was his desk, the quill he had been using earlier in the day still lying where he’d left it on the green baize blotter. One of the servers, he saw, had filled his inkwell, in anticipation of his need for it tonight. Once in his chair, he pulled off his boots, and threw them toward into the corner. He was half tempted to fill his pipe, but stayed his hand; picking up, instead, the quill to sharpen its nib with his penknife.

Elessar turned up the small desk lamp and leafed through the first few pieces of parchment he’d laid on his desk. Through the small slit window above and behind him the occasional night breeze crept in, freshening the air in the room. Drawing out what appeared to be a particularly urgent missive, he bent over it, focusing his whole attention on what needed to be addressed . . .

[piosenniel]

Gondor - Visitors in the night II

Several hours had passed since the brothers began their watch. As on the previous nights, the lights on the top floor of the residence in the Queen’s apartments had gone out first, while those of the King burned far into the night. And as before the large window in Elessar’s main room remained invitingly open – secure it was supposed because of its height from the ground.

All was quiet as the two crows leapt up from their branch and flew quickly to the broad sill of the King’s window. The one lamp on the table near the door burned low; the room was empty of people. Stretching his neck round the corner of the frame, Wahid could see the brighter light of the desk’s lamp to his right.

‘He’s in his office,’ he whispered to Wasim. ‘Fly to the high little window above his chair and drop down on him. I’ll come in here, from the side. The Great Wyrm willing, we can finish him off in short time and be on our way back south within the hour.’

Wahid dropped softly to the floor, changing to mannish form. His slim fingers found the double edged knife they had hidden previously in the crack beneath the sill. Flattening himself against the wall, he moved along it toward the door to the office, listening intently for any movement of his target. Just outside the door he stood still and silent until he heard his brother land on the hardwood floor below the little window.

There was a cry as Wasim’s garrote pulled tight against the King’s throat. Wahid rushed in intending to finish off the man, but Elessar kicked out with his stockinged foot and caught him square in the gut – knocking him hard against the door jamb. The knife flew from his hands, clattering loudly across the floor. Wahid ran quickly to fetch it, but Halmir had heard the odd sounds coming through the door. With a cry, he burst through the entryway, the guard from the stairs following close behind.

Wahid was pinned to the floor with a lance through his chest by the stair guard. Halmir, his sword drawn, flew into the King’s study. Elessar, he saw, was clawing at his throat in an attempt to loosen the deadly noose held tight against it. And holding that noose was a wiry, dark haired man, who looked at Halmir with a sneer on his face as he tried to cut off the King’s breath.

Halmir aimed a downward cut at the man’s arm nearest him, the tip of his sword dealing a small glancing gash to the olive forearm of the assailant. It was enough to make him loosen his grip on the garrote, and Elessar ripped the thin cord from his neck, turning round to deliver his own blow to the man with the penknife he’d left on the desk. Halmir held back from any further thrusts of his sword in the small quarters, not wanting to injure his King.

Wasim called out to his brother in their clan tongue to flee, glaring at the Gondorians when the face which appeared in the doorway was that of the stair guard. With a strangled cry he leapt upward, leaving the other three men to watch in bewildering confusion as his form changed to that of a small crow and fled through the small slit window into the welcome cover of darkness.

‘Skinchanger,’ rasped out the King, regaining his wits quickly. ‘Alert the guards, Halmir,’ he ordered, pushing the man out of the study and toward the door. ‘And you,’ he cried, motioning for the other guard to follow him. ‘Come with me! We must see to the safety of the Queen!’

[Mithadan]

Baran was awakened by a knock upon the door of his room at the inn. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes and scratching at his beard, he stood and walked to the door even as he heard a second knock. "Alright, alright," he said with a yawn. "I'm coming. I'll be right there."

He opened the door to find the corridor outside his room crowded with men at arms wearing the black livery of the City. They were accompanied by the innkeeper who looked extremely unhappy. The soldiers entered the room with their weapons in their hands. Baran found himself standing with a spear pointing squarely at his chest. "I'm sorry Baran," said the innkeeper. "They wouldn't wait. I'm sure this is a mistake that'll be cleared up right quick. I'll speak with Piosenniel. She'll know what to do."

The leader of the contingent of guards stepped forward, keeping a wary eye on the massive Beorning. "You are Baran, the shapechanger?" he asked. Baran nodded. "Baran, the Beorning," he replied. "Then come with us," the guard continued. "No trouble now. If you change shapes, we'll be forced to kill you."

Baran raised a thick eyebrow. There were only five of them. He stood a good chance of defeating them if he took the Bear form. But that was not a certainty. Moreover, even if he did defeat them, he would remain a fugitive in an unfriendly city...a city he wanted to stay in. He still planned to take ship to the south and Minas Anor was the only place to book such passage. He shrugged. He had not done anything, so why not go along? He gathered an armful of clothing and allowed himself to be led off by the guards.

The streets were unusually busy this morning. As he walked along, escorted by the guards, he could hear many of the passerby whispering, "Shapeshifter." He felt as if every eye in the city were on him as he was led up two circles and placed in a well-built cell. The door closed with a thud. A guard shouted in to him, "We'll be watching you, so don't try anything funny!" He had no intention of doing so. He sank down on a bunk and promptly went back to sleep...

[piosenniel]

Gondor

Wasim chances upon the prisoner

He had not flown far before fear settled in on him, replacing the anger and grief of his brother’s death. Fear of Wyrma . . . fear of what she would do to him and his family should he return with news of the failure of this mission. Wasim landed in a small hawthorn tree, thick with foliage and settled into the shadows near the trunk. He needed to think.

The maenwaith changed to a small, brown sparrow. They would be suspicious of crows, now, he thought, berating himself that he needed to let them see him change as he escaped. But a drab little sparrow would do nicely. Feeling the shift come over him he thought of his brother, the older twin; the one who had taught him the simpler changes. Can’t go down that path now. He ruffled his feathers, shaking the memory from him.

With the change came a creeping sense of exhaustion. Darkness played on his bird senses, prompting him to tuck his head beneath is wing. I’ll just rest a bit . . . the new day will come soon . . . I can think more clearly then . . .

~*~

Filtered sunlight, the sound of gruff voices and feet tramping beneath his leafy hiding place roused the little bird from his torpor. Loud mutterings of ‘Shapeshifter’ sent shivers down his spine, and he pressed himself even more into the shadows. There were armed men below, in the livery of the King. His heart nearly burst from his chest, beating so fast from fright. They have found me out! he thought wildly.

But the noises passed him by.

Hopping to the end of a branch, he dared a peek out. Guards there were, a great number of them. Their lances and swords bristled as they herded someone along. Wasim cocked an eye at the giant of a fellow who moved along in their midst, and a quick memory of the large man who had passed them last night returned to him. A memory of both the size and that vaguely familiar smell.

‘They name him “Shapeshifter”,’ he murmured to himself, as he flew along after the crowd. His understanding of the Common Tongue was limited. But he made out the words ‘king’ and ‘kill’ and one more, ‘prisoner’. Wasim perched on the gutter of the building they were approaching and watched as they prodded the man inside, then slammed the heavy wooden door behind him firmly and locked it. Several guards were stationed outside the door, their faces grim, weapons close at hand. From what little he could make out of their talk, they thought this was the one who had tried to kill the king last night. The sparrow hopped back in surprise at this turn of events, losing his footing on the gutter’s edge. One of the soldiers, seeing the bedraggled bird, threw a handful of small stones at him. ‘Go on you little thief,’ he yelled. ‘We’ll not be sharing our lunch with the likes of you!’

Wasim flew off, leaving a lingering farewell on the soldier’s helm, and circled round to the rear of the building. The back of the cell faced onto an alley and high in the back wall was a small, barred window, affording the occupant some fresh air and light. He landed lightly on the thick sill and took a quick look in. The man had lain down on his bunk, and appeared to be sleeping. His eyes were closed, at least. The bird settled in to wait until he heard the man’s breathing subside into a slow rhythm punctuated by the occasional snore and low mutter.

He dropped down in a silent glide to the man’s pillow to hear what he was saying. ‘Fools!’ he heard; then, ‘Weaklings!’ ‘Change’ followed in a threatening tone. A few mumbles . . . and then a strange word, one that conjured no meaning for him, ‘ . . . bear!’

The man twitched in his sleep, his big hand striking out like a paw in the air. Wasim launched himself out of the way of the flailing limb, but not soon enough. His tail was hit by the hand, knocking one of his feathers loose. Caught in an eddy of air it fluttered down in a crazy spiral to land near the prisoner’s nose.

With a barely stifled squawk, Wasim flew up to the sill and back to his tree. His mind worked feverishly with what he thought he had discovered. Here was something he thought he might use to take the edge off Wyrma’s anger. A maenwaith of some sort, here in the northern lands!

He flapped south from the city mulling over his small trading chip . . . the unkown word, ‘bear’, fixed firmly in his memory.

[piosenniel]

Gondor

Pio visits the prisoner . . .

The five riders had avoided going through the city that day. Instead they had risen early and taken a leisurely ride east toward the river, turning north along it for a short way until they reached Harlond. Today was the day Faragaer had promised to take the children down to a few of the small trading docks on the river and then return the following evening. Cook was to go with them; she was wanting to visit a sister of hers just north of Pelargir.

Haladan, the first mate, hailed them from the ship as they approached. ‘Come aboard, Mistress Piosenniel!’ He winked at her as the three children raced up the plank followed by Cook at a slower pace. ‘I see you’ve brought our precious cargo,’ he said, laughing as the three young ones crowded about his long legs. ‘Show Mistress Hester to your cabin,’ he instructed Isilmir, ‘and get them all settled in, young sir.’

‘We’re leaving in about an hour and we’ll return late tomorrow,’ said Faragaer, coming to greet her. The children were already pushing Cook along the deck as they chattered like magpies at her and any passing deckhand. ‘Early in the evening. Come and sup with us, then you can make for home.’

Pio accepted a small glass of wine and settled in on the foredeck to talk with the captain until the ship sailed. He asked if she had been detained at all as they’d left the city. When she frowned at this strange question, he went on to say there had been some trouble at the palace last night. ‘And soldiers had swarmed down to the docks asking if we had seen anything out of the ordinary. We said no, asking what they meant, but they were close mouthed and glanced about at everything with suspicion.’ Pio returned that they had not come through the city and had seen no signs of the soldiers. ‘How odd!’ she thought, before the conversation turned to other matters.

~*~

Morien had made his way slowly to the level where the library stood, his progress blocked by the press of people and soldiers in the streets. This was one of the days he knew the Elf and her children usually visited the library then stopped off at the Inn on their way home. At each entrance to a higher level he was stopped along with the rest of the throng. Questions were asked by armed guards and those people not known by the guards or their fellows in the crowd were pulled aside and ‘looked into’. Fortunate for Morien was the fact that his was a well know face to the soldiery.

The library was closed, but a fury of blows on the side door brought a wide-eyed librarian to open it an inch or so. No, Mistress Piosenniel was not inside. No one was allowed in today. Morien turned and walked away, then was called back by the librarian’s shout. ‘She was going to the docks today . . . I remember her mentioning that.’ ‘Hope it helps!’ he shouted to the Innkeeper’s retreating back.

~*~

A last drink of wine was interrupted by the clatter of hooves and a loud shout. Pio stood up just in time to see Morien clamber off his mount and run up the plank. ‘Mistress,’ he said in a voice ragged from his haste and exertions. ‘It’s Baran. They’ve taken him . . . the soldiers have . . . they think he’s tried to kill the king.’

Haladan poured the gasping man a mug of wine and prised the details of the story from him. Morien wiped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt and taking a gulp from the mug told all he knew – the rumors heard in the Inn, the truths he had gleaned from them, and finally the arrest of Baran because he was the only Skinchanger whose whereabouts were known.

Some of the crew had crept near to hear this fantastical story. Old one-legged Tom elbowed his way close in and stood shaking his head and muttering loudly at the details of the attempt on the King.

‘Can’t be that Baran fellah!’ he swore as he stumped across the wooden deck to where Pio sat. ‘Big fellah, ain’t he, with long dark hair all braided and a’hanging down his back. Feeling a might generous he was last night, and stood us some rounds at The Broken Pikestaff. Just come down from the liberry he said to get some fresh air. The crew from that ship from the south was in there and got to telling some tall stories, they’d heard second hand I’m sure, to him about some phantom tribe in the desert who could change their shapes at will. Airy-fairy yarns as far I could tell, but that Mister Baran seemed real interested. He kept the ale flowing and their tongues wagging almost ‘til dawn.’

~*~

Cook took the children under her wing, telling Pio there was no need to cancel the trip. She could rest assured they’d all be fine under the care of Captain Faragaer and his First Mate. ‘You go help poor Master Baran,’ she told the Elf. ‘The little ones and I will take our little trip and see you tomorrow evening.’ Faragaer gave his own reassurance, saying he would watch out for them as if they were his own.

Morien rode back into the city with Pio, leaving her to go up to the Locks without him as he had been gone too long already from the Inn. The guards were at first reluctant to let her in, but she would have her way, saying she did not fear the Skinchanger; he would do her no harm. They made her leave her sword with them, then ushered her in. The door creaked open and shut with a thud after her, leaving her to blink in the gloom of the cell. Baran had come awake, and sat on the edge of his cot blinking back at her.

‘There has been an attempt on the King’s life last night, Baran,’ she said, sitting down near the end of the bunk. ‘From what I have gleaned there were two Skinchangers involved. One is dead, the other escaped, but not before the King and his men witnessed the change from man to bird as he flew away.’ She watched his face as he took in the news. ‘I shall need to know what you were doing and where you were last night, so that I might speak to the King on your behalf. The fact that the assassin took his leave as a bird will speak well in your favor, seeing that your folk seem bound to the bear form. But there will still be suspicions that somehow you are in league with others of your kind from other parts whose abilities differ from your own. Elessar has known of the Beornings for many years, has he not? Had contact with them at times. He will be very curious to know about other sorts of Skinchangers.’

Pio looked up at the big man as he sat with his hands on his knees. ‘Did you have any suspicions of their having come to Gondor, Baran? The King will want to know.’

[piosenniel]

Rôg

‘This didn’t break of itself,’ Rôg said, placing the incense pot on the ground between them. ‘And someone would have noticed almost immediately that there was a problem when new incense was put in and the old ashes cleaned out.’ He raised his brows at Aiwendil. ‘Unless, of course, the last one to do so was very lazy and unobservant . . .’

‘Or unless the last one to fill the pot and light it was the one who removed the clasp . . .’ finished the old man.

‘A snake in the nest . . . you think?’ murmured Rôg. ‘But who will believe us here if we tell them?’

Aiwendil was about to speak when the sound of another set of footsteps approaching made him pause. Hearing a familiar voice speak to Narayad, Rôg leaned forward and peeked out. The other outrider, Surinen, was there. His face in profile, features lit and shadowed by the small fire.

‘Hide the pot!’ Rôg hissed under his breath at Aiwendil, watching as the old man’s long fingers drew the faulty incense holder into the voluminous folds of his robe.

Narayad had now stood up and was speaking in earnest to Surinen. Their voices were pitched low and Rôg could not catch the words. He inched nearer the fire, holding his hands out to it, as if to warm them. His ears strained to pick up the thread of their conversation.

[Mithadan]

Baran stretched his arms and yawned mightily. Then he scratched his beard before responding to the Elf. "I had no idea that shapechangers had come to Gondor," he answered. "And of course I will tell the King what little I know of them, though I know no more than I told you."

He looked about at the cell with disdain. "Horrid place," he grumbled. "I thought very highly of this King until he decided to lock me up in here."

"I do not know if he ordered you imprisoned," replied Piosenniel. "Or if some member of the Guard, having heard you were in the City, took it upon himself to act. You must understand that the people are shocked at the attempt to kill Elessar and are fearful and suspicious of strangers right now." She sighed and thought quickly about the unfortunate turn of events. "Where were you last night?" she continued. "Perhaps others can vouch for you."

"I was in the library until rather late," he answered. "The librarian can confirm that if he recalls anything that happened past the end of his own nose. Then I began the long walk back to the Seventh Star. But I was hungry and thirsty and chose to stop at a small inn. The Pikestaff it was called, I think. There I spoke with the barkeep and others who were there, telling and listening to tales. Surely someone will remember me..."

He frowned for a moment. "As I was walking down from the library, I passed two men who were walking up into the City. The both wore cloaks and hoods, so I could not see their faces and they did not speak to me. But they smelled odd..." He laughed at Piosenniel's curious expression. "I am both man and bear," he said. "My sense of smell is better than that of 'normal' men. But these two men smelled familiar somehow. Kind of like Beornings, as if they had some animal in them. But at the same time they smelled different and unfamiliar."

"You may have seen the assassins, then," said Piosenniel. "But that alone may not be enough to get you released. Tell me, is there any way to prove you are a Beorning from the north?"

"Other than changing into a bear?" he asked. Piosenniel nodded with a chuckle. Baran thought for a moment, then smiled. "Yes," he continued. "I think that I can prove at least that I come from the north. About ten years ago I visited the Lonely Mountain. There I met a comrade of your King. A Dwarf. Gimli, Gloin's son. He told me the tale of the Quest of the Ring himself. He mentioned to me something only he would know. During the seige of Helm's Deep, your King and Eomer, who I understand is now Lord of Rohan, were battling Orcs outside the walls. They were forced to retreat and Elessar stumbled. The Orcs were quickly upon him, but Gimli slew them and he escaped..."

"I have heard that tale," said Piosenniel. "It is well known."

"Ah!", exclaimed Baran. "But do you know what your King tripped over?" Piosenniel shook her head.

"Gimli told me," he continued. "And he thought this was rather funny. The men of Rohan had given Elessar a helm to wear into battle. Well, Gimli told me that the helm was rather overlarge, and when he and Eomer turned to retreat behind the wall, the helm fell from Elessar's head. It was the helm that Elessar stumbled upon!" Baran smiled broadly, and Piosenniel's eyebrows rose at this tidbit of news...

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Surinen

“Latah will be fine, do not worry,” Surinen said in answer to Narayad’s questions. “But now Thorn has asked me to come and give you company,” he said peering around the edge of the lean-to. And seeing that younger of the two guests sat before the fire, he continued in a whisper, “he also gave warning that Rôg understands our speech, so take care what you say.”

Narayad glanced over at the maenwaith, a smile spreading across features. “Oh, that would explain his sudden departure from the well. For if I remember aright I had suggested we kill him, poor creature. And it is one thing to be killed outright, but quite another to know about it before hand!” he said trying to contain the laughter that threatened to override his words.

“Shhh,” Surinen sputtered. “How would you have liked to listen to us discuss your fate? You would not be so merry as you are now, I should think.”

“He knew what to do, and so would I.”

“Yes, well…they are planning to find a proper place for these two, and so until then you are stuck with me. And they…” he said waving his hand toward the lean-to, “ are stuck with us.”

“That is fine, I will enjoy your presence. But tell me Surinen,” Narayad asked suddenly serious. “Has Latah found the incense pot yet? I am worried about this, for it is her work to keep it lit, and some have said that it was this that started the fire, and that now she is looking for it.”

“No Narayad, I am sorry, but she has not discovered it. And I do not understand how it is missing, though I have searched for it with her. Such things do not simply melt away!”

“Could someone else have removed it?” Narayad asked. “It sounds strange, I know, but perhaps someone had a reason for taking it away. You were there, did you see anything?”

“What are you saying?” Surinen asked.

“Only that I am wondering if this fire was truly an accident, or perhaps someone is trying to blame Latah for it. I do not know.”

“Who would try to blame her, Narayad? It doesn’t make sense. The whole encampment knows that she would not do anything to harm the Meldakhar.”

“Still, I would like it to be found… for her sake.”

[Child of the 7th Age]

With Sorona's departure, Ráma had quickly gathered her belongings and led her mount towards the side entrance of the caves, a small opening that faced the desert. Already the sun was up. The young woman caught a distant glimpse of Sorona's majestic figure silhouetted against the clear morning sky. The Eagle circled once, then twice, and finally disappeared. Ráma wondered if she would ever see her again.

Ráma could not remember the Elders or her mother ever mentioning Sorona's name. That omission, in itself, was puzzling. She knew her mother kept a careful reckoning of all those within the clan who could take on Eagle shape. The fact that Sorona had not slipped back into human form during their conversation was also odd. Usual custom dictated that if one maenwaith threw off an animal form to converse more intimately with another, the companion would respond in kind, unless there was some pressing danger nearby to make such a shift unwise. But Sorona had made no attempt to change forms and had not even explained or apologized for this departure from normal practice. Ráma promised to ask her mother about Sorona after she reached her home.

For now, however, her mind remained on the trip. Ráma intended to leave immediately, since she had fulfilled her bargain with the two strangers from Gondor. She was still concerned about Thorn's absence, although it wasn't unusual for him to vanish unexpectedly if he was on the trail of an important tidbit of information. In any case, the strangers had probably sailed home on their vessel and were leagues away from the shores of Harad. Still, a nagging voice inside her head impelled her to check one last time at the entrance to the caverns that fronted directly on the city.

With a sigh of resignation, Ráma cut back through the interior of the Caves of Herumor and threaded her way along the maze towards the overhanging cliffs. But before she could even reach that point, she was greeted in the front passage by two familiar figures mounted on the same camels that she had left with Lena. Mithadan sat atop the beast with a grace that was unusual for an outsider; the other one, Airefalas, clung to his mount as if it was a ship tossed amid churning waves.

Rama's first reaction was disappointment. She wanted to get home and these two would only slow her down. She resolved to do her duty by the letter of her oath, but otherwise to have as little to do with them as she could. This is certainly the advice that Narika would have given her and the other Elders in the clan. Outsiders could not be trusted, and men from Gondor were as far outside Ráma's experience as any she had met. She approached the men warily, and did not even bother asking what had happened to their ship.

Turning towards the men, she dispensed with any word of greeting, and urged them to make haste, "We must leave immediately before the whole city is up. There was someone making inquiries at the Cat's Paw, and I have a feeling that Falasmir would not take kindly to seeing his two Gondorians fleeing from the city. I will take you west of Umbar, where we will find a friendly caravan that can guide you east and north towards the Harad Road. That will lead toward lands familiar to you. My own duty lies with my family. I must travel south and inland to the spot where my clan awaits."

[piosenniel]

Mithadan's Post

Mithadan was taken aback by Ráma's reserved, almost cold reception. He exchanged a quick glance with Airefalas before responding. "Thank you," he began. "Thank you for your advice, your aid, for everything. We are deeply in your debt. Because of you, at least our ship and our crew are underway and will hopefully reach Gondor."

Ráma grunted as she hastily began to pack her belongings in her saddlebags. She looked up several times, as if watching for unwelcome company. Observing this, Airefalas stood tall and began to scan the horizon. But he could see little but a few birds in the sky. He turned back as Ráma spoke briefly again. "Get ready," she said. "We're leaving."

"Wait," cried Mithadan. "We left Umbar in...a bit of disarray, shall we say. In order to secure the departure of our vessel, a portion of the docks were...well, burned."

Ráma's eyebrows rose at this. A shadow of a smile crept over her face. "Burned?" she asked. "You set fire to the docks?"

"Well, my crew did," replied Mithadan. "It was part of our plan. The docks and the corsairs were to be set ablaze..."

"The corsairs as well?" she cried. She could no longer conceal her glee at the thought of the embarassment Falasmir had suffered. "Perhaps I underestimated you two." She lifted the saddlebags to the back of her horse. "Well, let's go."

"You do not understand," cried Airefalas. "While we took great care in fleeing Umbar, it is possible that Falasmir will seek us out on land as well as pursuing the Star on the seas."

Mithadan nodded. "We evaded our guards in the market," he added. "Then we encountered some bandits. By the time we dispatched them, the docks were burning. While I do not think we were seen leaving Umbar, it will be known that we had little time to reach the docks before our ship sailed. It might be best if we avoided the roads north for a time, particularly in the company of a caravan. Perhaps we could accompany you back to your home? Then we could leave later when we are certain that any search will have ceased. It would also give me time to inquire about my friend Bird..."

If he hoped that the mention of that shapechanger might again ignite the sympathy Ráma had shown before, he was disappointed. "I am sorry, she answered. "You seek your missing friend, and I would help you if I could. But in times like these, my clan wants no outsiders. You will be safer in the north." With that, she had cantered ahead, keeping a good distance between herself and the Gondorians in hopes of forestalling further discussion.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Pio's post - Mu'sad and Nizar

Mus’ad’s hold on the crumbly rock was precarious at best. And when he craned his neck far over the thin sandstone ledge to better see the scene below it vanished altogether. The small light brown lizard scrambled for purchase on the sandy scree along the lip of the shelf without luck and fell silently over the edge. Mid fall he spied Tinar lurking behind a rock, his eyes fixed on the two men on camels.

‘Sand and sun!’ the lizard thought wildly as he plummeted toward the men. ‘Don’t let me fall in the path of the camels; I’ll be crushed!’

Some desert spirit or perhaps fate itself was kindly disposed to his plea. The camels moved forward, and with a plop, Mus’ad fell onto the lacings of a pack. Head swimming from the dizzying fall, he hastened up the leathery side and scrambled into the dark interior, his head just peeking over the top to get his bearings.

As the men and camels moved away from the caves, he could see the small sparrow as it took wing to follow them.

~*~

The dun colored pigeon hopped back and forth nervously on the limb of the scrubby tree. Mus’ad had been gone too long to Nizar’s liking. He heard the soft clop of camel’s feet moving away from the caves. And then came the quick flight of a small brown bird climbing high and peering below to watch something that moved along the ground.

Nizar’s head bobbed back and forth wondering what he should do. Follow Tinar! he could hear Herself growling at him. With a determined leap, the little pigeon launched himself into the air and flapped mightily after the sparrow . . .

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Incompetent fool! Wyrma thought derisively after her meeting with Falasmir. He does not even know that the captain and his first mate were not on the ship that escaped. She would have to find a way to use that information to her advantage.

Her mind wandered back in time, seeing Falasmir as he had been many years ago when they first met. A young and dashing prince he had appeared to her, with courage and daring, though rash and boastful at times. Yet in the past years, after the great war, he had grown idle and mindful only of his own pleasure. Too much food and drink had robbed his body of its former strength, and he spent more time with his many wives than with his warriors. No wonder even the once feared Umbarian ships had lost their threat; without control and leadership, their men lacked discipline.

Her thoughts turned again to the Northerners and the tale of a Shapechanger they had met; were they spies who could endanger her people? Was it chance that they had not travelled with the “Lonely Star” or did they have plans for more than just trading? So many questions and no satisfactory answers; well, it was good to have someone keeping on their track. If only it had been a more experienced Maenwaith, not Tinar. At least Kor and his companion will be reliable, she thought, even if Mu’sad and Nizar should fail in their task.

Her musings were interrupted by a discreet knock at the side door. Elsta entered upon receiving permission. The maid bowed her head deferentially, then asked, “Will you receive Galandor this evening?”

The very distraction I need! Wyrma thought, and answered, “Yes, he is welcome to come.” Her current favourite had been carefully chosen; as Falasmir’s right hand, he had considerable influence in Umbar. She had nurtured his secret ambitions and fostered the veiled rivalry between him and the ruler, binding him to herself with tantalizing hints of future power, as well as with her considerable skill and experience in giving a man pleasure when it served her purposes. Perhaps his time will come sooner than he thinks, she mused, and then the door opened once again…

[Estelyn Telcontar]

The sparrow’s wings moved laboriously; Tinar was finding it difficult to keep up with the camels, and maintaining the shape he had chosen taxed his strength more than he wanted to admit even to himself. The hot desert air felt like a blanket, suffocating him as it arose from the glaring sand and offering resistance to every movement. He knew that he could not go on like this indefinitely. If only I could rise to the high wind currents, he thought, they would carry me faster and with less effort. But a sparrow could not fly higher than he flew now.

He spread his wings as far as possible, concentrating on size and strength with all of his might. After a few moments, when he thought that he must plummet from the sky out of weakness, he felt himself rising, soaring upwards to heights that made him dizzy from the strain, the thinner air, and the excitement. He hardly dared look down to see what shape he had taken and concentrated instead on scanning the miles ahead of the riders to see where they could be heading.

There, on the horizon was a speck of green! They would certainly be going there, if the third person was indeed a desert dweller who knew her way in the uncharted seas of sand. He moved his wings faster and, pushed by the current of wind that carried him in that direction, soon reached the oasis, circling over it to be sure that no other travellers were there before landing. Under the welcome shade of a palm, he was finally able to relax from the strain and take on his human form again. Gasping for breath, he drew water from the well and drank in deep gulps. He would have a few hours to sleep before the others arrived. Mindful of the fact that he could be in danger if found in this shape, he sought a hollow on the far edge and lay down exhausted. He fell asleep almost instantly.

[piosenniel]

Mus'ad and Nizar

. . . flap . . . wheeze . . . pant . . . pant . . . flap . . .

‘Oof!’ gasped the struggling pigeon as he strove to keep the sparrow in sight. The poor bird was knackered by this point, chuffing in desperation. His wings felt nearly beat to shreds in the increasing heat and movement of the rising thermals.

A strangled squawk escaped his parched throat as the sparrow took on another form and climbed higher. There was no hope now of keeping the quarry in sight as Tinar took off. In a moment of penetrating thought, indeed, brilliant insight, on Nizar’s part he reasoned that if he could just keep on with following the northmen he was bound to find Tinar . . . or so he hoped . . .

In the distance, he could just see the camels. They had slowed down a bit, come side by side as the riders passed a skin of water among themselves, and chewed on something one had taken from their pack. With a determination born of nothing other than he saw no other course open to him, he headed for the group of men.

‘Please, please, please,’ came the muttered mantra as he flew. ‘Don’t let them start up again until I can get nearer.’

And again, whatever favorable spirit had decided to tip the scales in the hapless brothers’ favor, Nizar saw them come to a complete halt and one of the riders dismount. ‘A call of nature!’ thought the little bird, his thoughts brightening. ‘Let’s hope he’s taken several long pulls at the water skin and will be a while.’

By the time the man remounted, Nizar had pulled close enough to catch up with the last camel as they started off again. Their backs were to him as he plummeted down, tail feathers all topsy-turvy. Changing midway into his beetle shape, he spread the thin membranes of his wings and shimmied down toward figure of the last rider. His legs caught on the man’s collar, wings brushing against the fellow’s neck. The rider jerked his head and flicked at the spot where something had grazed his skin. Nizar tumbled down the man’s back toward the pack secured to the side of the camel’s hump. The poor beetle fell thunk on his back, spindly legs waving wildly in the dark interior of the pack.

‘Quit yer scrabbling! Be quiet!’ hissed a low, familiar voice just to his right. Nizar blinked his buggy eye, bringing the shadowy figure better into focus.

‘Mus’ad!’ he chittered in relief. ‘Is that really you?’

[Nerindel]

Sorona

Sorona circled once then twice before, she left the Maenwaith in her cave. She repeated the word “Maenwaith!” letting it roll comfortably off her tongue; it had come to her the minute the leopard had transformed before her very eyes into a young desert woman. The transformation had not surprised her as she knew it should have, instead it had brought a warm familiarity. The young Maenwaith’s gold-flecked eyes brought with it yet another long buried memory, the image of two young women, one resembling closely the Maenwaith before her and the other a little taller with darker hair dancing and laughing merrily at the others happy song, both free and unburdened. However, that memory brought with it a deep and regretful sorrow, which ached her heart. She now found herself glancing at her feathered outstretched wings. ‘Was I once that dark haired carefree young woman? Were this woman and her people the ones she was to find?’

She had tried to explain who she was and why she was here to the young woman in the cave, but having not spoken to anyone but birds for nearly two decades it had proved near impossible. The words had come out in a jumble of eagle squawks, distant resurfacing desert tongues and several other tongues she had learned to understand during her travels in the northlands. Nevertheless, she thought she had managed to convey at least her name and that she was not a threat if nothing else. The young woman, who at first had seemed guarded and wary, had relaxed and she had found herself desperately wanting to tell her about the dream and the young merchant in the city, hoping to unburden herself and return north to the comfort of the mountains? But the longer she had stayed in the cave the more her own caution had set in; after all, she did not know this woman no matter what memories she roused in her.

“No” Sorona thought shaking her feathered head, as she flew. “This is silly it is a dream nothing more!” She scolded herself, “there are no…….” her words trailed to a terrified gasp, as in the hazy heat straight ahead on the eastern horizon a city rose into view, the city in her dreams! Without another thought, she wheeled around, nervously glancing up into the blue skies as if half expecting a dark shadow to pass at that instant blocking out the light of the sun. She headed back in the direction of the Maenwaith Woman, Rama she had named herself. The young woman had spoken of her clan, inviting her to journey with her. There at least will be others, elders perhaps who would better understand and know what to make of her dreams, she thought.

“If even they believe me!” she muttered to herself

As she sped in the direction that Rama had told her she would be travelling, she found herself more than once wondering if she was losing all grasp of reality. What if the city had simply been a mirage brought on by her confusion and anxiety after all she had just been thinking of it and there it was! Too much of a coincidence to be real, she thought. But the rest the memories and the familiarity they seemed so real that she decided to stay her course to whatever may be or was? Nothing was clear but some how she knew that she must find answers and this woman was her only real link to the hazy past that was surfacing in her mind.

~*~

It was well past noon by the time she found the woman and to her mild surprise, she was not alone, accompanying the desert rider upon great lumbering desert ships were two others. “Not desert people,” she mused, seeing the discomfort of the second rider and they seemed a lot taller even on camelback than the other desert dwellers she had seen. For an instant as she watched the riders, she thought she saw something else, a dark spot dropping from the sky and then it was gone. She hurried on and turned a graceful arch above the riders, giving a high-pitched “Kee-kee-kee” to let Rama know she was there.

The woman raised her head shielding her eyes with her hand and Sorona gave a friendly incline of her head as she passed again, this time noting that the other two riders where men, as they too raise their heads to look upwards. Their grey eyes watching her for a while as she silently glided on the warm currents above them. ‘North men’ she pondered thoughtfully. She felt as if pieces of an intricate puzzle were being laid before her and she could not see how to fit them together. The out of place Umbarian merchants, this young Maenwaith and her Northern companions, the city… She shuddered as the memory of the dream rose again to the forefront of her mind.

She shook the image away and concentrated on trying to remember something that would help her to fit all the pieces of this puzzle together.

[piosenniel]

Mus’ad and Nizar

‘Yes, it’s me,’ whispered Mus’ad, crawling close to his brother. ‘What’s happened to Tinar?’ Nizar explained with an economy of words how he had attempted to follow the sparrow. ‘He was barely keeping up with the men, and to be truthful, I was barely keeping up with the lot of them. And then . . . he changed . . . and I couldn’t keep track of him at all.’

‘You mean the dog form?’ Mus’ad asked, his tongue flicking in and out as he tried to fathom why the pigeon could not keep up with the cur. ‘No, not the dog!’ Nizar whispered what he’d seen. ‘Well, then we’ve lost him, haven’t we?’ the lizard snorted. ‘I thought we could just go along with the men and camels,’ offered Nizar. ‘He seems to be following them.’

‘And what if he’s decided something else, eh?’ asked Mus’ad. ‘Then we’ll be riding who knows how far in this musty pack.’ Nizar watched as his brother twitched his tail in irritation. ‘Best we get off when we can and head back,’ came the lizard.’

‘Head back?!’ squeaked Nizar. ‘What about Wyrma and the job she set us?’

Mus’ad tapped his pads on the side of the back, then his mouth curved up in the semblance of a smile. ‘We’ll go back, collect our things and send her a note by messenger – tell her what you saw and all. Then, we’ll go south toward Latif’s . . . disappear for a while . . . til things cool down.’

A number of hours later, the waterskin was passed round again and the man on whose camel the pack was secured got off to ‘stretch his legs’, he said. The two tiny hitchhikers scrabbled down the side of the pack and onto the camel’s rump. The beast, irritated by the crawly sensation as they moved over his hide, stomped his hind leg and twitched his hindquarters. Lizard and bug lost their purchase on the camel’s backside and went flying off in a falling arc. Not caring now if their presence were known, Mus’ad called out to his brother. ‘Follow me!’

Two pigeons flapped madly toward the city, leaving a surprised and irritated camel behind them.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ráma was not inclined to argue, and had tersely dismissed Mithadan's request to accompany her home, "I am sorry. You seek your missing friend, and I would help you if I could. But in times like these, my clan wants no outsiders. You will be safer in the north." With that, she had cantered ahead, keeping a good distance between herself and the Gondorians in hopes of forestalling further discussion.

For the next several hours, the trio rode through the desert, heading towards an old water hole that lay several leagues distant. Once or twice, when they had stopped to take a break, Ráma glanced over her shoulder and saw the two men quietly conversing. She wondered if they had other ideas in mind than the plan that she had put forward. But that was their personal business. She would have fulfilled her part of the bargain in helping them escape from Umbar. If they wished to lose their guide and ride to certain death on some foolhardy errand, she could do nothing to dissuade them. And being outlanders, they undoubtedly had no more sense than that.

In the distance, she could see the hazy outline of several palm trees fronting on a small water hole. Underneath the trees stood a cluster of wagons and camels, as well as a small flock of goats being herded at the rear of the line. Ráma gave a whoop of joy and galloped forward towards the caravan, leaving Mithadan and Airefalas struggling to catch up. She could not have hoped for better. They were friendly maenwaith who plied the local trade up and down the coast. While their own business did not take them to the far north, they would certainly come in contact with others heading in that direction. More importantly, they did frequent business with her clan and could be trusted. She could even leave money with them to negotiate with the next caravan they encountered to guide the men northward.

Ráma pulled Kyelek up on the far side of the oasis, just below the spot where the caravan was parked. She unsaddled her mount, led him down to the water to drink, and walked over to where the chief tradesman sat. She stopped for an instant, letting her travel pouch and sword slide through her fingers and fall in a heap onto the soft sand underneath the bush. It would not do to approach a friend on business matters with sword in hand.

Then, she went over and sat cross legged on the ground, offering greetings to the trader and inquiring about his wife and children. Within a few moments, the two were deep in negotiation, with Ráma gesturing towards the men of Gondor who had reached the oasis and were getting down from their camels. After a series of exclamations and lively exchanges, the two finally shook hands. The young woman nodded, then rose and retraced her steps, intending to retrieve her sack and pull out the gold pieces she had promised the trader.

Ráma stepped heedlessly forward on the soft sand, bending down and reaching out to pick up the bag. Abruptly, she halted. Under the shaded fringes of the bush, a sand viper reared up out of the sand, a snake of some two feet long with a pallid back and rows of brown spots underneath. Uncurling and hissing, the serpent prepared to rear back and strike. Ráma automatically grabbed for her sword, but it was not there. She had left it beside the bag.

[Ealasaide]

They had been riding for hours, and Airefalas was slowly growing accustomed to the swaying gait of the camel. Although he still would have preferred to pilot a leaky dinghy across a bay in high wind than do what he was doing, he was getting used to the situation. He had not had much experience with deserts, being basically from the water, but so far had found traversing the sea of sand not all that much different in approach from crossing the ocean, except that everything in the desert seemed to have either fangs, spines, or thorns...including their guide Ráma. She was arguably one of the most prickly females he had ever encountered, not that he had expected her to be exactly cuddly.

While he could understand her being a bit defensive toward him, considering how badly he had bungled their first meeting, her dismissive treatment of Mithadan surprised him. He found it a bit insulting and wouldn't be surprised if Mithadan did, too. Nonetheless, he resolved to keep his mouth shut about that, it being of secondary concern to him. His primary concern was the notion of being handed off like so much troublesome cargo to a caravan of northbound traders. That would likely be the first place Lord Falasmir would look for him and Mithadan once he realized that the two of them had not sailed with the Lonely Star. If found, he and Mithadan would be quickly executed, forget the threat of the slave markets. He knew the damage their escape had done to Falasmir's ego and standing in Umbar would not be taken lightly. He wiped a line of sweat from his forehead, wondering if Ráma had considered things from that angle. If she had, she certainly gave no indication to them that she cared. Getting them off of her hands seemed to be her primary and only objective.

Ahead of them, Ráma gave a whoop of joy and galloped off swiftly in the direction of a few palm trees visible in the distance that were already surrounded by a cluster of wagons, camels, and a flock of goats. No doubt it was the caravan of which she had spoken earlier. Her horse quickly outpaced the camels, so by the time Airefalas and Mithadan reached the oasis, she had already dismounted and gone to speak with the chief trader of the group.

Sliding off the back of his camel, Airefalas stretched his back and legs. He was not used to sitting for so long at one time and found his muscles had grown cramped and stiff from inactivity. He very deliberately cracked his neck, then turned to Mithadan, who had dismounted as well.

"I guess this is where we change hands," Airefalas said dryly.

Mithadan nodded. "If the traders will take us. If Falasmir is looking for us to make for Gondor by land, it could prove just as dangerous for these people as it is for us."

"True," agreed Airefalas. "I wonder if Ráma has taken that into consideration. So far it seems the only thing she has considered where we are concerned is how to get rid of us. I'm sure you noticed - as did I - that she made certain to ride well out of speaking distance to us." He turned and looked in the direction in which he had last seen Ráma. "I suppose it would be fruitless to try talking to her again."

Mithadan shrugged. "We have an obligation to try, not just for our own sakes but for those who would travel with us, as well. I have a feeling that if we are captured, next time it won't go so easily with us or with any who seek to assist us. A direct northern path would be foolhardy at best."

"Suicidal at worst." Airefalas glanced up at the wide expanse of sky. "If it were just a matter of navigation, we could strike out on our own, but under the circumstances...." he trailed off with a helpless gesture. "Maybe I should try talking to her."

"Why you?"

"Well, if she's still mad at me for the armoire business back in Umbar - " he shrugged. "Maybe if I groveled a little bit, she might be more sympathetic to our situation."

Mithadan laughed and shook his head. "I don't think that will make any difference, but you're welcome to try."

"You're probably right." Airefalas smiled ruefully. "She'd probably just see that as a sign of weakness. She's a tough little thing." He paused, then shrugged again as Ráma strode back into view. "Aww, I'll give it a go. What's the worst that can happen?"

"Just don't grab her again," cautioned Mithadan with a smile. "You can always make it worse."

"Thanks for the encouragement," Airefalas answered dryly. He turned and walked in Ráma's direction, but, contrary to what he had just said to Mithadan, he had no intention of doing any groveling. What he intended to do was suggest to Ráma that she send him alone into the north with the caravan and take Mithadan with her safely into the south. As captain of the Lonely Star and the main architect of the ship‘s escape, Mithadan’s life was in greater danger than his own. Besides, Falasmir’s men would be looking for two foreigners, not one. If they did catch him, Airefalas figured he could always tell them Mithadan had been killed, misdirect them long enough for his captain to get to safety. After all, Mithadan had a wife and three small children to consider. What did Airefalas have to return to? A career in ruins, a fiancée he had been forbidden to marry, and a brother who had virtually disowned him over a money dispute. Clearly, Mithadan had more to risk. Finally, since Ráma’s anger at them had begun with him, perhaps she would be more kindly disposed to Mithadan on his own. It was worth a try. Squaring both his shoulders and his resolve, Airefalas stepped up to Ráma’s side.

He reached the desert girl just as she bent to retrieve her pack from under a bush. Before he had a chance to say a word, she stopped abruptly and drew back from the bush very slowly, her face filled with fear. Her hand groped for something at her waist that should have been there and wasn't. Her sword? Following her gaze, Airefalas saw the snake barely seconds after she did. He had never seen one exactly like it, but had enough experience with vipers in general to know that this one was ready to strike. Without thinking, he closed his hand around the hilt of his sword.

"Don't move," he ordered Ráma, sliding his sword slowly from its scabbard. She glanced at him anxiously from the corner of her eyes, but remained perfectly still, both of them knowing that any sudden movement could cause the snake to strike. Still moving with excruciating slowness, Airefalas raised his sword. The snake continued to sway dangerously, its tawny eyes fixed, unwavering, on the figure of the girl.

When his sword was in position, Airefalas cut a quick glance at the girl. "When I start my downswing," he said quietly, his voice tense but soothing at once. "It's likely to strike at you, so when I say 'now,' jump backward as quickly as you can. Are you ready?"

"Yes," breathed Ráma.

"Okay...NOW!"

The three of them moved in unison. As Airefalas swung downward with his sword, the snake unleashed its sinuous coils, striking like lightning at Ráma, who scrambled backwards with a surprising speed of her own. The Gondorian's blade caught the snake in midair, severing its head from its body in a single stroke. As the two pieces tumbled harmlessly to the sand, Airefalas cast a worried look at Ráma.

"Are you all right?"

[piosenniel]

Gondor

Security was in high force about the seventh tier of the city. And in fact no one except those of the guard and the Healers were allowed into the sixth level. Piosenniel had made several trips to visit Baran, one each day infact, letting him know she was still trying to see the King. She feared that leaving him to his own devices, the Beorning might elect to make his own way out of the locks by force – confirming his guilt in the minds of the people of the White City.

On the fifth day she was allowed to pass up to the top level. A brief, handwritten note to one of the port guards with whom she was on friendly terms had made its way through a series of hands (she had provided a small pouch of coins to ease the process), until at last the King had seen it and asked that she be shown up to him.

Two well armed guards accompanied her from the entrance to the sixth tier. Her sword and all her knives were laid in a safe bundle in the guardhouse there. And she suffered them to let one of the women Healers from the Houses just across the broad terrace pat her down.

‘Begging your pardon, Mistress,’ the guard had said to her as he escorted her to the room where the Healer waited. ‘But evil times call for watchful eyes. And all that is fair to look upon may hide an evil will.’

‘Just so, good Sir,’ said the Elf as they reached the room. ‘It is wise to trust no one, so that the King might not come to need the services of this Healer’s hands.’

Once done, she and her escort made their way to the White Tower. There were guards positioned at all strategic points about the King’s residence, the Hall of Feasts, and the Tower itself. Most windows she noted were tightly shuttered, and those that were open had guards visible within. The Tower, itself, had men at arms placed in abundance in the great Hall. And as they went up the staircase to the King’s office, she noted guards on each landing. One of the guards announced her to the sentry at the office door, and he in turn passed the word in that she had come.

There was the briefest of smiles on the familiar face that looked up as she entered. He waved short the curtsy she had commenced and motioned her into a chair. ‘No time for formalities, Mistress Piosenniel. I was intrigued by the very brief note you sent. I remembered you had brought the Skinchanger to the party a week ago.’ His brow furrowed for a moment, recalling his talk with Baran. ‘I took him at his word when I met him,’ he went on. ‘And to be truthful, he did not seem someone whose purposes were veiled. Yet, he is the only Skinchanger we knew was present in Minas Tirith during the attempt.’ His grey eyes regarded hers closely. ‘It was as much for his safety that I ordered him locked up and guarded as it was for mine.’

‘And so I thought,’ returned the Elf. ‘Though I would not tell him so. He might seek to prove just how well a Bear can take care of himself.’ Pio leaned forward, toward the King, seeking to say what Baran had told her. The guard just to the side of the King’s chair stepped forward, his hand already on the hilt of his blade, beginning to draw the blade. The Elf leaned back quickly against her own chair’s back, her hands flat on her thighs. Elessar motioned for the man to stand down, saying to Pio that no word of anything spoken in the office would go out of it.

Pio began by relating her own history with Baran, starting with their meeting in the Seventh Star Inn; his knowledge of her good friend Bird; her discussions with him and her assessment of his character when he had come to her home. ‘I truly believe he is from the area round the Carrock, and that he did indeed know Bird. And now seeks to connect with his Skinchanger kin which both he and Bird believed to be in the Southern lands.’

She went on to recount where Baran had been the evening of the attempt and who would vouch for him. And finally she spoke of the two grey cloaked figures he had passed on his way down from the library. The King was quiet as he considered what had been said. ‘I do believe what you have told me is the truth, but can he not offer something concrete I can hang my belief on that he is indeed from the north?’

Elessar raised his brows at her as she laughed, saying that Baran now offered final proof that he was truly from the north. The king shook his head, a slight crimson tinge along his cheekbones, as she told the story of the stumble and the borrowed helm. ‘And I thought I had sworn Gimli to secrecy!’ Elessar said, chuckling in the end at the story. The guard had barely enough time to wipe all traces of a grin from his face and appear to be staring at the wall opposite him when the King turned to look toward him. From her seat, Pio had seen the man’s face, and she now grinned at him, noting the trembling at the edges of his lips as he suppressed his smile.

Elessar took up his pen and pulled a clean sheet of vellum to him when he’d turned back to her. ‘I’ll give you a writ for his release. But it would be best if he did not venture into the city until this all is settled. Can you take him to your house for the while?’ Pio agreed, wondering if Baran would see the need to stay out of sight and out of mind to the citizenry.

‘A moment longer,’ Elessar requested as she took the writ in hand and prepared to leave. ‘The Skinchangers who attacked me were much smaller in their stature than a Beorning. Smaller than most men of Gondor, in fact. And they were olive skinned, dark of hair and eye. One called out to the other in a strange tongue I had not heard before. I had wondered if they might be Southrons.’ Pio nodded as he spoke. ‘Bird is small, and her looks fit those you have just described. Though, I have only ever heard from her one or two words in her native tongue. And long though my travels have been, I had not heard such a language before.’

‘Have you had word of late from The Lonely Star?’

The words were out of both their mouths as if the same thought had occurred to them. ‘None,’ began Pio. ‘Nor I,’ returned the King. ‘I will be interested to hear what Mithadan has learned in his travels south for Gondor. Perhaps once he has returned, his trip successful, he will consider going south once again with some of my men to ferret out what might be the cause of this attempt.’

‘Perhaps,’ she thought to herself. ‘Though the next time I will be with him.’

Aloud, she bade the king farewell and thanks for his time and consideration; saying the Star was expected back very soon and she would tell Mithadan of the King’s request. With a brief curtsy as was the custom, she left the Tower and made her way to the locks to pick up Baran.

[piosenniel]

Gondor - 2 days later; the Star is seen at Pelargir

A number of local smiths and farriers had come down to the dock at Pelargir to meet The Scuppered Gull when she put in. Under the hot sun, skin glistened as the thick-hewed muscles of the men and crew strained to off load the pallets of pig iron from the ship’s hold and distribute them among the large flat bed wagons from the various smithies. The giant draft horses stamped their hooves, impatient to be drawing home their loads.

‘That’s the last of the lot, Sir,’ said Haladan as he and the Captain, Faragaer, watched the final pallet placed carefully on one of the traveling farrier’s wagons. One of the smiths, the one who’d brought his two sons and their wagons waved at the ship and held up three fingers. Haladan nodded yes to him, and held up three fingers in return – in three months they would deliver another load. With a last wave, the Captain and his First Mate turned away from the railing and started to give orders to cast off – there were two smaller deliveries they needed to make before they brought the ship about in the Bay and headed back to Harlond.

From the bow of the Gull came a loud cry, drawing their attention.

A ship was approaching with all the speed she could muster against the current. Her sails were a little tattered as if the captain and crew had sailed in great haste, taking no time for repair. Faragaer shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted at the vessel, catching sight of the banner it bore. ‘The Lonely Star!’ he cried, waving at the crewman that stood at her bow keeping watch. Faragaer and Haladan scanned the deck of the Star as she pulled alongside. The smiles on their faces faded at the sight of the grim-visaged crew. They called out, to ask if the ship needed aid.

‘We cannot stop,’ cried Duilin, shouting across the distance at them as the Star continued its slow progress upriver. ‘We must make all haste to Harlond.’

‘Captain Mithadan,’ called out Faragaer. ‘May I speak with him?’ Faragaer’s mind was troubled at the state of the Star’s crew and vessel. A return home from a long trip usually brought light spirits as a ship made its way back to home port.

Duilin glanced up toward Saelon who stood at the helm, then swung his head back toward the Gull . ‘Not here!’ shouted Duilin as the Star began to pull past the Gull. ‘Nor the First Mate!’ he added anticipating Faragaer’s next request. Haladan’s brow was furrowed as he took in what Duilin had said.

The Star’s stern was already pulling away from the Gull when Faragaer called out for his crew to cast off and the helmsman to bring the ship about. ‘The other deliveries will have to wait a few days. Something has gone quite wrong with the King’s mission to Umbar.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Mithadan and Airefalas . . . both!’

‘Come, Haladan! Let the crew know we are bound back for Harlond and why. We will offer our assistance to Mistress Piosenniel, should she require it . . .’

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Rôg

Rôg listened closely as the two men spoke of the missing incense pot.

“ . . . Could someone else have removed it?” Narayad asked. “It sounds strange, I know, but perhaps someone had a reason for taking it away. You were there, did you see anything?”

“What are you saying?” Surinen asked.

“Only that I am wondering if this fire was truly an accident, or perhaps someone is trying to blame Latah for it. I do not know.”

“Who would try to blame her, Narayad? It doesn’t make sense. The whole encampment knows that she would not do anything to harm the Meldakhar.”

“Still, I would like it to be found… for her sake . . .”

So, he thought to himself, they are also thinking that the fire may not have been an accident! For a brief moment, Rôg considered calling out to them, showing them the incense pot, telling them what he and Aiwendil had discovered and discussed. But the one called Narayad had seen him inch closer and with a glare and a motion of his hand sent him scrabbling backward to the rear of the lean-to.

Rôg thought to speak to Aiwendil about what he’d heard. Weariness, though, had overtaken the old man and he sat leaned against his pack, his head lolling to one side. A low snoring sound issued from the old fellow’s lips, as if a small hive of bees had taken residence in his chest. The young man’s long slender fingers crept toward the pocket into which he’d seen Aiwendil thrust the incense pot.

And were quickly withdrawn as the old man muttered some words and turned slightly for comfort . . .

What seemed a long time passed as Rôg watched him settle back into some dream, his eyes darting beneath closed lids, seeking something. Then Rôg’s hand slid near the pocket’s slit again and dipped in gently, withdrawing the incense pot. A moment of apprehension gripped him when he thrust it into the folds of his own cloak, the lid clanking against the bottom section. Rôg’s eyes darted about fearing that either the old man would awaken or the two guards would have heard. But Aiwendil slept on, mumbling a bit to himself, then settling down once again. The two clansmen had walked away from the lean-to a bit, their heads bent close in conversation, their words now inaudible to those in the lean-to.

Rôg leaned back against his own pack and made an effort to quiet his breathing. Now that he had the damnable item in his possession what was he to do with it? His thoughts raced about in his mind seeking a viable option. It was then his gaze lit on the large open pack that stood just to the side of the small fire.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Narika sighed and stared bleakly over at the bed on which Ayar lay sleeping. Even from this distance, she could hear her mother's breath come in short, ragged gasps. Although Ayar was conscious and in considerably less pain than before, she still looked like a woman burdened with heavy illness, a sickness that would likely claim her life despite all their efforts at remedies and potions.

Narika had salvaged only a few meager belongings from the fire. These had been brought over to Thorn's where she and her mother had been invited to stay until enough skins could be collected to sew a new tent of their own. Thorn had gathered his own family's bedrolls, crowding them together inside the front chamber and leaving the rear one completely empty to accomodate the two women with ample privacy and space.

Still, Narika could not help but feel some discomfort living in the same household with Yalisha. Yalisha had been strictly polite and reserved and had given her no reason to complain. Narika sternly reminded herself to keep her personal feelings under control. With Ayar still too sick to resume leadership of the Eagles, she would have to fill that role, and it would not do to let personal feelings come between her and any of the maenwaith who were members of the clan.

Outside she could hear the usual noises of the camp at mid-morning: children scampering about and playing, mixed in with the bleating of a few stray goats and the hooves of the outriders' mounts as they rode out to check the flocks. Narika rose and walked over to the flap of the tent, staring out across the compound. How could things appear so normal to the eye with everything that had happened in the past few days? Her thoughts strayed back to the two strangers who had approached the encampment the day before. Her natural instinct had been to order them to leave. The old one claimed to be helping her mother, and apparently Ayar had also sensed that in his intentions. But Narika was not so sure. She had a stiff mistrust of strangers. Perhaps, her mother's wakening was the result of her own ministrations combined with Yalisha's herbs, and the two strangers had taken advantage of the situation. This outlander Rôg seemed extremely reluctant to speak about his clan. Once or twice, Thorn had tried to question him, but Rôg had adroitly channelled the discussion in other directions. Perhaps she should go and question him herself, or perhaps she should just toss both the men into the desert without their camel and supplies. If only her sister was here to discuss these things.

In the midst of these reflections, Narika heard a soft voice call out asking for a cup of water. She hurried over to her mother's side and offered her a drink. Ayar's face looked flushed and wan, her eyes gleeming bright with fever. But she had no trouble thinking or speaking clearly.

"You must not worry so, Little Bird," her mother intoned. "It will all work out. I can see mistrust of these strangers written in your face."

"But why are they here? For what purpose have them come? The young one especially. In times like these, I scarcely know who is friend or foe."

"Perhaps so. But those two are no enemy."

Narika shook her head insistently, "Still, I want no more outlanders arriving here. We cannot trust anyone outside the clan." What she did not say out loud was that she was even having doubts about the loyalties of those actually within the clan.

"Wish what you will, Little Bird. There are events we control, and those we don't. And sometimes what we most fear and dislike turns out to be the means of our saving. But, come now," Ayar softly laughed. "Let us speak of those things we can control. There is something I wish you to do for me."

Narika eagerly nodded her head and responded, "Yes, whatever I can."

"Good! I will not be here long with the clan..."

"Mother, you mustn't say that!"

"No, Narika, we must speak the truth. I am ill, very ill. The old man knew what he was saying. But even before that, I could sense my time had come, even as I wandered down strange paths, locked inside my own mind, while the poison raged within my body. It is almost time for me to fly free, to throw off my old form and take on another, more beautiful and freer than what came before. Perhaps someday even to fly with the Great Eagles." Ayar glanced out the open tent flap and caught a glimpse of the skies beyond. " I am not afraid, and neither should you be."

The younger woman opened her mouth as if to protest but Ayar raised a finger and pressed it against her daughter's lips. "None of that now. Rather I have a favor to ask. Ever since you and Thorn clasped hands in front of the elders and spoke your intentions, I have been waiting for the moment when you two would join in front of the clan. Even if I had not fallen sick, I would have wanted that to happen. And I would still dearly wish that to happen while I am still here to see that."

"Your sister should return within a few days. Thorn tells me he left a message with her before leaving the city. I want to see you wed and be certain that the leadership of the clan has come to good hands. Go and speak with your intended. See if he is willing to go to the elders and make arrangements to begin the ceremony as soon as Ráma returns."

"As to the other, the business of these strangers, and the fears you have.... On this too, wait till your sister returns." Ayar looked her daughter squarely in the eye. "I have asked the elders that you and Thorn lead the clan jointly because you have a quiet, steady hand. I am well content with that decision. But your sister has other gifts, gifts that go back to a distant age when at least some of our people cooperated with other free folk to stand against the shadow. As long as Ráma is here, you must take time to listen to her advice. The final choice on clan matters belongs to you and Thorn, but promise me that you will heed her counsel and weigh it in the scale."

Narika sadly nodded her head, "I will speak with Thorn, and dwell on what you have said."

With that, Ayar fell back onto her pillows exhausted, and was soon deep in sleep.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Thorn

It had gone smoother than expected discussing with the elders the prospect of a ceremony to mark their union. Much smoother, than the debate about the clan’s two guests, and what was to be done with them. But when it had been settled all were in agreement that Narika and Thorn should wait for Ráma to arrive in order for her to play her customary role in the rite. And though Narika’s sister would be the only member of her family to participate fully, they planned that it would be held in Ayar’s viewing, as soon as convenient for Ráma. But all were in accord that this union should be made to happen as soon as possible, for the good of the clan as much as at the wish of Ayar. For though it was not touched upon, Ayar’s illness pervaded their thoughts.

And when Thorn returned to the tent and told his leader of the elders’ decision, she smiled to know that this would now take place soon, and her daughter would not be alone in the leadership of her people. But Narika was strangely quiet, and after Ayar had closed her eyes to rest, Thorn drew her gently aside and learned that her mother spoke of taking her final form, laying her body aside to fly unhindered. And the call to assume their place in the clan would soon fall upon them, without her guidance.

These things weighed heavily on them as together they sat and planned what course to follow in the coming days. Thorn pledged to Narika that he would not return to Umbar, but would stand by her side with their people, though he knew he risked the wrath of those persons of standing there, if they knew what had come to pass, and if they suspected he had not merely been a trainer of Falasmir’s horses. But someone else must be found to fill this task in the Lord of Umbar’s palace, and that without the clan’s knowledge. For few knew of Ayar’s decision to keep on eye on the their neighbors to the west, and her actions to gain knowledge of the strong winds that began in the great city and swept across the desert plains threatening to push this people further east if it could not scatter or destroy them. And they named many who might be entrusted with this mission, but could not come up with any one maenwaith who they felt might be willing to leave their kin, forever to live in the city, as servant of Falasmir. And so they put that problem aside, and turned their attention again to the puzzle presented by the two strangers.

[piosenniel]

Rôg

Rôg woke with a start. He’d fallen asleep it seemed and now his mind was fuzzy with details of some dream he’d had. He knuckled his eyes, pushing the weariness from him, and yawned widely. It was mid-day in the camp; the clan was about its daily business. Familiar sounds drifted into the little lean-to . . . people calling out to one another as they passed, the sound of horses tethered at a nearby picket line, the voices of little ones flying among the tents.

Aiwendil was nowhere to be seen. ‘Gone with Narayad,’ Surinen told him in the common tongue. ‘To relieve himself.’ A voice called out to Surinen calling him a short distance away. It looked to be an outrider with some news to share. Rôg leaned back against his pack, thinking about what his family would be doing this time of day. The sounds of the camp tugged at him, reminding him sharply of how much he missed his own clan. At the first opportunity he would leave, he told himself, once he knew the old man was safe here. He cast his eyes about in the bright light of mid-day and began making plans. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of whisperings and shh’s near the backdrop of the leant-to.

~*~

‘Miri! Come on! Papi will have our hides if he knows we’re here!’ The frantic whisper of some young boy’s voice was followed by the sounds of a brief tussle.

‘Leave me be! I just want to see them!’

Rôg looked back in time to see a pair of little brown eyes peering under the edge of the lean-to’s covering. He smiled at them and winked, watching as the covering lifted higher and the grinning face of a small girl peeked in. Her gaze was openly curious; no fear shown in her eyes. She wriggled the rest of herself into the lean-to and stood up, looking the seated stranger up and down. Unthinking the words popped from her mouth. ‘You don’t look like some scary monster,’ she whispered, poking him on the cheek with an outstretched finger to see if he were indeed real.

Her eyes went wide, her lips forming an ‘O!’ of surprise as a delicate blue butterfly now clung to her outstretched finger and wiggled its antennae at her. And just as quickly changed back to the seated man. ‘Not a monster,’ he whispered to her, his grin matching hers. ‘I’m Rôg, little one. And who are you?’

‘Miri,’ she said aloud, then clapped her hands over her mouth. ‘Miri,’ she whispered back at him. She leaned in close to him. ‘I love butterflies,’ she confided. ‘Show me how to do that . . . please.’ He looked at her curiously, wondering how she could not do this simple change yet. Taking her hands in his he had her remember how the butterflies she’d seen looked and acted, and when she had one favorite fixed firmly in her mind, he taught her the little rhyme he’d learned as a boy from his parents.

She landed in the palm of his hand, testing her wings then by flying up to his forearm. He whispered the rhyme for changing back, watching as she fluttered down from his arm to land back on her own two brown little feet. They were in the midst of him telling her about the dangers she must understand that faced butterflies, her eyes intent on his words as she shook her head in understanding, when a gruff voice interrupted them . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

At the exact instant when Miri sat perched on Rôg's palm and then slipped back from butterfly to human form, Narika's messenger Kron threw open the tent flap and stared incredulously at the scene playing out in front of him. What was this outsider doing with one of the children? How dare he sit there and prod the child to do such a reckless thing with none of the elders present?

Kron's fingers strayed to the hilt of his sword as he snapped out a stern rebuff, "You there, stranger! Get back! What are you doing? I can see I've arrived just in time!" Then he turned a stern eye on Miri and pushed her hastily towards the tent flap, "Out of here now! You and the other children stay away! Or I'll have a word or two to say to your folks."

The young girl shook her head and started to object but was maneuvered outside by the messenger who quickly turned his attention back to Rôg. "You're to come with me," Kron barked impatiently. "My mistress Narika wishes to have a word with you. And none too soon, I think." With that, Rôg was roughly thrust out the door, not to the tent where Ayar was staying but to another that stood close by.

As they approached the chosen tent, Rôg could just make out a bit of what was happening inside. Narika was apparently deep in conversation with Thorn; Rôg had the oddest sense that the two may not have been in total agreement. Once the men came inside, Kron turned towards Narika and hastily described what he had witnessed between Rôg and the young girl Miri, adding his own grim assessment. "He might have crushed her in his palm. For all I know he was about to do that at the moment I arrived."

Narika threw a knowing glance at Thorn and then turned a stern face towards Rôg, "I am not accusing you of harming the girl. But it is not our custom to teach such a young child how to shift shapes. In fact, I know of no clan that can teach skills like this to youngsters. "

"Even before I heard this, I was suspicious of you. Thorn and I spoke with each of the Elders. Not a single one can recall a young maenwaith who goes by the name of Rôg, and we find that very strange indeed. I am a mistress of lore and have heard the names called at the festivals year after year for each of the clans, but the name of Rôg was mysteriously absent. I do not forget such things. How do you explain this? From what clan do you come?"

Narika glared over at Rôg. For all she knew, the young maenwaith was in league with Wyrma, although even this would not explain the absence of his name from the list. Narika had spent years studying the names with Ayar, and she was certain that she could not be mistaken on this point. Plus, for all her high-handedness, Wyrma had not dared to interfere with that custom of the calling of the role. Even the folk in Wyrma's clan were included in the naming. Narika suddenly had the uncomfortable feeling that this unassuming young man might possibly have a greater importance than she had first thought likely.

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Pio's post - Rôg

The Loremaster! No wonder she could tell such lovely stories . . . He recalled her, for a moment, the fire lighting her features as she told stories to her clan . . . their faces eager as the words wove on . . .

Kron threw a menacing look Rôg’s way, breaking his momentary idyl.

The young man hauled his attention back to what Narika had said to him. Something about the girl, Miri. His brow furrowed as she talked on, her words fading to a low buzz on the outskirts of his mind. Not our custom . . . rang like a warning bell in his thoughts and something about no one teaching such skills to youngsters. ‘Fur and feathers!’ he mumbled to himself. ‘Apparently I’ve overstepped some bounds!’

Flustered, his cheeks crimson, he babbled a rather incoherent apology when he realized she’d quit speaking. Looking up as his words fell into silence, he saw they were all looking at him in a perplexed manner. Expecting some sort of answer, he thought. His mind raced furiously, trying to piece together the questions he’d only half heard. He gave it up after a brief search. And instead blurted out the question that now occupied his mind.

‘But Miri has a young one’s eager confidence, and she has the gift. How can you not teach her to use it when she asks?’

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Hilde Bracegirdle's post - Thorn:

As he listened to Narika speak, Thorn considered Rôg more closely. Indeed he looked as though he might be a city dweller, his finely formed hands out of place in this rugged and dusty clime, and the gold stud in his ear. Thorn could not recall having seen any bearing this particularly placed and shaped jewelry in all his years in Umbar and he began to wonder if this maenwaith might be from the far eastern lands. But Rôg knew their tongue, and this in itself was enough to cause Thorn to feel need of caution. How would he know this, and why? But why also should he make no secret of it?

As rapidly as the shadows of birds drift across the desert floor, the changing expressions crossed the face of the man before him. Thorn and the others waited patiently for Rôg’s answer to Narika’s questions, and Thorn heard Kron groan as a red-faced Rôg, finally gave voice to something decidedly indecipherable that trailed off weakly before he asked what Thorn could only term a rather bold question under the circumstances.

Thorn drummed his fingers slowly on the mat were he sat. “We do not teach them these things,” he finally spoke after a weighty silence, “because though they are confidant, children are also fearless and do not yet understand their responsibilities to the clan. Too reckless they are for their own safety and that of the encampment,” he paused glancing at Narika. But he would not say what lay foremost in his mind. For generations the Eagle clan had discouraged such things, and would protect the children, so that outsiders who would use them for their own purposes might not seek them out. Outsiders perhaps like this one, though he himself did not seem a threat to them. But how had he taught Miri this thing so quickly? “Surely your own clan feels this way also?” He questioned, again leading the conversation back to Rôg. “For if the young were left to themselves, the clan would be nothing but butterflies and grasshoppers. And the youth would expend all their forms on the things that fascinate them, never considering their usefulness. If little Miri has but one form she can take in her life, is she now with your teaching simply to be a butterfly?”

But Thorn could see that Rôg seemed puzzled by this, and sought to press him further. “Or perhaps this is why you do not speak of your own people and your name is unfamiliar to us?” Thorn prodded him. “Is your clan no more living together in the safety of their encampment? Or are they now scattered, sunning by the wells and crawling under the stones?”

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Child's post - Narika:

As Thorn’s sharp words came tumbling out, a stubborn knot formed inside Narika’s stomach. Narika was surprised to find herself suddenly reliving snatches of a conversation similar to one from years before when she had directed a stern warning at her own more reckless twin. They had been young children. Narika had forgotten the incident, or at least pushed the shadowy memory under a curtain where it would not be so obvious. But Thorn's words had brought back the hazy scene and again confirmed her personal belief that these things must be handled in a certain way, both for the safety of the child and the well being of the clan.

Narika glanced up at Thorn with pride and interlaced her delicate fingers gently with his own. Thorn was right. Too much uncertainty lay down this path. Skills like shape changing should be reserved for those past adolescence, young men and women who at least understood what they were doing and would not foolishly take on forms deemed useless to the clan. Even without the threat of Wyrma and her kind, the desert demanded complete allegiance from those who dwelled within its bounds. If the needs of the clan were laid aside on some childish personal whim, their entire way of life could be endangered as surely as if Wyrma had pointed the tip of a sword at the very heart of the clan.

Narika tried to intercede as peacemaker, smoothing things over with politeness while still honoring Thorn's somber tone, “Rôg, Thorn's words are harsh, but surely he is right. Your clan can not leave such things to chance. Forms are too precious, too rare, and must be saved until young people understand the needs of the clan. I am just nineteen; I fear that too soon Thorn and I will be asked to lead the Eagles. Still, only five years ago, I first learned how to control my shape, and I was the youngest to do so among our people.” Narika hesitated a moment, and then softly added. “My twin sister Ráma still has not learned to do such things. Yet even such a late start is preferable to having young children race about the encampment, shifting willy-nilly to any form they please without thought of the consequences.”

Narika glanced away and stared fixedly at the ground. When she spoke, her voice was low, almost apologetic, "I know the legends speak of other ways of doing things, but we are under threat of attack from our own people. The cursed clan of the great wyrms, headed by that villain Wyrma, would force us to leave the desert and go live in a prison that she calls a great city. We must do everything we can to stop that. Miri will be told not to repeat her mistake. She will wait until she's older and understands what her people need. Surely your own clan must feel Wyrma’s threat, and will respond by sheltering the children, and training your young men and women to stand up to danger. Or I fear, just as Thorn says, that your folk will not fare well in the end. " She looked towards the stranger expectantly, waiting for his reply.

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Pio’s post – Rôg

Rôg sucked in his breath, in disbelief at what the two were saying, were asking. He shook his head, brow furrowing at their words. He could not recall the Elders of his clan speaking of this, nor his parents warning him to be careful about the children of the Eagle clan. He had simply assumed that all clans followed the same basic patterns . . . Eagle children would be taught as he had been, though in their own particular way, using their own rituals.

For a moment, he was stunned into silence, then, recollecting himself, he sat down with an ungraceful thunk on the mat opposite the two and rested his chin on his hand, his elbow planted firmly on his knee. After a brief span, he began to speak, his voice clear in the tent, his eyes focused on the floor before him, as if his answers to the questions they had posed were written there.

‘My clan . . . no, we do not sit and sun ourselves by wells or crawl beneath rocks, seeking the coolness hidden there.’ He smiled up briefly at them as he went on. ‘But we could, if that were necessary to keep us safe.’

‘And no, for a measure of time now we have not all lived together in the same encampment.’ How much should I tell them? he wondered.

‘I am just forty-one now, my clan has been dispersed here in the south for the most part since I was five, and a very few of us went further west - all of us escaping the lengthening Shadow that reached out during those times. The Elders, though, have kept watch all this while on our homeland. And now that the Shadow has withdrawn, been defeated, so I have heard by the Southern King, we are going back to where we came from.’ He looked up to see if they were following what he said.

‘A number of our clan, my family included, have been living further south from your present encampment. Where the mountains come down to the sea. We are traders, and have passed near your camps many times during the cycles of the years.’ He pointed to a small axe that stood near the little pile of wood near the tent’s doorway. ‘My father probably made that, or his brother. I recognize the design. And that small basket there with the spiral designs picked out in red is most likely from the hands of one of my mother’s sisters. We came to know you through our contact with you, and were glad that you saw us as nothing other than traders with good, serviceable items for daily use. We were hidden as it were in plain sight.’

‘As children, my sister and I played with a number of the Eagle young ones whenever we came to trade, though as I recall we only called each other Eagle boy or Eagle girl and Trader boy or Trader girl in return. We spoke the trading language for the most part, but often the Eagle children would teach us poorer cousins the Eagle dialect.’ Rôg smiled at this remembrance. ‘And not a few times that came in handy when I was older and kept the tallies. Not all Eagles were above trying to cheat the ignorant traders just a bit.’ He paused, wondering if he should go on. Narika and Thorn were looking at him with hooded eyes, their faces guarded,. Curiosity on his part overcame caution, and he continued on. He wanted to understand what they had just told him about their clan.

‘I did not understand you when you said that forms are far too precious and rare. You term yourselves maenwaith . . . skilled folk. How is it you can think yourselves limited? Miri has just had a taste of the skill of changing; she has no limits right now. What limits must you put on her? And why? Do your Elders not teach the little ones? Guide them?’ Rôg was quite frankly appalled as the realization struck him that the nurturing of the childrens’ skill was not at the center of the Eagle clan’s needs. It seemed all turned round to him.

‘I do not know this Wyrma,’ he went on, finding the name distasteful as he said it; the thought of maenwaith turning against maenwaith a jarring one. ‘To be truthful I have been away a number of years from my clan, on their business and my own. Is it because of this person and her designs that you have grown so cautious? Or has your clan always been so?’

He leaned forward, looking closely at each of them.

‘Where are your Elders?’ he asked again. ‘The ones who remember, who have the skill.’ He looked at them with troubled eyes. ‘You two are so young . . . Where are they? Will they not guide you through this?’

Rôg sighed heavily as he leaned back again.

‘You wondered,’ he said in a low voice to Narika, his words drifting into the silence between them, ‘if my folk will fare well in the end. I wonder, in turn, if yours will fare at all.’

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

Child's post for Narika:

"Our elders?" Narika queried. The woman shook her head and put her hand up to her mouth, trying to force back a chuckle. She chose to ignore Rôg's final comment as a slow smile spread over her face. "I do not understand what you mean. Where else would the Elders be? With us, of course. Here in the encampment. They are busy tending the beasts and doing other chores. A few, too ill to work, sit by the fire and help to amuse the little ones or else lean back against the great sand hills and stare off into the sky, searching the heavens for a sign of the Great Eagles who no longer grace our camp."

"It is true that there are fewer left than we would like. The great troubles at the end of the last Age took a dreadful toll. Many are missing: especially among the wise and strong who were then in the prime of their years. So Thorn and I, and the other young ones who escaped the carnage, do our best to lead. But we would not be here, not any of us, unless the clan Elders had played their part in hiding the children and many of the young married women who were of childbearing age. For there were horrors in the last war from which no one was safe. Even the most skillfull shifters wearing their most fiercesome forms sometimes found themselves helpless and the only safety was in flight or concealment"

An awful thought flitted through Narika's brain as she weighed the meaning of Rôg's words. What sort of a clan would force the Elders to go off by themselves? Perhaps this tangled tale of a single clan split asunder with some maenwaith wandering here while others stayed in a different place was just an elaborate excuse to disguise the face that the Elders had been thrust away from the clan to fend on their own once their physical skills had diminished.

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

Hilde's post for Thorn:

Thorn was also troubled by much of what Rôg had said, and sat trying to piece together the fragments of information he had just learned. “I also do not understand,” he said after a few moments. “You speak as if being one of the maenwaith we should realize a multitude of shapes. But this is not so and never has been so, to my knowledge.” He turned again to Narika to see if she would speak differently, for she had greater understanding of past ages. But merely returning his glance, he felt gentle pressure as she squeezed the palm of his hand. And feeling encouraged by her presence, he went on. “We have a mere handful we master, three or four at most.” Then remembering Ráma, he added, “And these only if we are fortunate enough to discover them.”

Truly, if he had not seen Rôg’s transformations for himself, and known of his tutoring the child, Thorn would have disbelieved that the man who sat across from him was one of his kind. He seemed to have the most peculiar notions, for Thorn had never heard of such things before now. "Are you saying then, that your kin do not have such limitations? That would indeed be remarkable! And if that is the way of it, I can now see how innocent your infraction must have appeared to you. But to us, and to Miri, it is a great disservice,” he looked at his hands and sighed. “But even so, through your ignorance, you have added the beauty of this carefree creature to our encampment.”

Raising a knee to his chest and resting his hand on it, Thorn explained in a more relaxed manner, “Know that the people of this clan have in earlier times been more gracious hosts, even if they might have sought to cheat the foolish,” he grinned, his brown eyes sparkling. “For we have not always had need of this type of wariness, not of our own kind, and I apologize if our reception of you has been less than welcoming. But not all maenwaith have been as your people. And we do not rest easily while our paths lead us so close to the Wyrm and her followers. Yes, she is the cause of our apprehension. But if our clan wishes to remain free to roam with our flocks, we must be careful in these times, though it no doubt appears hard to you. Perhaps one day, when Wyrma has failed in her ambitions, as she must, we will all enjoy a greater freedom. For it is not natural for any maenwaith to be so bound.”

But deeming that he had spoken rashly, Thorn quickly continued, “You have said that when you were a child you had been in our camp…. Truly, I do not recall you or your kin, since your people no doubt left before I had learned to speak, for I am now perhaps only thirty, and the memories of my childhood are filled with the threat of Haradrim raids and not the more pleasant pursuits of childhood. But that is of little consequence. This basket and axe are well made and have been in my family’s service for a many years, and the craftsmanship evident in them speaks favorably of your family and their handiwork.”

“But what was the name your clan was known by? And how is it that you mention your Elders, yet they have not kept your clan together? I would guess that old man accompanying you may well be one of them, so surprisingly tall and pale he is. He must be held a great hero among your people!”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pio’s post – Rôg

‘She misunderstands me,’ he thought to himself, as Narika spoke. ‘And so does he.’

Rôg sat very still, trying to understand, himself, what the two were saying. He was not one to dissemble easily, and a myriad of emotions ran helter-skelter cross his face. He started to protest a certain level of horror at what they had revealed to him, but stopped himself before a word left his lips. He took a deep breath, recalling some instruction his mother had given at the start of his journey:

‘Don’t give yourself airs, son, when you meet new people. Just answer their questions as fully as you can. And pay attention to what they say back to you in return. Don’t be bound by what you think about things; people have other ways of solving their own problems that work quite well for them, if not for you.’

‘I beg your forgiveness for my harsh and hasty words,’ he began. ‘And your indulgence for my actions, as far as the little one goes. She is of course an Eagle clan member, and you have your own ways.’ His brow furrowed for a moment as he searched for the best way to begin. ‘My clan, too, has its own way, and I must say it did not occur to me that others of the maenwaith could be so different.’ He chuckled a bit to himself. ‘Eagles, in the wilds of those places I have traveled, I can speak long on . . . their varying types and habits, but of the Eagle Clan, I will say, now, I know very little.’

He turned toward Narika. ‘I saw you a number of days ago. Before I met Surinen and Narayad in their outrider camp. It must have been just before the Meldakhar was taken ill, I think. The camp seemed peaceful enough, though I noted many of the men were armed within its boundaries . . . and it was evening time. Most were gathered about a fire and you were telling them stories. Your voice was lovely and the faces of the young and old were rapt as you spoke the words of the old stories. It made me very homesick.’

‘I have been away a very long time from my clan and family. Partly from my own choosing. I wanted to see what lay beyond the sands and mountains; I wanted to pursue my study of birds . . . not just birds . . . but all winged creatures.’ He smiled briefly. ‘I find them quite interesting.’

‘But I was also asked by my clan leader to seek out any of our clan who had gone west when the Shadow of late rose once again and stretched his grasping hands eastwards. I was to let them know that the Elders felt the threat of the Dark One had passed and that we would be safe now in our homeland. There was no fear now that he might use us in any way for his dark purpose. We could all come home.’

Rôg paused for a moment, taking a sip of tea from the mug Narika had passed him. He cleared his throat a bit and went on. ‘When I spoke of your Elders, Narika, I did not mean your old people – your grandfathers and grandmothers who live here among you. Many of my clan’s old ones also choose to stay among their families and are honored for their contributions to the clan and their wisdom. But some old ones choose a life apart from the clan encampment - in the caves that lie in the mountainsides of the range that protects our home land. They live long lives, wanting for nothing and content with their own company.’ He saw the perplexed looks on the faces of Thorn and Narika.

‘They do not abandon us, nor do we shy away from them. They are the ones who remember for us. Various of them come in often to tell the old stories; share the old teachings and rhymes, remind us of the namings and the lines of our clan. They take the children in hand and play the games with them that quicken their understanding of their skills. Our parents, of course, are our first teachers, but the Elders help us deepen and enlarge our abilities.’

‘They also advise the clan leader. And it was they, in fact, who first understood the danger of the Dark One laying hands on us. It would be a very bad thing to happen if the Shadow were to pervert our kind.’ He nodded his head slightly at this thought, wondering if something of this sort were what was happening to these southern clans. ‘At any rate, they sent us out to hide and be safe, and now they call us back.’

He raised his eyebrows at Narika. ‘I heard you speak of the Great Eagles – are they your Elders, as I have spoken of mine? Are they near? Do they not come down to help you in times of need?’ She only looked at him, saying nothing.

Rôg stretched out his back muscles and leaned forward, elbows planted on his knees as he sat cross legged, chin resting on his steepled fingers. ‘Now about Miri . . .’ He looked directly at Thorn. ‘I do not understand why you are limited to three or four forms. You say you cannot remember any of your clan ever having this ability. How can this be? My clan and yours are both maenwaith, and logically it would seem . . .’ Careful! he reminded himself. They have their own ways that serve their purposes. Rôg shrugged his shoulders as if throwing off this line of thought. ‘Perhaps . . . we should just agree that we each have our own traditions, and leave it at that.’ He shook it his head slightly. Such a waste of skill, though, he thought to himself.

‘Let me answer instead, the last questions you asked me, Thorn.’ He smiled as he continued - the thought of Aiwendil as one of his Elders was an amusing one. He wondered what the old man would think of Thorn’s reasoning. ‘Aiwendil is my traveling companion. We met up north, at one of the encampments of the Nimîr, the Beautiful Ones . . . Elves as they are called there in the Common Tongue. We have a shared interest in birds and I promised to bring him south to see the different varieties here. He is . . . not of my clan. And to be truthful, I know little of his history.’

And what I have heard from him, you would scarce believe! he thought to himself. I hardly can believe he speaks with a clear mind myself, sometimes . . .

‘He is a gentle and learned man. A . . . surprising fellow at times. And he is elder to me, so I serve him as I may.’ He paused wondering if he should make the request that had now come to the foreground of his thoughts.

‘He wants . . . no, he believes that he can aid you and your clan. And I believe he has some skills which might be useful to you.’ He saw their questioning expressions. ‘I should not speak for him . . . perhaps you can ask him yourself. What I would appreciate is that you keep the old fellow safe with your clan for a while. My clan is . . . near, and I would travel quickly to them – to be with my family and to report to the clan leader on those I have been able to contact on my travels.’ He looked hopefully toward his hosts. ‘Would you do that for him? At least until I return and we can travel on.’

He took another swig of the now cool tea, then remembered a last thing that Thorn had asked and he had not touched on. ‘My clan’s name . . . you asked that. Sorry, I did not touch on it earlier. It is still our name,’ he declared, recalling that Thorn had spoken of it in the past tense. ‘No matter that we have lived apart for some time now.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘We have been long apart, too, from our southern cousins, since the Shadow rose again in the long-time after the sinking of the Star Isle. Or so our old stories tell us.’ He wondered if any of the Eagle Clan would remember his clan’s name. Or was it as much a ghost of a memory as was the skill to make changes.

An air of expectant silence was almost palpable as he continued.

‘Zadan n’Yo . . .’ he said the name clearly, so that they would catch it, hoping it would spark some faint remembrance on their part. ‘That is how we are named of old . . . House of the Gift.’

His throat was dry when he’d finished talking. There seemed nothing more to say, he thought. His hosts were quiet as he picked up his mug and drained it to the dregs . . .

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

Child's post for Narika:

Zadan n'Yo?.....'

Narika stood unmoving staring out the window of the tent, caught up in her own ruminations, as she tried to make sense out of the last words Rôg had spoken. She had no memory of any "House of the Gift" from her own readings in the few scrolls that the Eagles carried with them. Nor did she recollect that name being spoken by her mother, either in their personal times together or the many nights when the Eagles had listened to tales of other places and tribes while seated round the campfire.

In fact, as far as Narika could remember, every clan derived its name from that of an animal, normally the most developed form that was common among their own people. But apparently Rôg's clan was different. And, from certain things he had said, it sounded as if there were many differences between her own people and his. One part of her was naturally curious and wanted to ask more questions about how many forms Rôg could take on and exactly which ones these were. But questions like these would be crossing a personal line. In these difficult times, Maenwaith generally did not volunteer such details to folk outside of their own clan, so Narika felt she had no right to intrude any further.

Rôg's gentleness and halting manner had at least convinced Narika that, however odd the young shapeshifter seemed, he meant no real harm. She tugged softly on Thorn's sleeve and looked squarely in his face, seeing her own feelings mirrored subtly in his eyes. An imperceptible nod of agreement passed between them. There was no need for further discussion. Narika stepped forward and actually bobbed a slight curtsey to the stranger, looking more like a child than the leader of her own people, "Rôg, much of what you say is strange to us. But we can see that you have no evil intent. You and your friend are free to leave when you will or, if you wish, stay here for a while. For a bit, you will still need an 'escort'. It will take time for the others to reach the same understanding the three of us have come to today. And I have no wish to put any of my people more on edge than they already are. Go now and let me know what you and your friend decide." With that she turned and went back to check on her mother.

[Child of the 7th Age]

As the two pieces of the snake’s body crumpled harmlessly to the ground, Ráma stood motionless and silent, staring off into the desert. Her face was taut, her expression distant; the words Airefalas spoke barely registered on her mind. She involuntarily shuddered, and then bent to retrieve her sword. Kneeling on the sand to take a closer look, Ráma brought her blade down in one hearty swoop so that the viper’s head was severed from the front portion of its body. She tossed the remains of the head to one side and then buried it carefully in the sand so no man or beast would accidentally come across it. Then she again used her sword to gingerly lift up the remaining parts of the snake and slip them inside a spare leather pouch used for game and other foodstuffs.

She sprang to her feet with renewed energy, turning to face Airefalas, “Yes, thank you. I am all right. But only because of you. You are a brave man. Here, take this.” An impish smile crossed her face as she offered the Gondorian the remnents of the snake. “You have blessed us twice. I hope you can cook. I mean no disrespect, but I must go and speak with the caravan driver again.”

Ráma shoved the bag into Airefalas' extended arms, apologizing for her haste and noting that food could be scarce in the desert. “This snake will make a hearty soup for us while we rest here. It’s mid-afternoon, the time when wise travelers take shelter. Later today, we’ll continue on for a short distance before we halt for the night. We have three-days till we reach the southern foothills.”

Mithadan and Airefalas exchanged puzzled glances, until Mithadan finally queried. “We go with you then? What of that caravan heading north?”

“If you still wish to visit my clan to search for your friend, I will take you. I may have misjudged the two of you. I still wish I could persuade you otherwise. Times are hard now, and there is threat of war. Before this is over, you may wish that you had never set eyes on me or my clan.”

She hesitated a moment, wondering if she should share anything further with the outsiders, but then went on to confide, “My clan follows the path of the Great Eagles. We wish to maintain traditional ways. Sadly, some of our brothers and sisters no longer feel that way. Now let me go and speak with that caravan leader again, if you are sure this is what you want.” The men somberly nodded and Ráma disappeared around the corner.

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


For the next two and a half days, the party steadily made its way over the shifting sands, carefully circumventing the few stray encampments that cropped up in their path. The sun shone hot and merciless on their heads, making the journey uncomfortable, but they encountered no serious obstacles and were able to make good progress. Once in a while, Ráma had glanced back over her shoulder up into the sky, but she could see sign that a great eagle had been following them.

By the afternoon of the third day, they were within a few hours’ ride of the Eagle encampment. Ráma explained to the men that they should reach the safety of the camp by evening, and would perhaps be in time to join the evening meal. The one tidbit she kept to herself was that she was totally uncertain what their reception might be.

[Nerindel]

Korpúlfr

Korpúlfr could only watch impatiently from one of the many entrances to the caves that bordered the northern reaches of the city, as Hasrim studied a series of prints found on the sandy ground within. Tracking was never a skill he had been able to master, in the old days when their clan still wondered the shifting sands of the desert this would have been a major failing on his part. His Grandfather had tried to teach him the old ways before he died, telling him that it was important to respect the balance of nature and the values of all the clans. However, his father had always disagreed arguing that times had changed and so must they.Therefore, he was taught new values, the way of trade and negotiation and trained in the use of weapons that he could use to defend himself and his people. The old ways of life were abandoned and many of the old skills lost, but luckily, for Korpulfr Hasrim had been born in those days when following animal tracks would determine if the clan ate well that season or not, he retained these skills and used them now to try to determine if the northerners had help in escaping and to ascertain the direction they had taken after leaving the labyrinth of caves.

His cousin returned grim faced, “there are many strange signs. However, as far as I can tell the northerners where joined by a third person with a horse and they left by another exit further to the east. Still I can find no sign of Tinar and the tracks from the caves into the desert are long gone, covered completely by the shifting sands.”

Korpúlfr looked out towards the vast expanse of the desert contemplating were the strangers might have gone, then it came to him, “Bakhpusta?” he thought aloud, “They will surely make their way to the kibbutz it is always filled with traders from Harondor who would gladly give them passage north.” Hasrim looked at him for a moment and then frowning said, “That is if they even know to look for it?” He could see the reluctance in the older mans eyes, Bakhpusta was the last trading stop of the desert merchants who choose not to venture into the northlands, but it is also the prime target for bandits and thieves, so he could understand his cousin’s reluctance, even if he did not share it.

“The third person, their new companion knew the complex of caves well enough to lead them out by another route, so he or she must be a guide of some kind. Someone who knows these lands, who will know of Bakhpusta!” he reasoned trying to convince the older man. Still Hasrim remained reluctant, wishing instead to go to the Maenwaith city and see if his father’s scouts had seen the strangers. Korpúlfr shook his head defiantly, “No, Bakhpusta is nearer, if strangers went north someone at the kibbutz would have seen them and if they didn’t,” he continued reading his cousins next question, “it is more likely a trader would have spotted them heading south than any of the scouts from the city!” Hasrim grudgingly nodded his agreement and the two pressed on toward Bakhpusta.

It was just past dusk by the time the large tents of the kibbutz came into view, various animals were being herded in front of prospective buyers, several caravans were lined up displaying their wares. Several campfires were lit, from these could be heard music and laughter. The people of Bakhpusta were not Maenwaith, it was generally said that they were once Haradwaith nomads who herded goats about the desert, but finding the trade good this close to the boarders of the southlands they decided to settle. If this was true Korpúlfr had never discovered it, The Bakhpustans rarely spoke of their past, more interested in listening to the tales that others had to share.

“Look what the desert winds have blown our way, my brothers, if it is not the little raven returned from the big city!” A loud, deep voice laughed. Korpúlfr turned to see the familiar face of the tribe’s leader, Waitimu. Waitimu towered over him at roughly 6ft, his skin was as dark as the night and his dark brown eyes conveyed the wisdom that made him leader of his people. His head was bald except for one dark brown braid that hung from the right side of his head; he was lean but not lacking in strength as Kor had witnessed on their first meeting. Waitimu was the only person outside his own clan that he would call a friend, the tribal leader and his tribe had saved his life, when a caravan he was travelling with was ambushed by bandits.

With a broad grin Korpulfr handed Hasrim his reigns, swung down from his horse and strode forwards to greet is friend, the two men embraced, “It’s good to see you Waitimu,” he laughed.

“And you my friend, but come, tell me what brings you this far north and what news do you bring from the city?” Waitimu grinned guiding him to one of the campfires. As he sat Korpulfr began to tell his friend about the cities northern guests and their explosive leaving gift. Waitimu laughed heartily, “I am pleased to hear that they escaped and at the embarrassment of that great oaf Falasmir no less, I should imagine he was none to pleased.” Waitimu and his people had no respect or love for the city of the corsairs, during the Great War many of his people were made slaves, and forced aboard the corsairs great ships as oar men. Waitimu himself had suffered this fate, rows of brightly coloured beads now hide the burn marks of the shackles, but the scars across his bare arms from whip strokes could still be seen and he was sure they stretched right across his friends back. He knew his friend would be pleased to hear that at least one of the corsairs ships had been destroyed, but even as Waitimu laughed he could see a deep sadness in his dark eyes, he knew as well as his friend that many of the slaves would have also been lost in the blaze. Better, they were dead than remaining slaves to the Corsairs, Kor thought. but he said nothing, he did not need to, each knew the other well enough to know what they were thinking.

Waitimu was the first to break the still silence, “So my friend is your visit business or pleasure?”

“Neither, my friend” he admitted. “The northern Captain, Mithadan and his first mate Airefalas did not escape with their ship and I was wondering if they stopped here looking for passage north.”

Waitimu studied him for a long moment then shook his head, “No, the only northerners we have had here today are the traders from Harondor,” then looking side long at Hasrim and the horses he continued, “ my friend if I didn’t know you better I would think you pursued these men for Falasmir!”

Korpúlfr was taken aback by the suggestion and his face flushed with anger, “I have trade negotiations with them, they are an investment that I wish to protect nothing more!” he snapped.

“Peace, my friend I meant no offence, I know your prejudices and we are of like mind were the Umbarians are concerned, yet you must understand my position. My tribe rely heavily on trade with the men of Harondor and here you are asking questions about north men, fresh from the city and if you will forgive me for saying so, armed like bounty hunters. It could harm the peaceful relations we have with the northerners if they even thought I helped bounty hunters to capture two of their kind,” Waitimu whispered, looking to him for some assurance that he would not bring trouble to his tribe.

“So you have heard something!” Kor grinned, but then seeing the stern deepening frown on his friends face he threw up his hands defensively. “Waitimu, I assure you that I am not here on bequest of Falasmir or any of the Umbarian fools, in fact the bungling oaf is not even aware that the Captain and his first mate did not make their ship. I am searching for the Northerners at the insistence of my own leader to insure that they do not trouble our clan and to guide them back to their own lands.” He hated lying to Waitimu, but on this occasion, it was necessary not only to get the information he required but to insure that no repercussions fell on Waitimu and his tribe.

“Very well,” Waitimu smiled, finally satisfied with his explanation, “I did not lie when I said that they did not pass this way, but I can introduce you to someone who might have seen them.” Waitimu rose and gestured for him to follow explain how the man they were about to meet had spoke of seeing two northerners at one of the watering holes further to the east. Waitimu made the necessary introductions and then excused himself, explaining that he had other matters to attend to. From the off set the desert trader seemed closed and guarded, Korpúlfr explained that he was looking for friends, two northerners who were in the south searching for a missing companion; he gave their names and described each man as he remembered them. The trader regarded him for a moment then nodded, telling him that he had seen the strangers he spoke of.

“Their guide sought to find them passage north, but in the end they went south to see if they could find word of their friend,” the trader told him.

Korpulfr noted that the man was careful not to name the guide or their intended destination, but he did not press the matter instead, he thanked him for his help and returned to find Hasrim.

After explaining to his cousin, what he had discovered the two made plans to set out as soon as the horses were feed and watered. They secured supplies and shared supper with Waitimu and his tribe, before the Bakhpusta leader escorted them to the edge of his Kibbutz. A chill wind blew across the desert and Waitimu laid a concerned hand on his arm. “The wind, it speaks of evil things to come. Be careful that you are not swept along with it, my friend!” Korpúlfr nodded mounting his horse, and then he and Hasrim set off for the oasis the desert trader had described.

Reaching the oasis shortly before dawn Hasrim confirmed that the Gondorians had indeed been there and that they had set out southward. They continued to follow the trail taking it in turns to scout ahead using their shape shifting abilities and stopping only to find shade in the unbearable heat of the afternoonsun. Much to Korpulfr’s frustration there was still no sign of Tinar. But on the evening of the second day Korpúlfr in his wolf form picked up the distinctive salty scent of the Northern sailors, he returned to the camp Hasrim had set for the night and quickly explained that he thought that their quarry was no more that half a day ahead of them. As he finished telling Hasrim that he thought they were heading for the mountains, he got the distinct feeling that he was being watched, he had felt the same feeling before on several occasions over the past few weeks. He turned and as always he saw nothing, he shook his head, he was tired and letting his imagination get the better of him, he supposed. With a tired yawn he sat down to a cold supper of dried figs and stale flat bread, then Hasrim offered to keep the first watch while he got a few hours sleep.

They broke camp just before dawn of the third day and hurried to make some ground on their quarry. However, by midday the incessant heat of the desert forced them to stop and find shade. They found a rocky outcropping that offered substantial shade for both them and the horses, and then they sat down to wait out the afternoon heat.

[piosenniel]

Gondor

Pio spent a restless and unhappy night. The house seemed cold without the children . . . too silent without the echoes of their squabbles and their laughter. She dared not reach out to them in her thoughts. Anger and grief ran as twin themes through her mind. They would pick up on that. Leave them to their own happy dreamings she chided herself. They were safe with their aunt and uncle, Rilwen and Gaerion, spending time there while their ammë went on a short journey with Faragaer, she had told them, to finish some small business with a merchant who had asked for assistance.

She had sent for Mithadan’s brother and his wife when first she learned of the Star’s return without her Captain and First Mate. That had been but a day ago. Gaerion had been beside himself with the news. It was Rilwen who had taken him in hand, saying they must do what they could – keep safe his brother’s children until Mithadan’s return with Piosenniel. Pio could read in Rilwen’s face the quickly suppressed fear that perhaps neither would return.

Turning her thoughts from the children, Pio did reach out once more for any trace of Mithadan, casting her thoughts wide, but even her skill could not bridge the distances between them.

Baran watched her as she paced back and forth in the atrium. A bear in a cage, he thought, his eyes following her measured steps. His great brow furrowed when she at last stopped still, her hand going to the back of her neck. Rubbing it to ease the tight muscles there. Her grey eyes seemed clear and bright in the light of the small lamps lit about the area as she looked up at him briefly then focused on something in the distance. With a quick shrug of her shoulders she stood up straight and strode quickly back into the house. Baran thought to follow her in, but in a brief moment she had returned, a battered leather book of some sort in her hand. Motioning for him to come look at it with her, she laid it open on the small table beneath the fig tree. It was the old log of The Sandpiper. Her finger tracing the line of coast from Belfalas to Umbar, she bade him sit down on the bench opposite her.

‘This is how we will proceed,’ she began, in a clear voice . . .

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Tinar awoke with a start as a ray of the setting sun shone on his face. As in the last few days, he had flown ahead of the little group of riders, seeking out the most likely watering spot and resting in human form during the day. Even though it was not likely that other travellers should discover him, he slept restlessly. It would have been very difficult to explain his presence to strangers, alone and without even a beast of burden. Not all who navigated this part of the desert were of his people.

He shivered, though the air was still hot and thick before the evening winds came up to cool it. Something was wrong, though it took him a moment’s reflection to think what it could be. The Gondorians! They should have arrived there by now, if they were headed for this little oasis. He panicked, thinking how large the desert was and how difficult it could be to locate them if they had taken an unexpected turn of direction. Then he shook himself sternly, reminding himself of what he had experienced during the last few days. He had survived, all alone, had achieved a new shape all by himself, and had navigated unknown areas with few problems. He had managed to find water and enough nourishment to keep up his strength and had felt that strength grow from day to day.

Though he felt the loneliness keenly and missed having companions for conversations and for sharing the responsibility of making decisions, he found that he had actually enjoyed these days on his own in the desert. For the first time in his young life, no one was there to tell him what to do – a heady, exhilarating feeling. He revelled in the freedom of movement far from the restrictions of a city more than he could ever have imagined. Spreading the wings of a falcon and rising to greater heights than he had experienced before, soaring on the rising winds, he felt far away from the concerns of daily life and the restraints of court behaviour. He felt slightly guilty over his relief at being away from his powerful mother and her constant planning and scheming. For a moment, he wondered whether her fixed idea of a Maenwaith city was truly the best for her people, but the thought faded as he realized that he had an immediate problem to solve.

Where could the Northerners and their companion be? He drew water from the well, drinking as much as he could before changing to his falcon shape and spreading his wings to rise up on the breeze. The sun would be setting soon; he must find them before dark. He turned to glide in a large circle, northwards and eastwards, swivelling his head to and fro to search for any movement below. He could see no trees, no green that would have given sign of water nearby. The air shimmered with the reflected light of the low sun, creating illusions that tricked his eyes at first glance, but he had learned to look more closely from another angle before believing what he saw.

Finally, when he had almost despaired of finding the ones he sought, or even a refuge for himself, he caught a glimpse of green ahead and, moving toward it, spots that were soon visible as riders when he drew nearer. Three dots, yes, but as he approached he realized that those were not the camels he had been following – there were three horses, and only two riders. Even his sharp eyes could barely discern their shapes in the dusk, but it was too late to make a renewed attempt to find the others. He decided to take a less conspicuous form before circling over their heads as they dismounted from their horses at the watering place.

From his perch in the branches of a scraggly tree, he watched their movements. Their gait seemed strangely familiar, but it was not until one of the men called out to the other that he realized who they were. Of all the voices he had least expected to hear, this one was the most welcome – Korpúlfr! He fluttered down to the ground and, taking a deep breath, changed to his human form. “Kor!” he exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing here?”

Korpúlfr spun around in his tracks, reaching for his sword.

“Peace, peace!” Tinar laughed. “It is I, Tinar! Do not kill a friend – there are not many of them out here in the desert!”

Hasrim, hearing the voices without recognizing Tinar’s, came running, raising the piece of firewood in his hand to ward off the intruder.

“Stop!” Korpúlfr shouted, “It is Tinar!”

Later, as they sat around the fire, having slaked their thirst and stilled their hunger, Tinar answered their questions, though his friend noticed that he was strangely reticent to tell how he had managed to cover such a distance within those few days. Never mind! Kor thought. He will tell me soon enough if he has something on his mind. However, he was aware of a subtle change in the young man; he seemed more thoughtful, less inclined to speak impulsively.

Tinar yawned. He was more tired than he could remember ever having been. He was glad of the bedroll his companions had strapped onto the extra horse. Tonight he could sleep deeply, unafraid. He was among friends.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Surinen

Surinen suggested to Narayad that they play a game to while away the time and to keep his fellow outrider from brooding further over the lost incense pot. The sun had long since grown hot, the air wavering over the land as he gathered a large handful of pebbles. Narayad settled himself down, deftly carving small dimples in the dust in front of the lean-to with his dagger, from time to time the rise and fall of distant conversations breaking the quiet, as the camp returned to life again after the heat of the afternoon. Sitting down cross-legged, facing his friend, Surinen pulled his legs closer to his body and leaned forward distributing the stones among the cups. “You begin,” he told Narayad. But the outrider seemed preoccupied, and sat, the shadow of the lance he had driven into the ground casting a thick line across his knee.

“As you wish,” Narayad replied, shifting the pebbles quickly, and looking up again to check the old man who watched them disinterestedly, from under the shade of the lean-to.

Surinen followed Narayad gaze, noting that Narayad made no hurry to return to the game after Surinen had played out his turn. “Again,” he said, looking back to his opponent and rapping his knee sharply, with the back of his hand. “Relax, I will help you watch.”

“Like you watched the other? No, I think I had better keep my eye and this one,” Narayad said a smile growing on his face.

Surinen scowled at the barb. “But I had no idea he would try that,” he said in an injured tone, pulling his shawl over his darkly tousled head with one hand. “Miri, that curious scamp! The little thing had better take Kron’s advice and forget all about the strange words Rôg spoke, or she will have the Elders descending upon her tent, and they will keep her from the other children.”

“Yes, as though she had some sickness. It is a shame,” Narayad murmured, looking at the game.

Surinen reached out to take the stones there before him, but stopped, having caught sight of the old man shaking his hoary head ‘no’ under the shelter of felted wool. Slowly shifting his strategy, the outrider took those from a neighboring hole, earning a nod of approval from their ‘guest’.

“Perhaps, you would like to play, old man?” Narayad said sarcastically, without looking up. Surinen grinned broadly carefully enunciating each syllable as he translated into common tongue. When the invitation was not accepted immediately, Surinen waved the man over patting the ground next to him.

“Two minds against your perceptive eye! A more even chance don’t you think?” he said. Narayad shot him a withering look; resting his hand on the end of his lance as the old fellow sidled forward, out from under the shade. Squinting in the bright sun, he stretched briefly and took up a position leaning on his staff over looking the two outriders who sat in the dust, playing with stones, and as the game progressed Surinen consulted the old man continually. “Ah see! We have won!” he announced within a few turns, clearing most of the stones off the ground.

Standing up Surinen clapped the old man’ the back, thanking him profusely. He did not often win against Narayad, and was determined to enjoy it. But as he stood beaming, and Narayad moved to stand up also, three brothers arrived, and Surinen saw they were sons of one of the elders. “We have prepared a place for the visitors,” the eldest and stoutest said. “Quickly, let us move them there, before the children again wander the camp.”

“We have only this one with us, the other Kron has taken to speak with Narika and Thorn,” Narayad replied brushing himself off. “Should I wait and bring him to you when he has finished?”

“No come with us, we can send word to Kron were he should be taken.”

Surinen turned to the wizened guest, trying his best to explain that he was being moved and that Rôg would join him shortly, but growing impatient with the speech they did not understand, the others hurried him along. Quickly grabbing Narayad’s pack, Surinen rushed to follow, but feeling as much as hearing a heavy thump behind him, he turned to see a round incense pot lying on its side directly behind his right foot.

The younger of the elder’s sons bend down and retrieved it, looking it over carefully. “The missing incense burner?” he said eying Narayad. “What is it doing in your pack?”

“I do not know,” the outrider said mystified. “I did know it to be there.”

[Child of the 7th Age]

Nerindel's post for Sorona:

From her perch in a tall leafy palm, Sorona had watched the three travellers with great interest. She had ascertained that Rama was trying to gain passage north for her two companions, but that changed after the timely intervention of one of the northerners as the maenwaith found herself face to face with an ill-tempered viper. She had almost laughed aloud when the young woman had then offered the edible meaty coils of the serpent to her bemused rescuer. She liked this young one and hoped she would be able to get to know her better. However as the three companions sat down to eat under the shade offered by the line of palms, the Northerners removed their head scarves and she saw with surprise and a measure of curiosity that it was the same two men who had been guests of the raven haired merchant the night before. She had no idea what this meant or indeed if it meant anything but out of caution she decided to keep her distance, at least until she had the opportunity to think things through.

As the three companions waited out the afternoon heat Sorona listened to their conversations, mostly they discussed the soup the Northerner had made and asked general question about the desert and what other dangers they might face. However, Sorona’s interest was not in what they discussed but the language they spoke, she knew that at some point she would have to speak to Ráma or at least the elders of the Maenwaith’s clan and the garbled mixture of languages that had tumbled from her mouth when speaking to Ráma before just would not do! All three seemed to communicate using a variation of the common tongue she had heard widely used in the north, but Ráma had spoken a different language back at the cave, one that she recognised and understood, but had not heard in a long time. She had learned many languages over the years, but had never put them to much use; she focused on trying to isolate the one that would best suit her needs and now that seemed to be the common tongue, listening to their conversations made it easier for her to recall the words and sounds.

As the arid afternoon gave way to the cool of early evening, the travellers remounted and set off southward. She followed discreetly, still trying to recall the words she would need to communicate with the people she followed. The first day's travel was largely uneventful, but she had realised that Rama had been right: the constantly shifting sands of the desert were open and inviting, but also comfortingly familiar. Several times, she lost herself, soaring and gliding through the deserts warm air currents, free and unburdened, and then she would remember the dream and go back to following the three travellers.

But on that first night in the desert and for the first time in months, she did not dream of the city in the sand or of the dark pits of Mordor and her terrible experiences there. Instead, her dreams were of a small girl with dark hair and gold flecked brown eyes. She sat on the shoulders of a middle-aged man her arms out stretched pretending to fly as the man the girl’s father, ran bare foot across the golden sands. “One day my daughter you will be able to really fly like the eagles!” His smile was warm and filled with love.

The girl again this time older, she is with an older woman her name is being called, she is presented before the elders of her village, her father sits among then pride shining in his eyes, the girl then takes the form of a beautiful eagle. “Welcome Eagle Sister!” the elders smile together.

The girl is now a young woman and again she is before the Elders, this time a young man is at her side and they stare deeply into each other’s eyes. “Wolf brother and Eagle sister, bind themselves together as one. May their love and union strengthen the bonds between our clans?” The young man kisses the young woman tenderly.

Sorona woke to the second day with tears in her eyes realising that the young girl in her dreams was her or had been her a long time ago, before… she shook the thought away: she did not what to go back there, to the dark places in her mind where pain and darkness dwelled. Instead, she held on to the memories of her dreams, and continued to follow Ráma and her companions as the changed direction, and headed west.

Once the three companions had camped for the night on the second day, Sorona left and went in search of food; she caught several Jerboas and a lizard and was about to swoop down on an unsuspecting elephant shrew when something startled it and it scurried away. Annoyed that it got away she circled to see whom or what had frightened it away. A large adult male wolf padded across the dunes, its silvery grey back shining in the clear desert moonlight. Its cinnamon head bent to the sands, it was looking for something, but not food for it ignored any desert wildlife it came across, but it had the scent of something she thought as she watched it move through the dunes. She followed the beautiful creature with inquisitive curiosity, her eyes narrowing as she realised the wolf followed the path Rama and the Gondorians had travelled the previous day. It went some way and then sniffing the night air, it turned and went back in the direction it had just come. She followed silently, curious as to the creature’s strange behaviour.

Several hours later as the first light of dawn breached the dark horizon she saw a small camp, three horses and a man, his features hidden by a dark blue head scarf, that covered his head and face so that only his eyes could be seen. As the Wolf approached the camp, its shape shifted to that of a young man slightly shorter in stature than the other man and as he turned towards the other man, she gasped. It was the young merchant from the city he was a shape shifter like Rama. Was that why she was drawn to him and why his presence in the city had felt so wrong? These questions and many more assailed her as she flew back towards Rama, she was torn between telling the young woman about the two city merchants followed them and the strange protectiveness she felt for the young raven-haired man. She did not know what was going on so she decided that when she caught up to the others she would speak with Rama and perhaps things would become clearer.

It was the afternoon of the third day before she caught up to the Maenwaith woman and her companions; they were stopped by an old deserted well to rest their mounts and to quench their thirst. Sorona circled once and with a quiet squeal she swooped down to land gracefully before Rama, Her sharp eyes took in the surprised reflexive instincts of the northerners as their hands went to hilts, but she ignored them and turned to Rama.

“I would speak with you Desert sister,” she said in the common tongue dipping her head, recalling some ways of the desert people.

“I apologise for before, it has been a long time since I have had the need to speak with anyone and I fear the knowledge of the languages I have accumulated over the years got a little muddled, but I have had time to sort through them and now I think we need to speak.” Rama nodded but said nothing waiting for her to continue.

“A few things puzzle me and I hoped that you could help me to understand, I’m sure you have questions of your own and I will try to answer them if I can.”

“I will help if I can,” Rama answered.

“The first is the presence of maenwaith in the city of the dark men, a whole household, mostly merchants do you know why this is so? Then there is the lack of sightings of clan camps on our journey? And your friends, my memory is not as it was, but it is not common for… our people to travel with strangers?” she gave the two men a sideways glance but did not for now tell the woman that she had see these two men with the maenwaith she spoke of and that two of those merchants now followed them. Instead, she waited to hear what answers Rama offered her or if the men themselves would speak of the raven-haired merchant.



Child's post for Ráma:

Ráma stared at Sorona with a troubled expression on her face. The query about her two traveling companions was not wholly unexpected. In difficult times, maenwaith generally avoided the company of outsiders, especially when journeying deep into the desert to reach the safety of their clan.

Still, Sorona’s other comments had startled her. Why had the Eagle heard nothing of the large contingent of maenwaith who gathered in the city not merely to engage in trade but as active supporters of Wyrma and her grandiose plans? Their presence was common knowledge even to the youngest of her people. And why did Sorona still cling stubbornly to her Eagle shape rather than taking on her natural human form? Perhaps, the Gondorians made the maenwaith nervous, yet she did not fear to talk in front of them and reveal the fact that she was a great deal more than a simple beast.

A cautionary voice whispered inside Ráma’s head. If she confronted the Eagle directly with so many probing questions, the woman was likely to fly off and never return. For some reason Ráma did not entirely understand, she definitely did not want that to happen. There was a sadness in Sorona’s eyes as if the woman was missing a piece of her past and, without that piece, nothing else made any sense. Ráma could instinctively understand that. Moreover, she sensed a certain reticence on Sorona’s part, born not of fear but nervousness, as if she was unused to conversing with her own kind. She decided to tread softly and ask her mother or sister about this stranger once she arrived back at the clan.

For now she answered in a respectful tone, gesturing towards Mithadan and Airefalas who stood nearby. “These two are Gondorians. They are friends to the Eagle clan. They search for another maenwaith , a woman who is dear to them. They spoke the ancient words of friendship to me, so I am taking them to our clan to see if we can help.” Ráma stopped for a moment to introduce the men, and was pleased to note that their fingers were no longer curled tightly about their sword hilts and that they each stopped to make a courteous bow to acknowledge Sorona's presence.

“As to your other queries….perhaps you have been away from these parts for some time? I do not know the particular maenwaith you saw, but the Dragon clan and its leader Wyrma have gathered followers in the city. Many of these have forsaken the traditional maenwaith ways and choose to make their home inside that walled prison, working on various tasks that Wyrma assigns to them.”

Sorona said nothing but stared in disbelief as Ráma continued her explanation, “The missing tribes are no different. They have left the desert and follow Wyrma: some out of fear, others actually support her plans. And it is not only in Umbar that they live…” Ráma’s voice trailed off as she stared towards the north envisioning a cold grim shadow rising upward from the desert sand. “Wyrma builds her own fortified city north and west of here. She herds many clans inside its gates. I have heard my mother say that Wyrma’s real dream is not merely to rival Lord Falasmir, but one day to wield power so great that she could humble the mighty city of Minas Tirith. I do not know how she could do such a thing, but I do not doubt that she would try.” At this point, Ráma glanced briefly towards Mithadan and Airefalas and shrugged her shoulders to emphasize the point that there was little she could do to stop any of this.

[Ealasaide]

Airefalas listened quietly to the words of Westron that passed between the two shape changers, not entirely certain as to whether he and Mithadan were intended to be party to the conversation or not. He had bowed politely when introduced to the eagle, but then taken a few steps back so as not to intrude when he realized that the eagle had not been introduced to them. Their introduction to her, he realized, was done less out of social nicety than it was out of a need to set the newcomer at ease. Bearing that in mind, he retreated a short distance away to wait while the two shape changers spoke.

Curiosity, though, made him listen to what passed between them, and what he heard surprised him. For some reason, he had been under the impression that shape changers were rare, with only a few individuals scattered about here and there on their own. It was eye-opening to hear Ráma and the eagle speak of the shape changers in such numbers especially since he had not known they existed at all prior to his meeting with Ráma just a few days earlier.

"That's what I get for spending so much time at sea," he murmured to himself. "Miss all sorts of things."

Mithadan shot him a sharp glance, his face grim as he continued listening to Ráma's soft voice.

Airefalas quickly bit his tongue and resumed listening himself, realizing that if he did not pay attention, he could miss even more.

"Wyrma builds her own fortified city north and west of here," said Ráma. "She herds many clans inside its gates. I have heard my mother say that Wyrma's real dream is not merely to rival Lord Falasmir, but one day to wield power so great that she could humble the mighty city of Minas Tirith. I do not know how she could do such a thing, but I do not doubt that she would try." As she finished, Ráma cast a glance in the direction of the two Gondorians, shrugging as though to say that there was little she could do to stop such an eventuality.

Mithadan and Airefalas exchanged a look, then Mithadan nodded, a slight smile touching the corners of his mouth. “I do not know how she could do such a thing either, but I guarantee that she will encounter much stronger opposition than she expects, otherwise she would recognize such wild ambition as the folly that it is.”

Ráma gave him a long, considering stare, then merely shrugged again. “Folly, perhaps, but Wyrma is not one who should be taken lightly, nor are her ambitions.”

“You mentioned that she is of the Dragon clan,” Airefalas interjected quietly. “Pardon my ignorance on the nature of your folk, but does this mean that this Wyrma can take on the shape of a dragon?”

Ráma hesitated for a fraction of a second, her gold-flecked eyes lingering for an instant on his green ones, then she shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said abruptly. “Perhaps I have said too much.” She turned and said something softly in her own dialect to the waiting eagle, then turned back toward him and Mithadan.

“There is much happening amongst my people that concerns them very much but, as yet, has very little to do with you and yours,” she explained. “I have allowed you to accompany me to my clan’s encampment so that you may seek your lost friend, but I must ask you not to pry into our affairs. My people are distrustful of strangers in normal times, but to have strangers such as yourselves poking about our camp now, when times are troubled, asking questions about our business would lead to much anger and suspicion.”

Airefalas nodded politely. “I understand, my lady, and offer my word that once we reach the encampment I shall mind my own business absolutely,” he promised. “But I do think that we are entitled to a bit more information now when there is no one around to upset but you, us, and the Eagle. It is hardly fair of you to mention a threat to our homeland - which by your own words, should not be taken lightly - then to turn around and tell us it’s none of our concern. It is our concern. We have a right to know what foe it is who threatens us.”

Ráma hesitated again, thinking, then nodded. “Yes,” she admitted slowly. “It is your concern, but it is of much more immediate concern to us. Please know that Wyrma is a powerful and dangerous individual. You would not want her for an enemy, but please do not press me just now for any more information than that.”

Airefalas opened his mouth to do just that, when he was stayed by Mithadan’s hand on his arm. He waited silently as Mithadan addressed Ráma.

“Wyrma...” said Mithadan. “She was the rather imposing woman who walked beside Lord Falasmir at the reception in Umbar, was she not?”

“She was,” answered Ráma.

“What position does she hold at Falasmir’s court?”

“To my knowledge, she is merely an advisor, but she uses him to consolidate her own power. When the time comes, if it is her whim, he will fall.”

“I see.” Mithadan nodded. He thanked Ráma for her candor, then watched as she excused herself and moved several paces away to exchange a few final words in privacy with the eagle. The conversation complete, the eagle spread her wings and took once more to the sky. A few minutes after that Ráma and the two northerners were once more mounted, Ráma on her horse, the Gondorians on their camels, riding southward. By Ráma’s estimation, they would arrive in the Eagle encampment within roughly two hours, which would be none too soon for Airefalas. His camel had a pronounced ornery streak and seemed, at best, only half-trained. The sooner he could put some distance between himself and the stubborn creature the better.

But the camel was not the primary concern on Airefalas’ mind. He spent most of the remainder of the journey mulling over all that he had heard and learned during the brief visit from the Eagle, both of the shape changers in general and of the building threat to his own homeland. Was it as serious as Ráma would have them believe? She seemed a level-headed enough individual, not at all the sort to go about spreading breathless and groundless rumor. Yet, on the other hand, it all seemed so far-fetched to him... a colony of shape changers threatening the sovereignty of Minas Tirith? Of Gondor? Oh, surely not. But if this Wyrma person and her followers could change into Dragons, well, that might be a considerable worry, even for Minas Tirith.

He looked over at Mithadan who rode beside him, also deep in thought. A thousand questions raced through his head, but he voiced none of them, his gaze shifting next toward Ráma, who, as usual, rode some distance ahead of him and Mithadan. How much did the girl really know? Ultimately, that was the question, but he had given his word not to pry, so his questions would have to remain unanswered for the time being. Sighing, Airefalas resolved to honor his word to Ráma and not ask too many questions upon arrival into her people’s encampment, but there was nothing to stop him from watching or listening. He had a feeling that there was much more happening and much more at stake than he could imagine.

Having finally exhausted that topic after an hour or so, he let his mind wander in the direction of Minas Tirith, wondering if the Lonely Star had made it back to port. He wondered, too, if his family or Isabel had been notified that he had not returned with the ship. Idly, he tried to imagine how they had reacted. His brother, Avarlond, probably wouldn’t even look up from his ledgers when he heard the news, but Isabel would miss him. For all her game-playing and capriciousness, she had a soft heart and, he believed, she was truly fond of him. Her father, on the other hand...

Airefalas frowned, thinking of the visit Isabel’s father had paid on him shortly before he had sailed with the Star. It had been an awkward conversation at best, her father using the excuse of the Amarantha fiasco to postpone Airefalas’ impending wedding to Isabel on the basis that Airefalas’ prospects were now too unstable. Until Airefalas could prove himself capable of providing for her, Isabel’s father had said at first, the ceremony could not take place, but the conversation had not ended there. Isabel’s father had gone on to pronounce the engagement over. It would be up to Airefalas to break the engagement formally upon his return from Umbar. If he refused, Isabel’s father would do it himself. Remembering, Airefalas felt a flush of frustration and anger. He wondered how the old man would respond when he heard that Airefalas had not returned at all. Probably with joy and smug satisfaction that he had been proven right after all. To Airefalas, the worst part about it was that, just as with the Amarantha, there was nothing he could have done to make things turn out differently. Well, he would get back eventually...

Just then, ahead of them, Ráma let loose with a joyous shout. Airefalas had been so absorbed in stewing about his impossible situation back home that he had failed to notice the large grouping of tents that had come into view as they crested a steep rise. Ráma urged her horse into a quick burst of speed, widening the distance between herself and the two Gondorians. When a pair tribesmen appeared from the shadow of one of the tents, waving to her, she slowed, turning her horse in their direction. She reached them just outside the fringes of the encampment, where she dismounted. The men pointed toward Airefalas and Mithadan, who still approached, holding their camels to a walk. Ráma gestured toward them as well, and though they were still outside hearing range, Airefalas could see that she was speaking rapidly. By the time the camels drew up behind her, several other tribesmen and women had joined the first two. The conversation, which was being carried out in the tribal dialect, sounded tense.

Exchanging a signal between the two of them, Mithadan and Airefalas both made their camels kneel and dismounted. Careful to keep their hands away from their weapons, they went to stand a short distance behind Ráma. Finally, she turned to them and gestured for them to follow as she moved on into the camp, leaving both her horse and the camels in the care of a young tribesman. The rest of the tribesmen and women followed Ráma and the two strangers into the camp, arguing loudly amongst themselves.

"Much has happened here since I had last had word," Ráma said to them in the common speech as quietly as possible above the din of the group that followed them. "There are people I need to see." She stopped in front of a large tent. "You wait here until I return," she told them, gesturing toward the open tent flap. "For your own safety, please do not wander off. I will be back as quickly as possible."

[piosenniel]

Gondor

Two days before The Star sails south

‘I am sorry Saelon, but neither you nor any of the crew will be sailing south with us.’

Pio did not look up from her charts as she answered the man’s questions. And Saelon, for his part, well understood that she would not be moved on this point. There was too much chance that one of them might be recognized as crew members from that escaped ship from Gondor. He tried one more tack, though he knew it was futile.

‘We can stay below, Mistress. Out of sight. Hidden until we are needed.’ She could hear the pleading in his voice, knew that he and the others wished to make sure the safety of their captain and first mate. But she remained unmoved.

‘I would have you stay here, Saelon. Captain Tavar will have need of you.’

‘Captain Tavar, ma’am?’ Saelon’s brow furrowed as he started to ask another question.

‘Enough, please. There is work to be done. The Star must be refitted . . . redone to match this drawing I have here.’

Saelon’s eyes went wide at the picture.

----------------------------------

Previously . . . a few days after The Star returns . . .

Once the plan was clear in her mind, Pio spilled it out in a rush of words to Baran. She did not care that he did not understand it; she only wanted to hear herself speak it out loud. The sound of her own voice making points in the silence of the kitchen finalized her consideration. Baran was left to his own devices as she pulled her cloak from the peg by the door when she had finished and rushed into the deepening evening.

Sinda’s hooves clip-clopped down the narrow dirt path that in turn led to the lane which wound itself round farmer’s fields to the Great River. A careful horse, and one appreciative of the welfare of his lanky legs, he would not increase his speed. His ears twitched at the sound of his rider’s voice and burned at the stream of invective she hurled forth, bent low over his withers. He knew where they were going; she had laid the image in his mind. He intended for them both to arrive safely. And no well turned phrase from her earlier and rougher days would make him hasten any faster.

Faragaer was busy with the last of some shipment a late arriving merchant had brought to the docks. Crates had to be moved in the hold of The Scuppered Gull, and the bottles of wine the merchant had brought, nestled in straw in their small wooden boxes, secured safely for transport to Dol Amroth. He and his First Mate, Haladan, were below deck, discussing the logistics of placing the fragile and costly items when an urgent voiced hailed them from above. One of the crew hailed them from the top of the companion-way, then led Pio down to speak with them.

Faragaer had previously offered the services of himself and his crew should they be needed, and he was prepared to make good on it. The Gull would accompany The Star, to the small cove south of Umbar’s Bay. ‘You know you cannot take your crew with you on The Star. They’ll be looking for crewmembers from the ship that got away from them. And I should think that most of your crew was well known from their “stay” at the port of Umbar. Someone may recognize them.’

‘Yes . . . I had time to think on that on my way here. Once we are done here, I am bound for Captain Tavar’s ship. A number of them have sailed on The Star in previous years. I am hoping that Tavar and I can work something out. He should be doing his short runs north. My crew can sign on for him until The Star returns with her Captain and First mate.’ Haladan nodded his head at this, saying he and Captain Faragaer had spoken with Tavar. He was willing to assist in any way he could. His crew was a good one, Haladan himself had sailed with them a number of years ago. And The Star’s crew would be fine to man The Windrunner . . .

‘The crew is one thing,’ said Faragaer, breaking in on Haladan’s comments, ‘but what about The Star herself? She’s as recognizable as any sailor on her to the Corsairs, don’t you think?’

‘Only if she looks like The Star,’ the Elf replied.

[Nerindel]

Sorona

Sorona stared in disbelief as Rama explained about Wyrma and the dragon clan and their gathering of the Maenwaith people into the cities, as irony would have it, it actually pained her to know that these Maenwaith had forsaken their traditional ways. While she had exiled herself from her people she did not believe that she had entirely abandoned their ways and she could not bring herself to believe that all the Maenwaith within the city had either, there had to be another explanation! Rama then went on to tell her that many of these city Maenwaith worked on tasks that Wyrma set for them. A momentary flash of anger crossed her gold-flecked eyes, as she wondered if this Wyrma was not forcing her people into the position they now found themselves. Memories of the tasks she had been set during her imprisonment in the dark land returned to her and her eyes filled with a new fear, would Rama regard her with the same disgust that now showed in her eyes as she spoke of the choices of these Maenwaith. As if reading some of her thoughts Rama went on to explain that the missing tribes had left the desert to follow Wyrma, some out of fear, others actually supporting her plans.

“And it is not only in Umbar they live…” As the young woman’s voice trailed off, Sorona followed her gaze northward, a cold chill settled on her heart as Rama spoke of the Wryma’s fortified city. the young Maenwaith’s words finally giving credence that the vision she had borne for so long was more than a dream it was a warning, one that she was meant to deliver, but to who and why? To Rama? But she and her people seemed to know of this threat already so to what purpose was she sent to them. As she struggled with these questions, Rama conveyed to her the full extent of Wyrma ambitions.

At the revelation that Wyrma’s ambitions stretched as far as the city of Minas Tirith, the two Gondorians who up until now had remained silent now found their voices and the one who had been introduced to her a Mithadan brushed very idea off as folly insisting that any threat to the city would be meet with strong opposition. Sorona admired his faith and the strength of his words, but feared that he underestimated the threat that this Maenwaith and her followers posed to them. A direct confrontation would indeed be folly against so strong an opponent, but Sorona knew there were other, more devious ways in which a Maenwaith could bring about the fall of a city. Without its people, even knowing it was happening until it was too late. Nausea swept over her as she remembered why she knew this was so, she tore her eyes away from the two men afraid that they would see her guilt and question it.

As she stared at the sand beneath her talons, the second Gondorian, Airefalas spoke, quietly asking Rama if Wyrma being of the dragon clan meant that she could take on that form, Sorona looked up at Rama waiting to see how the young Maenwaith would answer. The slight hesitation was all the answer she needed and in that instant she believed that the dark shadow in her dream must be this Wyrma, Rama did not answer the young mans concern but abruptly apologised saying that she had spoken too much already.

“These are troubled times and we must be mindful even among those who may be friends.” Rama softly explained using her clan dialect as she conveyed the warning, Sorona nodded her understanding and continued to listen as Rama again address ed her two companions, answering the questions Mithadan posed regarding Wyrma’s position at the Umbarian Lords court. When they had finished Rama excused herself and they exchanged a few more words in private. Rama shared with her a little about her clan explaining that when Wyrma began herding the clans into the city, her mother, the clan’s leader had moved them further south hoping to escape Wyrma and her ambitions. Sorona was slightly taken aback that Rama would choose to share this with her, she had naturally assumed that she had been included in the young Maenwaiths earlier warnings after all she was now just as much a stranger in these lands and to her people as the two Gondorian men. But, Rama was opening up to her, trying to gain her trust and as the young woman continued to speak, she could see unspoken questions reflected in her soft brown eyes. Questions she was not sure she could answer even if Rama asked them; a weary sigh escaped her beak and Rama pause to look at her, concern framing her soft face.

“I am as much a stranger to these lands and its people as our Gondorian friends, “she sighed regretfully, glancing in their direction. “Much of who and what I am was lost long ago,” she pause momentarily as the regret and sorrow of that loss washed over her anew, but she forced herself to continue. “Memories of my past slowly return to me, blocked out by deep sorrow and fear, but now opening, out of need and necessity, you may find this hard to believe but it was a dream that brought me here. At first, I ignored it believing it no more than a bad dream a vision borne on the storm from whence it came. But lately the visions have became more vivid and intense, its warning more urgent. Not until this day did I realise it’s importance, I still do know why I was chosen, but I do know that what this dream portrays must be told, but I will not speak of it here,” she whispered looking about her as if she half expected to catch something watching them, but there was nothing.

Rama stared at her silently trying to digest this new information, who was this eagle and what warning did she carry? But she did not press her, instead she nodded her head understanding that revealing even the smallest part of herself brought some deep pain or regret to the eagle.

“We will leave as soon as we can and should arrive at the encampment within two hours.” Rama said after awhile, Sorona nodded appreciatively thankful that the young Maenwaith did not press her for more than she was able or willing to give. Then spreading her wings she flew up into the air and after a few minutes followed the three riders to the eagle encampment.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ráma hesitated for a moment as she turned to depart, trying to make sense of what she had learned. Shifting her attention towards the center of camp, she spied a gaping hole on the spot where her family's tent should be. Dead grey ashes decorated the ground along with the charred remains of a few familiar items and a lingering smoky scent.

Zed and Garel, the two young tribesmen who’d initially approached her, had blurted out a tangled tale she found difficult to comprehend. They spoke of two strange maenwaith who had wandered in from the desert a few days before; a large conflagration had immediately followed leaving her mother's tent and the family's belongings in ruins.

More puzzling was Zed's insistence that she wait for Narika before going to see her mother. Zed had assured her that Ayar was resting, but had politely avoided answering any other questions. Zed went on to explain that Ayar was feeling poorly and had been up late into the night. It was best not to disturb her until time for supper. Moreover, Narika and Thorn would shortly arrive in camp once their inspection of the herds was completed. Her questions could wait till then. Ráma had immediately corralled several of the Elders and pressed them for details, but they only exchanged nervous glances, shrugged their shoulders and proceeded to offer her the same advice, speaking with such gentleness that she began to suspect something was seriously wrong.

Retreating to the tent where Mithadan and Airefalas remained, the young woman paced up and down in circles for several minutes, pointedly ignoring her companions. The latter sat at a round table where flagons of juice and a large platter of goat’s cheese and olives had been set out as refreshment for the travellers. Ráma glared back at Mithadan for no apparent reason and hoisted herself onto the far side of the table, with her legs dangling over the edge; she hastily extracted the dagger from her belt and slammed it into one of the slabs of cheese, pinioning it to the wooden plate. She’d had enough of sitting around and waiting for her sister. Springing down, she rushed outside and vowed to search each of the tents until she found the one in which her mother slept.

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

Ayar and Aiwendil

For the past three afternoons, usually at an hour when Thorn and Narika were occupied with other things, Aiwendil had managed to slip quietly out of the tent where he and Rôg were housed, making his way to Ayar’s bedside. His first visit had been at Ayar’s bidding. She had wanted to thank the stranger for his attempt to heal her, an effort that had not been successful but at least had freed her from constant pain.

This simple thanks soon gave way to an extended conversation and a sharing of stories that were surprisingly light hearted. The two had talked and laughed for over an hour, until weariness had compelled Ayar to sink back into her pillow and drift off to sleep. Her last words to the stranger had been a respectful request that he return the following afternoon.

While the guards still kept a pointed eye on every move Rôg made, they looked the other way when the stooped old man wandered aimlessly about the camp. The clan placed great stress on respect to Elders, and this one appeared essentially harmless, so lost in his own reflections that he sometimes failed to reply to those around him. In truth, Aiwendil was grateful for Ayar’s companionship, since Rôg had become more distant, mulling over things he was not yet ready to share.

This particular day, Ayar had been unable to stomach the nourishing broth carefully prepared for her lunch. Despite the pleas of both her daughter and the serving maid, she had stubbornly pushed the bowl aside, something that was happening with increasing regularity. Although Ayar’s dark eyes still gleamed bright, her mind sharp and aware of everything that was happening, her body lay gaunt and listless on the bed. Yet unknown to his captors, Aiwendil had become Ayar’s eyes and ears outside the tent: he had again become adept at shifting into the form of a small insect or desert rat to spy throughout camp and let the clan leader know exactly what was going on. Aiwendil had told Rôg one or two things he thought might be useful to him, but otherwise reserved his discoveries for Ayar.

Ayar was still not sure who or what Aiwendil was. The man often seemed to talk in riddles. But that first afternoon the stranger had let something slip regarding his personal familiarity with the ancient Eagles, those whom the tribe held in great respect. These offhand words, plus the fact that Aiwendil could apparently change into an endless array of forms, had startled and then convinced Ayar that, whoever this stranger might be, he had extraordinary gifts and should be trusted.

That morning at sunrise, Aiwendil had trudged off on foot with his staff in hand and had come back two hours later, with news for Narika that he had found a supplementary watering hole no more than half an hour distant, hidden at the base of a craggy bluff that stood just to their south. The current well had nearly run dry from the clan's effort to combat the tentfire so the news was most welcome. Narika and Thorn had left with the animals and the herders late that morning, carrying along a number of barrels and leather sacks that they intended to fill before returning at supper time. The horses and goats would remain with their keepers near the watering spot for the next few days, until the Elders reached a decision on whether the camp would move.

That afternoon, for the third time, Aiwendil sat in Ayar's tent, offering her fresh water from his own jug that he'd carried back that morning. This time, their talk was more serious, and there was very little laughter, "I have no personal illusions," Ayar had confided to Aiwendil after speaking of her hopes for the clan. "My body grows weaker. My hope is to hold on to see Narika wed and Ráma return. But whether that is possible, I cannot say." The dying woman leaned back against her pillow, staring straight at Aiwendil. "But there is something I would ask you to do for me.....a promise I would ask."

Aiwendil sat bolt upright in his chair and squirmed uncomfortably at the mention of a 'promise', "Fair lady, I would help if I could. But I am not too good at these things." Aiwendil sighed and looked away embarassed. He had certainly not been good with people since his arrival in Middle-earth. And his record on promises was even worse. He could not even remember the promise he had made to Manwë, only the stark fact that whatever it was he had not fulfilled it.

"I am a stubborn desert woman who lies on the edge of death," Ayar pressed again. "I have two daughters who mean everything to me. What I ask is not so great. Narika is sure of what she wants and will have the help of the Elders and the love of Thorn to support and guide her. With Ráma...now, things are different. She is still very young."

"But they are twins!" objected Aiwendil.

"Born at the same time perhaps, but Ráma has no idea who she is or what she wants. Promise me you'll help her." she stopped a moment and stared directly at Aiwendil, After my death, there will be war. I feel it in my bones. Indeed, I will tell my daughters to have messengers ride out into the desert and rouse the other friendly clans to join together and strike a blow against Wyrma's heavy hand. I fear that you and your friend have come upon a boiling cauldron that is about to explode. Ráma will need your help, and perhaps that of your friend as well. "

Aiwendil's eyes widened in disbelief, "But I am an old man. What could I possibly do for a young girl in a time of war?" A feeling akin to panic welled up in the istar's heart.

"You have been here a very long time, and have knowledge of the old ways. Ráma is not like her sister; she may need the knowlege you have. And I know you can listen. When you set your mind to it, you are a good listener. I have even seen you tending the small creatures. You are gentle and patient with them. You may have need of such patience with Ráma." A knowing smile crossed Ayar's lips as she reflected on her daughter.

Aiwendil felt as if he was standing on the edge of a precipice. One step to the left, and he would plunge into a valley of bleak dispair and come crashing onto craggy rocks that were clearly visible below. One step to the right, and he would step off into nothingness, with only air underneath. But even nothingness, he reflected, was preferable to jagged rocks and bleak despair.

"Ayar, I fear you're mistaken in making this request. I know nothing of young women. But I promise this. I will remain here a while and let your daughter know that I am here to help her, if she feels the need."

Ayar sunk back into her blankets with a gracious nod, too tired to add anything more. With a smile, she dismissed her visitor. Aiwendil turned towards the open tent flap and quietly disappeared, all the while wondering how he was ever going to explain this situation to Rôg.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Falasmir sat slumped on his throne, his sagging form looking incongruously weak on the intricately carved and gold-painted ornate chair. His eyes were almost lost in the depths of dark hollows, his jowls hanging in his ashen face, making him seem much older than his actual years. His voice had taken on a whining tone. “But what am I to do?” he whimpered.

Wyrma was glad of the protocol that required her to stand in the audience hall; her energetic pose was a contrast appreciated by the only other person in the room, a dark-haired man of Falasmir’s age, though he appeared younger. His eyes gleamed, flashing a brief glance of understanding at the woman before speaking with exaggerated deference.

“Mylady Wyrma, you must understand what troubles Prince Falasmir. It is not only his head which is troubled over the loss of his great ships and the damage of the harbour, his heart is grieved at the death of so many worthy seamen and citizens of this great city as well. Do not press him to action so unduly – in time, he shall order ships to be built anew and recruit seamen and warriors to man them.”

Wyrma swallowed the impatient comment she would have liked to make; she knew that Galandor was right in attempting to appease the ruler of the Corsair city before demanding that he deal with the situation. Pressing him too hard only caused him to retreat even more into the resignation he had shown since the flight of the enemy ship and the destruction of his own. I should be thankful to the Gondorians, she thought wryly. They have accomplished the weakening of this city and its head more quickly and efficiently than I could have hoped to do so. Though I would have liked to have those ships at my command, I know not how I would have gotten a trustworthy crew to sail them – Maenwaith are no seamen.

She bowed respectfully, her face a controlled mask of passivity. “Perhaps we shall accomplish our goals in the Gondorian city without ships,” she said. “I hope to hear from my agents soon. If they succeed in their task, the kingdom may be struck with confusion long enough for us to get soldiers there by horse and on foot.”

Falasmir’s head lifted slightly. “You have no news yet?” he asked.

“No, it is too early,” she reminded him. “I hope for their return soon. Be assured that I will send you report when I hear from them.”

She bowed again as a slight gesture of Falasmir’s hand dismissed her, and left by the side door, waiting in the adjacent room. A few moments later Galandor joined her there. “You were wise and foresightful to counsel me to keep my ships away from the main harbour,” he whispered. “He knows nothing of them, but they will be prepared when they are needed.”

Wyrma nodded, but her eyes flickered toward the door, behind which guards stood, as they both knew. “Later,” she said under her breath.

“Tonight?” he asked, with an impatient gleam in his eyes.

“Tonight,” she affirmed.

[piosenniel]

Rôg

Rôg was lying on his pallet, drowsing in the day’s heat, watching the occasional pass of his ‘escort’s’ legs past the tent’s half closed opening. Soon, the young man assigned to him for the day would take his accustomed seat in the shade of a nearby lean-to and rest himself. It was a ritual they mutually maintained each afternoon now. The cloth bottom of the tent had been rolled up several inches all around, in an effort to encourage some small ventilation. He lay on his back, hands linked behind his head, staring up at the small patch of bright sky through the smoke hole at the top. He was in that state of semi-drowse where thoughts float about in hazy little patches with no attempt at exploration. He was in fact just seconds from sleep when a small, insistent whisper grated against his failing consciousness.

‘Psst! Are you awake?’ a hushed little voice rasped somewhere near his right ear.

Fighting against the thick pull of oblivion, Rôg’s eyes came open. Seeing nothing near him, he sat up, sending a small brown skink scrabbling back from his moving legs.

‘Psst!’ came the tiny sound once again. It was the lizard.

‘Who visits me?’ Rôg asked in a hushed voice, wondering if Aiwendil was trying out this form for some purpose. He drew his limbs into a cross-legged position and looked at the little reptile expectantly. He stifled a surprised squeak when, to his horror, the lizard changed and there sat Miri, knee to knee with him, a large grin on her face.

‘You promised your Papi you wouldn’t do this,’ he returned in a harsh whisper. ‘And how did you learn to be a lizard, if I might ask?’ He shook his head at himself, the answer dawning on him even as he’d asked the question.

‘I promised I wouldn’t be a butterfly!’ she hissed back at him. Miri’s face peered up in defiance at Rôg, her large brown eyes made darker by the low light in the tent. The grin on her face had faded to a thin, straight line of lips, her attitude one of challenge. To her surprise, he chuckled low, reaching out to riffle her hair.

‘My sister loved the little skinks, too,’ he confided, smiling. Then in a more serious tone, he questioned her on how she had managed to make this change. Miri, with the assured confidence of a child, related how she’d figured out the rhyme he’d taught her. ‘It’s not just for butterflies,’ she answered, her voice filled with the certainty of her statement. ‘My brother and I often go out to the rocks at the edge of camp and watch the lizards sunning there in the early morning, or skittering across the sand to catch some bug. I know them pretty well,’ she said smugly. ‘One morning, when he wasn’t finished with his chores, I went out ahead of him. And I tried it out!’ She giggled, adding, ‘And he almost caught me!’

Bright little one! he thought, his eyes crinkling with amusement at her excitement. The remembrance of his discussion with Narika and Thorn intruded, then, and he bent near to her. ‘I’m going to ask you to honor the promise you made your Papi,’ he said to her in a serious voice. ‘And no wiggling around it . . . at least for now,’ he added softening his request. ‘I am leaving for a little while, Miri. My clan, too, has Elders, that help us see our way through to doing what is right and understanding what is wrong. I have questions for them that need figuring out. When I return . . .’ He pause a moment, realizing what he had just said. He hadn’t intended to return at all and here he was making a small promise to this little girl. ‘When I return, I will speak with your Papi and we will see what he might let us do.’ He raised an eyebrow at her as she pursed her lips, considering his request. He could see her struggling with her decision.

‘Well . . . you promise you’re coming back . . . right?’ Her eyes searched his face for any signs of grown-up deceit. She raised her little fist to him, her pinky cocked expectantly.

Rôg laughed aloud at this old familiar gesture from childhood. Not hesitating, he linked his own with hers. ‘I promise, my friend. And you, also?’ She nodded, then released his little finger. ‘One thing, though,’ she said, ‘I can go out and watch the lizards, right? I haven’t got all their little wigglings quite right yet.’ Rôg whispered ‘yes’ to her, then putting his finger to his lips, motioned for her to sneak out the back way. He could hear the scuffling sound of his escort’s feet as he approached the front tent flap. She scurried quietly beneath the tent edge, then turned back quickly with a last comment.

‘The little mice with the big golden eyes that run around the dunes at night – I’m going to have a look at them, too.’ She saw the frown on his face. ‘Just “look”,’ she assured him, scurrying off.

Rôg stood, yawning widely, as the young man cleared his throat just beyond the tent flap. ‘Everything alright in there?’ he asked, his feet shuffling at the entrance. ‘I thought I heard voices?’ Throwing open the flap, Rôg invited the fellow in. ‘Just napping,’ he assured the young man, whose eyes darted around the vacant tent. ‘Must have been talking in my sleep.’ Rôg looked questioningly at the young man. ‘You haven’t, by any chance, seen Aiwendil, have you? I need to speak with him.’

[Child of the 7th Age]

Miri and Ráma

Ráma had gone no more than a few paces outside the tent when she caught a glimpse of a familiar figure scurrying through the camp. Miri came sprinting towards her, with arms outstretched in greeting and an expectent look upon her face.

Customarily at the arrival of a new son or daughter, Eagle parents paired their young one with another child, girls with girls and boys with boys, some ten to fifteen years their elder. The latter earned the title of “helper” and were expected to pass on practical skills like hunting, herding, carving or sewing, whatever they could easily share. The clan regarded these ties quite seriously. A brief ceremony in front of the Elders often marked the parents’ initial choice. Sometimes, the two young ones became nearly as close as family, and remained intimate friends for the remainder of their days.

Ráma had been appointed Miri’s helper. In the past few years, she had taught the girl how to ride a horse as well as to read and write a few words of Westron. Miri’s mother had been anxious for her daughter to begin to master a useful craft like basketry or needlework, but Ráma had little ability of this type and was not interested in trying to learn or teach such skills. Instead, she and Miri had spent numerous afternoons combing the nearby countryside, hunting down interesting plants and animals, sometimes even slipping away to jump into the camp’s waterhole and swim, a practice that was strictly forbidden.

Miri came colliding into Ráma with a thud and immediately wrapped her arms about her waist, “You’ve been gone so long. I have much to tell you.”

“And I, you,” Ráma responded with a hug.

“Oh, no! This time, I have more,” Miri assured her with a wink of an eye and then stared fixedly at the ground, “Only I hope you won’t be mad. I got into a little trouble.”

In a few minutes Miri had blurted out the whole story: how she had turned into a butterfly with the help of Rôg and now had to promise not to do it again. Miri even added a bit of news that she had neglected to tell Rôg. She had managed to transform herself into a lizard, slithering inside the tent where Rôg was speaking with Narika and Thorn. Miri began repeating the conversation word-by-word. For a moment, Ráma listened, too surprised to react; then, she hastily shook her head ‘no’, and knelt down on the sand pulling the young girl towards her, staring straight into her eyes. “You must promise two things. While Rôg is here, you must honor your word not to change into anything else. And there is something even more important. You must never spy on another maenwaith , not now, not later. The only time you can do that is to save your own life or that of others in the clan. When you get older, they will teach you the rights and wrongs of shifting. And that is the very first thing you will learn.”

Miri gazed up and noted the solemn expression on Ráma’s face. Without a word of protest, the younger girl shook her head in agreement, and then reached out and buried her head in Ràma’s shoulder, as a tiny tear slipped down her cheek. “I’m sorry. Only it feels so good. I felt so happy.”

A tight knot constricted in the pit of Ráma’s stomach, as memories long pushed aside came slinking back inside her head. “I know. I know.... And I will do everything I can to help you. I will talk with my sister and see if we can get her to change her mind. Perhaps, she would agree if she herself took over your training.”

A look of alarm registered in Miri’s eyes. “But I don’t want that. If Rôg isn’t here, I want you to teach me.”

Ráma nodded with a sad smile, “That wouldn’t work. I can’t even manage on my own. You need someone to help who knows what they’re doing.”

Miri wondered what she had said that made her older friend so sad. But before she could think any more about that, Ráma had asked her to lead the two of them to Ayar’s new tent. This time, it was the younger girl who spoke with sadness, “Yes, come with me. I know the way. I feel bad about your mother. She was always so nice to me. I don’t understand why she has to leave us so soon….”

As the meaning of these words settled in, Ráma came to the flap of the tent and went inside, with Miri trailing behind her.

[piosenniel]

Gondor - The Star sails south . . .

She looked as if she had seen better years. The breezes that blew along the coast seemed to strain her much patched sails to the limit. And the gulls that perched on the masthead above the crow’s nest seemed nervous . . . wary that the much spliced and mended-looking masts might snap in a stiff wind. In previous voyages, a sun such as was shining this day would have glinted wildly off the highly polished brass of the railings and other metal fittings. But now the tarnished patina seemed grim and dull, defying any attempts of the light to make it glimmer.

It was an altogether weatherworn ship that made its slow way out of the Great River’s bay and turned south, to hug the coastline like a life line. The waves broke against her motleyed hull, worrying away the edges of the multicolored patches of paint that looked to have been laid down one over another through the years. She flew a ragged banner from her topmast . . . the picture of some indiscriminate bird in faded black and silver, now turned grey with time. And scrawled along her bow on either side in readable, if ragged script, was her name, The Sandpiper.

~*~

The Captain of this decrepit looking barque stood on the helm deck with her First Mate. The Helmsman had set the vessel’s southward course, as Pio and Hamar discussed the load of crated cheap tin ware stacked in the hold. ‘You are certain the first three layers of pallets are the tin, Hamar?’ she asked, watching him nod back in assurance. ‘Yes, Captain, and beneath, in identical crates are the other items you requested.’ A tight smile creased her face barely at his assurance. ‘In four days then, we should make the cove where Faragaer and The Scuppered Gull will await us. And hopefully they will have made contact with traders who might give us some direction to where The Star’s Captain and First Mate are held or holed up.’ It was a slender hope, the both of them knew, but it was hope nonetheless.

The crew of Tavar’s ship, The Windrunner manned the ship with accustomed skill, and here and there among them were sailors from the King’s own fleet at his insistence. As was Hamar, who captained one of Elessar’s military vessels. Not smartly turned out as they might have been on their own ships, they were dressed in clean if somewhat worn clothes; their faces were rugged with several days of unshaven beard. And the Captain herself looked much like them, save for the red bandana that held her short cropped curls safe from tangling in the breezes. The only one of the crew that stood out from the others was Baran; his height and bulk impossible to disguise. In the end it was agreed he would front himself as a navvy from the far northern coastlines, a descendant of the fabled Ice Giants of the Great Ice Bay. Wanting to see the southern lands, such as Gondor and what lay beyond.

From her vantage point, Pio could see the Beorning as he swabbed the decks below with others of the crew. He glanced up at her briefly, his brows raised at her scrutiny. She looked down at him and smiled, the image of the mop handle engulfed in his huge hands bringing a moment of lightness to her day. With a wink she shouted down to him. ‘Excellent job, sailor! As you were, then . . . Carry on!’

[Nerindel]

Sorona

Sorona passed silently over the eagle encampment, clan markings on various tents and aged faces among the gathering crowd stood out in her mind; she could feel the uneasiness of their arrival, like a thick fog it blanketing the camp spreading from tent to tent. Rama had warned them that their arrival would not be wholly welcomed but still Sorona was surprised by their trepidation and grew a little apprehensive about revealing herself. She climbed higher into the sky her sharp eyes following Rama as she left her two companions and walked further into the camp.

For the moment, the presence of the two northern strangers occupied the clan’s attentions and they did not yet seem aware of her presence, her new height preventing her shadow from passing over the already unsettled camp. She saw a marked tension in her young Maenwaith friend as she walked with urgency to the centre of the camp. Below she could just make out charred remains of a fire at the camps heart. What has happened here she wondered as Rama stopped to examine the blackened ashes? Immediately the young Maenwaith spun about and determinedly searched for something, stopping several grey haired clansmen, her lips moved hurriedly and a concerned frown deepening on her honeyed brow. The woman’s shoulders slumped in defeated as the elders only shook their heads sympathetically. Sorona circled again to follow Rama back towards the tent where she had left her two companions, her wings now grew heavy and she knew she would soon have to rest, but the camp held no hiding place for a bird of her size, the minute she landed she would be seen and then the questions would begin.

She tried to pull back the memory of the dark haired young woman, who once walked the sands happy and carefree, hoping that she could take its form and at least join the others inside the tent. But nothing happened she was still an eagle and her wings ached from the exertion of maintaining her height, she had no choice she would have to land. Silently she glided to the ground a short distance from the tent her companions shared, for a revealed moment she believed she had managed to land unnoticed, she looked about trying to gain her bearings from the ground, picking out her companions tent ahead she nodded her feathery head and started forwards. A threatening growl stopped her dead in her tracks and she swallowed hard ,something was behind her; slowly she turned to see the dark outline of a large dog, it’s sharp teeth bared in warning. She froze with fear, believing that if she moved so much as an inch the vicious looking creature would have her.

“Who are you?” the dog growled in the same desert dialect that Rama used, “I do not recognise your markings!” he added taking a step forwards, eyeing her suspiciously. Remembering Rama’s warnings, she struggled in her head to find the words to voice an understandable reply to the Maenwaith’s demand.

“Friend, I am a friend,” she whispered hoarsely, fear entering her voice.

“I travel with Rama and her Northern companions,” she continued shakily.

“Please!” she pleaded,

“Asked her if you do not believe me, my name is Sorona, and I come only to speak with your leader and the elders of your clan.” She remained frozen in place her gold-flecked eyes fearfully holding the contemplative gaze of the dog, waiting for it to decide if she was to be believed or not.

[Mithadan]

Mithadan thanked a young shapechanger who had brought them a skin of water and some cushions so that he and Airefalas could rest from their journey. He smiled, but watched as the young man took his place just outside the flap of the tent where he stood alongside another. Both wore short swords at their sides. Mithadan also took note that they had been placed in a tent located in the center of the encampment, so that, even if he and his first mate could evade the two guards outside the tent, they would be seen and apprehended if they sought to leave the camp.

"Weren't we just in this situation?" Mithadan asked Airefalas with a wry grin.

"A cage is a cage, whatever its name may be," responded Airefalas with a scowl. "At least our rooms at the palace were free of sand and had chairs and beds."

"Nonetheless," continued Mithadan. "I would rather be here than there right now."

"Perhaps," grumbled Airefalas. "But on the whole, I would rather be in Gondor. It is hellishly hot here."

Mithadan nodded, then approached the tent flap. A cord hung from its edge, and a peg hung from the fabric of the tent just to the side of the portal. He swung the flap open and quickly twisted the cord around the peg so that the flap remained open. The guards spun around and frowned, their hands straying to the hilts of their swords. Mithadan held up his hands, palms outwards, then fanned his face. "Hot," he said. The guards nodded, but stayed a bit closer to the tent.

"Lovely," said Airefalas. "Nothing like a hot breeze to cool a tent."

Mithadan did not answer. He was staring at a man who was passing by. An old man with a long beard and dirty robes. He had seen this man before. Several years had passed and they had only met briefly in the vale of the Anduin not far from Nindalf, the fens below Rauros... Several years and three thousand as well. He struggled to recall a name to match the aged face for a moment, then burst through the opening in the tent, to the surprise of the guards, and cried out: "Radagast!"

[piosenniel]

Rôg

Rôg stepped away from his tent and made for the center of the camp. His escort followed along at a discrete distance occasionally nodding with his head to give direction when Rôg looked back for confirmation. Round one of the middle tents, a number of people were gathered, including two men who stood guard without. ‘Who is in there?’ Rôg asked, motioning his escort to come near. Unlike the men who stood on alert outside the tent, Rôg’s escort bore no weapon.

‘Strangers, like you,’ the man said, standing quite near, his eyes narrowed at the tent. ‘But unlike you,’ he said with a half smile, ‘they may be dangerous.’ Rôg laughed at the man’s assessment of him, and was about to say something in return, when he spied Aiwendil coming toward him. Rôg raised his hand, catching the old man’s attention, and moved forward to meet him. His step faltered for a moment, the greeting dying on his lips, as a man burst from the guarded tent. The guards drew their swords, surprised at the suddenness of the movement. And Rôg heard the man yell out, ‘Radagast!’ as he moved toward the old man.

With a speed that surprised his escort, Rôg ran to stand between Aiwendil and the man, barring the way as he stuck out his arm to fend off the stranger. ‘You know this man, Aiwendil?’ he asked, not taking his eyes off Mithadan.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Surinen

Surinen arrived at his Uncle Fador’s tent bearing freshly made bread the baker had immediately sent in care of his son when he first heard that a Gondorian sea captain and his first mate where in the midst of the eagle encampment, Indeed in the tent of his late wife's cousin. And though the old man had neither seen a ship nor set foot in the surf, he had heard of Gondor and seen how, along with the ascendance of this northern King the Haradrim raids had grown infrequent, the Eagles finding a short respite before their troubles began anew. And so lecturing his son on the importance of hospitality and caution, and the advantages of good first impressions, he had carefully wrapped the food, handing Surinen the stack of hot flat bread to be taken quickly before it grew cold, also giving him a bowl containing a sweet custard of streamed new milk, as a treat for the new comers. Then shooing the wiry outrider off with a wave of his hands, he had settled down beside the remains of his fire to enjoy peace as curiosity kept the women from gossiping around the bakers tent, as was usual this time of day.

But Surinen, his stomach pulling at itself at the tempting smell that emanated from this packet, rushed to the center of the camp, his fingers burning from the hot oil that soaked through the cloth as he made his way through the curious children and elders gathering about Fador’s tent. Having just returned from helping transport much needed water into the camp, he had not yet eaten and just as he had hoped to sit in the shade of his father’s tent and eat his meager portion, Dinsûl had sent him on this awkward errand. But he knew his father to be right in doing this, and despite his protests, Surinen was quietly pleased with Dinsûl’s kind ways, though not so sure about the beneficiaries of his good will. Still he wondered what could possess Ráma to bring such people here, and he hoped that she might guide them away again before the camp was moved. If she only knew of the troubles the last few days had brought upon her people, surely she would never have led the strangers here with the seriousness of her mother’s illness.

More than just hungry as he approached his cousin sitting outside her father’s tent, Surinen was feeling ill tempered and wished to find Narayad. For after the missing incense pot was found to have fallen out of his pack, indeed, it having been tampered with as well, his fellow outrider had been quickly replaced in his duties, and now wandered though camp awaiting the decision of the elders on what was to be done with him. For though he was still treated kindly, Narayad had mentioned he could feel their eyes upon him. And even Latah had been gently informed that now Ayar was no longer in her own tent, she would not be needed to assist the leader until such time when a new tent could be raised for her. These things Narayad, in his frustration had confided to Surinen, brooding in his inactivity. And Surinen turned to pondering how he might be able to help his friend.

As he walked past the guards posted outside the door, Latah smiled at at her cousin warmly from her position outside the tent and opened a beaten brass container for him to place the bread in before setting it on the ground with top ajar, taking the bowl also. “Thank you cousin,” she said, lifting the cloth from over top of the bowl. “What is this? You would honor our guests with first milk?”

“A goat gave birth today, and Dinsûl would have me bring it to them. But where Ráma, that I may welcome her home?” Surinen asked.

“She left in a great hurry,” Latah said. “Even I have not even been able to greet her.”

“And Narayad?”

Latah’s smile faded. “I do not know where he is, and he is growing more troubled each day. Suri, I am afraid it is too much for him to bear, waiting for this judgment upon him. The elders and Ayar have all had too much to occupy their thoughts”, she said nodding over her shoulder at the elders and the tent behind her. "Yet we are to be patient, and trust their wisdom.”

The sorrow in her voice drove home to his heart, so that feeling uncomfortable he wished to change the subject. “Then since your husband is not here, perhaps there is food to spare for a poor relative,” he said hopefully. And seeing that she hesitated, explaining that she had not expected so much company, he continued in a loud whisper, “Surely you are not planning to poison these strangers, cousin!” To which Latah, pulling the cloth from off her shoulder beat him with it before using it to open the lid of her steaming vessel.

“It is not done yet cousin,” she said with the most sinister look she could muster. “But when the poison has reached it’s fullness, be sure I will give you the first bowl!”

Surinen laughed to see her spirit. "And I will finish every drop, dear cousin." Then walking further around the tent he quite comfortably assumed the shape of a dog, more or less ignoring the upheaval about him. There would plenty of people about to keep a look out for mischief.

Digging a cool niche in the ground before he circled down to wait for either his food or his friend to arrive, he rested his chin on the ground watching his kinsmen as they came and went, having half a mind to eavesdrop on the muffled conversation he heard inside the tent. But as he tried to distinguish among the voices, a shadow passed across his muzzle.

Lifting his gaze to the sky, he saw a large eagle circling overhead, as if something in the camp was of interest to it. In panic he thought of young Miri, and when the bird dropped swiftly behind Fador’s tent, Surinen sprung to his feet slipping behind it. Greatly relieved to find that the eagle had not sighted prey, but stood looking briefly disoriented in the maze of tents, the dog noted the intruder’s unfamiliar scent, and wondered if it was truly a bird at all or perhaps Rôg, but there was no sign of his escort. And to Surinen's alarm the bird started moving toward Fador’s tent.

With a deep growl growing in the back of his throat, Surinen’s hackles rose. “Who are you?” he questioned stepping forward slowly with his lips curled tightly back. “I do not recognize your markings.”

The creature froze, and Surinen felt thankful that he might not have to feel the clutch of those cruel talons. “Friend, I am a friend. I travel with Ráma and her Northern companions,” the bird finally spoke with a wavering voice. Spoke in Surinen’s own tongue, declaring her name to be Sorona, and her desire to speak with the leader and the clan’s elders.

What has Ráma done! Surinen thought. And who else will show up on our doorstep!

Suddenly he heard someone exclaim “Radagast” from the other side of the tent followed quickly by the sound of unsheathing swords, and saw out of the corner of his eye Rôg running toward the tent followed closely by his escort. Worried for Latah’s safety and not wishing to lose track of this newest discovery, Surinen began to bark for all he was worth. Is seemed the most natural thing to do at the time, but Sorona jumped back several steps flapping her wings, and in his confusion the sudden urge to catch this creature overpowered Surinen’s good sense. Running at her, the mottled dog gently but firmly grabbed her leg in his mouth and lay down with closed eyes, awaiting the piecing blow from her free leg, but determined to keep her from flying away, muttering from his full mouth, “I'm sorry, but don’t go. Not yet, don’t leave,” as he thought painfully about his father’s lecture on first impressions.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil glanced briefly at the stranger and then over at Rôg with a slight shrug of his shoulders, as if to indicate he had no idea who this fellow was but he seemed perfectly harmless. He was still remembering his recent conversation with Ayar and feeling correspondingly peevish. His first instinct was to pretend he hadn't heard anything from the stranger and continue trudging on. The woman was clearly failing; only her unwavering will had kept her alive this long. Once Ráma returned and Ayar had a chance to speak with her daughter, she would surely depart Arda. And, to be truthful, he would miss her.

Pulling back from these gloomy thoughts, he focused on the problem at hand by looking the stranger up and down, but still could not remember who he was. It had been some time since anyone had addressed him as "Radagast". After the war had ended and Olorin had given him the grim news that he would not be returning on Cirdan's ship, he had determined never to use that name again. Stubbornly clinging to whatever cloudy vestiges of the West he could dredge up from the back of his mind, he had sternly pronounced that his name was, and had always been Aiwendil, and none should call him otherwise.

"Perhaps you are mistaken, friend, for I have no memory of you, although once I did go by the name of Radagast. But it has been countless years since I journeyed through the vale of Anduin...... More years than you have walked on this earth, I believe."

The old man hobbled over to Rôg, leaning against his comrade's shoulder as the two turned about and began trekking towards the tent. But before Aiwendil had gone more than half a dozen paces, he suddenly halted and stared back at the stranger, " I do remember you. How could I forget? You and the Star....and your wife Piosenniel. In fact, I saw your wife in Minas Tirith just before I left the city. She mentioned that the Star had sailed to Umbar. But I have not seen you in endless years. And to be truthful, seeing you here is not exactly what I would deem a good omen."

The istar turned towards Rôg with only the slightest hint of a smile, "This gentleman and his wife are people of honor, but wherever they go, trouble follows. Once I was called down to the Anduin where they had sailed in with several shiploads of friends, whom I was persuaded into helping. For almost fifty years, I had a running argument with one of these, a particularly clever and persistent woman named Cami who was continually beseeching me for one thing or another in her efforts to provide for her people. Since her kin made their home along the western borders of what was later called Mirkwood, it was difficult to avoid them."

In truth, these early days in Middle-earth and the Hobbits who had lived there were among Aiwendil's best memories. But once Cami had moved on, he had lost all touch with her people, and had not spoken with any of them in the succeeding years, despite the role they had later played in the wars.

"I shall be all right, Rôg," he reassured his friend. "Give me just a moment to catch up on some old news, and I'll be along."

Once Rôg had retreated, he approached the stranger and spoke, "Mithadan? That is your name? How do you come to be in the middle of this desert? Your wife mentioned you had travelled to Umbar to represent Gondor's trading interests. But Umbar is a long way from the Eagle encampment."

"And may I offer a little advice? For the sake of your lovely wife, you may wish to consider returning to the Star and sailing homeward. The head of the Eagle clan lies close to death. There are persistent rumors throughout the camp that her injury was no accident but the result of foul play, a poison somehow injected into her body. As soon as the Elders discover who is to blame, they will demand that someone pay." He sighed and repeated the exact words that Ayar had spoken to him to emphasize how bady Ráma would need his help. "I fear that you and your friend have come upon a boiling cauldron that is about to explode."

[Mithadan]

With an open palm, Mithadan gently moved the sword of his young guard away from his ribs, where it had sliced a neat line across his shirt. With a nod to the other guard who stood poised to put his blade in use, Mithadan took a half step back, even as he digested the words of the Istar. He took note of the weariness that caused Radagast's face to be even more drawn than he remembered it, then responded to the warning.

"I beg your pardon...Aiwendil," he began. "But I fear that as regards my friend and myself the cauldron has already boiled over. As for trouble following me, this time it appears that I have well nigh tripped over it. The Lonely Star is long gone now and, with any luck, though I've had little enough recently, she is now nearing Minas Anor. It seems that we have fallen into a web of intrigue, though we have, for now, avoided the spider."

He quickly told the tale of how he and Airefalas had come to Umbar, the dissemblings of Falasmir, his meetings with Rama and their escape from the burning city. However, he excluded mention of Korpulfr and Tinar, judging that, from Rama's discussion with Sorona, his questions regarding these people should wait for another time. Even as he spoke, several of the Shapeshifters gathered round to see what the trouble was.

"You burned Falasmir's corsairs?" exclaimed one of the guards, with a laugh. Several of the onlookers smiled and clapped at this news. Airefalas, noting that the guards had lowered their weapons, emerged from the tent as well. "Why is it that the news of our little bonfire always seems to cause such happiness?" he asked with a wry grin. Then he gestured to the old man. "Friend of yours, Mithadan?"

"I've not seen him in an age and more," Mithadan answered with a chuckle. "But yes. This is...Aiwendil. You recall Mithrandir, Airefalas? Aiwendil is..."

"Very weary," interjected Radagast loudly. "And perhaps we should speak further later...in private. It seems that you and your friend are not going anywhere in the near future. Perhaps you are meant to be here. I do not know. But I must rest now. We will speak later, over dinner perhaps?" With that, Radagast, or Aiwendil as he was now known, turned and walked quickly away...

[Nerindel]

Sorona

For an uncomfortable moment that seemed like an eternity to Sorona the two creatures simply looked at each other. She waited nervously for the Maenwaith to make up his mind about her, but before the dog could make his decision, a cry rose up within the camp.

“Radagast!” Sorona instinctively turned her head recognising the Adunaic name of an old man to whom she owed her life, But as her eyes searched for the recipient of the name the dog before her suddenly began barking loudly. Startled she jumped back, flapping her wings in panic, Gripped with terror she instinctively turned to escape the dog’s threatening presence, but the dog rushed at her, grabbing one of her legs in its strong powerful looking jaws. She closed her eyes fearfully losing her balance and falling beak first to the sandy ground. Her heart drummed furiously as she slowly opened her eyes realising that her canine captor held her leg gently in its great maw, wishing only to restrain her, not to harm her.

“I’m sorry, but don’t go. Not yet, don’t leave,” the Maenwaith, muttered though a mouthful of her leg. Her heart still pounding with fear she slowly nodded her golden head.

“I will let you go now, but please don’t fly away,” the dog continued hesitantly.

“You have my word,” Sorona returned nervously, not knowing if her word would mean anything to these people, her people she reminded herself sadly. Were things that bad that they even treated their own kind with suspicion and distrust, yes Rama had warned her that this was so, but to actually witness it was more disheartening that she could have ever imagined. She wished Rama was here at least then she could convince her captor that she was no threat to him or his clan. It seemed though that her word was enough, the dog slowly released its gentle grip and as she shook the sand from her feathers, he stepped back and took the form of a slight, wiry young man. His dark eyes regarded her expectantly for a moment, as if he was waiting for her to do something. His gaze then turned to a bemused frown the same look she had seen several times on Rama’s face when they had spoken together, only this young man made no move to hide his confusion as he stared at her intently. Suspicion again beginning to show on his warmly toned face. Then it dawned on her, he was waiting for her to take on a mannish form.

“Of course, it must be customary to address each other in their mannish form,” she muttered to herself the words coming out in the more comfortable tongue of the eagles. She was suddenly aware how rude she must have seemed to the young Mainwaith woman and now to this young man. Her shoulders slumped but she raised her head so her gold-flecked eyes met his.

“It is your custom to address each other in this form?” she sighed, indicating his new form. The young man nodded his head confused further by this question. Still struggling with a language that she had not used in 18 years, she continued,

“This form is all I have known for many years,” The young mans eyes widened in surprise,

“But why would…,” he begun, but Sorona gently cut him off raising a wing and shaking her head.

“Part from necessity, part out of fear,” was the only answer she would give, to speak more was yet too painful and the memories too broken to make any real sense.

“Regardless to say that any other forms that I may have once taken are now nothing but distant memories. I have tried to recall the image of the woman I once was, but so far to no avail.” She did not convey to him the pain and regret that came with trying to recall the images of her former self. Nor of the doubt that she had that, she would ever be able to take the mannish form of her past.

“It is not my intention to be rude and I know that I am the intruder here, but I must ask you to have patience with this old bird, I give you my word that I will not leave unless I am asked to do so,” she paused for a moment considering weather or not to say more,

“I believe that ….” she hesitated, still unsure of exactly what she believed, or if she should burden this complete stranger with the portent of an impeding danger, that she still wasn’t sure was real or not!
“I have been away to long,” she sighed, deciding to keep the contents of her dreams for the chosen wise ones of the clan. The young man looked anxiously between her and the commotion still ensuing outside the Gondorians tent.

“I too should like to find out what is going on,” she offered cautiously. The young man paused for a moment then nodded curtly, keeping close to her as they started forward. “My name is Surinen,“ the young man informed her as they gently pushed through the gathering crowd, many of the Maenwaith stopping to stare at the eagle walking by the outrider’s side, but she paid them no heed intent on the two men at the centre of the disturbance.

“Thorondil,” she whispered recognising the old man. The Captain was relaying his escape from the city of the Corsairs and Sorona found herself thankful that he had not mentioned the little raven or his household. she already knew that she would have to eventually asked the captain what he knew about them, but it could wait she would speak with the Istar, seeking his counsel if he would give it. But not here or now with so many people about and she could not be certain that the Istar would even remember her. Instead as the old man turned wearily to leave, she stayed with her escort as she had promised.

“Who leads the clan?” she asked realising that she did not even know the name of the person to whom she would relay her dark warning.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Surinen

By the time they reached the other side of the tent, they were met by a tangible display of the tension that pervaded the camp. The guards had in fact, drawn their swords and the sea captain was stepping backward obligingly, thus removing his person from the proximity of the steel blades aimed at him, his shirt now rent at the chest. Other than that minor casualty, no harm seemed to have come to anyone. And looking for Latah, the outrider found that she was safe, indeed he noticed her staring fixedly at the tear in the visitor’s garments, and felt sure that his diligent cousin was already trying to figure out how to go about mending it, when she hadn’t the words to ask outright if she might do so.

‘Thorondil,’ a voice said softly, half obscured by the murmuring of the crowd. As he heard the whisper beside him, Surinen attention shifted and he looked at the eagle questioningly, trying to glean from those sharp eyes who this Thorondil might be. Had yet another arrived unbeknownst to him? For of the guests, all save one were now standing outside the opening to Fador’s tent, none of them having given this name. But turning back again to follow her gaze he saw the tense expressions of his kinsmen quickly melt into grins as the guest told of how he and his companion had lately outwitted Lord Falasmir. Laughter erupted sporadically as the story was translated and spread throughout the crowd, the Eagles clapping to hear how their guest’s cunning had resulted in the potentate’s great humiliation. And so temporarily reassured by the mutual distrust of this miserable Lord of the coast, the guards lowered their blades, and Surinen, beaming at the news, was no longer thinking of the curious name of Thorondil, but rather of how fitting it was that the corsairs, the pride of the one who thought to harbor the leader of the Dragons, had gone up in flames.

But Surinen could see that Sorona had not followed the tale, seemingly deep in her own thoughts, and though he longed too, he did not question her, but rather watched disinterestedly as the other Gondorian appeared at his captain’s side and Aiwendil and Rôg departed. his mind was full of burgeoning questions about the maenwaith beside him. “Who leads the clan?” Sorona asked in her strangely unaccustomed way, as if her mouth had forgotten how to form the subtle sounds. This eagle, he reminded himself, had been just that, an eagle, for many years. And so the stories of the elder’s must be true, one could loose the ability to assume one’s native shape. But having the high form of his clan and speaking the Eagle’s dialect, the outrider wondered if she were of his blood somehow, belonging to this very encampment and it’s people. But after Rôg’s appearance, the outrider did not wish to make any assumptions in this regard, though he did feel more kindly disposed toward her as a result. And though many were the glances cast her way by the clansman, they were mainly curious, as if they could not place her.

“Who leads our clan?” Surinen repeated. “Hasn’t Ráma told you? It is her mother, Ayar, who we follow. Though you have come at a bad time to meet her. She is very ill, and has taken to her bed many days ago.” A quick flash of light seen from out of the corner of his eye, told him that the guards had once again raised their swords menacingly, the men from the north retiring once again to the interior of the tent. “That is one reason why my people are angry and in no mood for strangers,” he added with a sigh. “It is thought that someone has purposefully brought this deadly harm upon the Meldakhar.”

Shaking her head, Sorona looked at him and shifted her wings, folding them tightly against her sides. “Will she be alright?” she asked fixing him her wide-eyed stare. Surinen dropped his gaze to the ground sadly. “Do you know who would do this?” she queried, replacing her question when she saw the distress it had caused.

“It is rumored that some among us know,” he admitted. “The Meldakhar is a very wise woman, Sorona, with few enemies. But there are some who do not think her wise, and one to whom Ayar’s strength is a trial. And though I do not know, I think it is this one who has brought of our great sadness.”

“But who is that, and to what purpose would this be done?”

“Perhaps it would be better if you saved that question for Ráma, for I know too little and talk too much. And have only been given dreams that I don’t understand,” he said attempting to smile, but his heart felt heavy and began to look around uncomfortably to see where Latah might have gone.

[Ealasaide]

"I have not seen him in an age and more," Mithadan answered Airefalas' question with a chuckle. "But yes. This is... Aiwendil. You recall Mithrandir, Airefalas? Aiwendil is..."

Airefalas raised an eyebrow as the old man cut Mithadan off rather loudly and put an abrupt end to what Airefalas had thought so far to be a rather friendly conversation. He watched as Radagast-Aiwendil, whatever his name was, suggested to Mithadan that they continue their conversation later in private and walked away.

"Hmm. More secrets," he thought to himself, but said nothing as the old man and his younger friend disappeared among the tents of the encampment. While Airefalas had never met Mithrandir, the name was quite familiar to him, as it was to all people of Minas Tirith. Airefalas had only been a boy of ten or eleven at the time of the war, already a midshipman on the Bluefin and caught up in the perilous business of wartime shipping, dodging corsairs, and fighting Sauron's minions on the water whenever they were unable to evade them, but he knew very well what role Mithrandir had played in determining the fate of Gondor, and, indeed, all of Middle Earth. Mithrandir had been one of the istar. Did Mithadan mean to imply that this old fellow was an istar as well? He looked again in the direction in which the old man had gone.

"No, I guess we won't be going anywhere anytime soon," he added aloud as one of the guards again raised his sword, implying that the Gondorians were not to consider following the other two visitors. Turning, he went back inside the tent, where he was soon joined by Mithadan. He gestured to the fresh slice in Mithadan's shirt.

"Well, now we've each had a shirt destroyed courtesy of our new friends," he said casually, more for the benefit of the listening guards than from an abiding interest in his and Mithadan's laundry situation. Even so, he still regretted the loss of the shirt Ráma had shredded with her claws when she had turned into the cat back in Umbar. "I don't know about you, but I've only got one shirt left after this one. If they keep it up, in a matter of days, we'll both be running about half-naked."

Mithadan laughed. "Frankly, I think we've got bigger problems than ripped shirts. It seems we've stepped out of the frying pan right into the boiling cauldron."

Airefalas nodded ruefully. "It does look that way. I've never been guarded so much for my own protection in all my life." He walked over to the table where the food had been laid out and, closing his hand around the hilt of Ráma's dagger, wrenched it free of the both the table and the wooden plate. The cheese that the knife had pinned to the plate, however, came with it. The guards, seeing him reach for the cheese, apparently decided that their charges were settling back into the food and idle talk of confinement and retreated outside. Airefalas turned and waved the knife, cheese and all, thoughtfully at Mithadan.

"That old fellow just now," he said in Quenyan. "Were you about to say he is an istar? Like Mithrandir?"

Mithadan nodded. "Yes," he answered, speaking in Quenyan as well. "I can't imagine what he's doing here, but it's a tremendous stroke of luck that he should turn up."

"Hmm." Still carrying both Ráma's knife and the cheese, Airefalas went to stand near the open tent flap. "That's good, his being a friend of yours and all, but I don't much like the sound of what he had to say about the poisoning and how they will be looking for someone to blame."

"Neither do I," rejoined Mithadan. "It seems we have arrived at a very bad time. I'm hoping that Rad-, er, Aiwendil will be able to tell us more of what is happening at dinner."

"Do you suppose he knows anything about all of this other business that Ráma spoke of?"

"You mean the maenwaith city that Wyrma intends to build? I don't know."

"Actually, I was thinking more of the threat to Gondor." Airefalas stepped out of the way as a young maenwaith woman entered the tent carrying a bowl covered with a damp cloth. He watched idly as she placed the bowl on the table and set about tidying up. Like many of the tribal women they had seen around the camp, she was very pretty, small and slight, with thick, black hair that tumbled down her back in a cascade of loose waves. Her movements were quick and graceful as she went about her work, reminding Airefalas of the silvery snail darters he was used to seeing in the shallows of the river deltas. Realizing that he was mentally likening this lovely young woman to a fish, Airefalas colored slightly and looked away.

"Ehm..." he stammered, returning his attention to Mithadan. "Do you think it's possible that Minas Tirith could really be attacked by dragons?"

Before Mithadan had a chance to respond, the young woman, having caught sight of the knife and cheese in Airefalas' hand, approached him and, with a polite movement that was something between curtsy and a bow, pointed to the cheese. Not knowing what else to do, Airefalas handed it to her, knife and all. She carried both items over to the table and set them down, extracting the knife from the cheese wheel with a decisive movement. Then, she took a long look at the knife and turned around, holding it up for Airefalas to see, saying something about Ráma in her tribal dialect.

To Airefalas, it sounded like, yatta-yatta-yatta Ráma yatta? Guessing at what she was saying, he shook his head, answering her in Westron. "No, that belongs to Ráma. Not mine."

Not understanding, the girl gave him a lengthy stare with her very dark eyes, then tucked the knife into her belt. Turning back to the table, she said something else about Ráma in her tribal tongue. Then she picked up a fresh knife and cut a few slices of cheese from the wheel that Airefalas had been holding and handed them to him. He took them and thanked her, but as soon as her back was turned, he shot Mithadan a puzzled look.

“I guess she thought you wanted some cheese,” suggested Mithadan, falling back into Westron.

“I guess so,” answered Airefalas, giving the cheese in his hand a second glance. He really didn’t want it, but now felt duty-bound to eat at least part of it. “But back to the dragons. You know more about these people than I do. Do you think that this Wyrma can really transform herself into a dragon? And, if she can, do you think she can marshal the kind of power she would need to actually threaten Minas Tirith?”

Mithadan's Post:

A memory arose in Mithadan's mind at Airefalas' words. It was a scene which had haunted his dreams for years. He was trugding wearily along a road which ran towards mountains that soared up before him. The smell of smoke and sulphurous odors polluted the air. He looked back over his shoulder and saw a great city. Its walls and towers had been made of white stone, but now they were blackened and burning. Dark forms writhed before the walls in a ghastly dance as smoke and steam poured from the ruined city. He shuddered and turned away, following a line of Elves along the road.

A winged presence appeared from the sky, so far away and dark that at first he thought it was Thorondor, come to guard the retreat. It could not be Angara, because even at such a distance her skin would have caught the rays of the rising sun. As the figure drew closer, Mithadan quailed, turning frantically to call a warning down the mountain to the retreating Elves. "But the books say there were no flying dragons," he thought wildly, "not yet."

And yet, there it was, black and silver, flying with a fixed focus straight towards the descendant of Eärendil. But even as he watched the figure shrank and dwindled, until all that was left was a small black and white jackdaw, and even this disappeared as it landed at his feet, leaving just a small woman crumbled on the stones, crying at his feet.

And so this is how Angara, the golden dragon, found them. Two lonely figures huddled together on the mountain. Mithadan looked up into the glowing eyes of the dragon, who asked, quietly as Death, "I cannot hear Piosenniel. Where is she?"

"Dead..." whispered Mithadan. Then he shook his head and smiled grimly at Airefalas' confused expression. Yet he could still hear the rushing wings of the black and silver dragon in his mind. "I'm sorry," he said to his friend. "My thoughts were heavy for a moment." He straightened his back before continuing. "Yes, I am afraid that I do not doubt Wyrma's ability to take the form of a dragon. And yes, she would be a very great threat to Minas Anor. For this reason alone, even if there were no other reasons, we should lend our aid to Rama's people, little though our help may be...."

[piosenniel]

Rôg

Rôg withdrew a short distance from where Aiwendil had paused to speak with the man. He kept his eye on the fellow, looking for any display of hostility toward his companion. But the old man seemed comfortable enough with the one he had named Mithadan, and Rôg fell to thinking where he had heard the name before.

The ship! That was it – the one that Aiwendil had wanted to hire to bring them south . . . the one that was unavailable . . . so the Elf had said. Ah, yes – the Elf. Piosenniel, as Aiwendil had just said. Rôg recalled his glimpse of her in the Inn in Minas Tirith. Menacing, for all her fair appearance, he thought, as she faced off with that Beorning. Rôg shivered at the old fellow’s assessment of the couple. . . . people of honor, but wherever they go, trouble follows . . .

The conversation between Aiwendil and Mithadan was brief, and near the end, Rôg moved closer to the pair to offer his arm to the old man. Aiwendil looked tired, both in body and spirit. Rôg heard his companion say that he would see Mithadan later over dinner and he caught his warning to the man that the captain and his first mate had come into a dangerous situation, a ‘boiling cauldron set to explode', as he termed it. For a moment, as they stepped away from the man’s tent, Rôg thought of asking Aiwendil to come away with him, leaving these problems behind.

But then he recalled his little promise to Miri. Besides her pleasure at having learned another shape, she had referenced briefly in the conversation her family’s and her own fear of what was happening. The clan leader very ill; the threat of those of the maenwaith who sought to impose their ways on the Eagle clan; the unspoken fear she had picked up from her parents’ hushed conversations that something very, very bad might happen if they weren’t careful. It troubled him greatly that his little friend should have to bear a burden such as this. But he remained unclear about what help he could or should offer . . .

Aiwendil muttered peevishly under his breath as they walked away from Mithadan’s tent, Rôg’s escort dutifully trailing behind. Rôg leaned toward his companion and spoke low so that his words remained private between them. ‘Is there something I might help you with?' he asked. 'Something that troubles you?' Receiving no reply, save a long, weary sigh, the younger man went on. 'I know you have been visiting with the clan leader these past days, Aiwendil . . . and I am wondering, what does she say of this threat to her clan? And the Elders, why do they not come in to assist their people? For the life of me, I cannot fathom this.’

Aiwendil halted and stepped back to peer into the young man’s face. From his tired visage, the old man’s crystal blue eyes flashed in a measured and considering manner. Rôg, supposing his companion’s look might mean he would choose not to answer fully, touched Aiwendil lightly on his forearm.

‘I spoke with Narika and Thorn, as you know. Soon, I need to visit my own clan; there are things my clan leader asked me to do and I need to let him know what I have found and done. You are welcome to stay here with the Eagles, Narika and Thorn have said so to me, until I return.’ He paused for a moment, looking thoughtfully at Aiwendil. The old fellow was a difficult one to gauge when he fell deep into himself, as he seemed to have now. ‘I have some decisions to make,’ he went on, ‘and questions to ask of my own Elders before I return.’ He paused once again. ‘But I need to have some information with which to frame my questions . . .’

[Child of the 7th Age]

The tent was empty except for Ayar and her serving maid Claris, the latter a grey-haired woman who had been serving Ráma's family since the twins were born and whom Narika had instructed to watch over her mother while she and Thorn rode south. Grey shadows played along the canvas walls, the light kept at bay by heavy leather flaps intentionally strapped tight over window openings, since Ayar's eyes could no longer bear the sharp rays of the sun.

The young woman standing at the entrance could just make out her mother's gaunt figure tangled in the bedcovers. Ráma could also see that her mother was sleeping: a sleep that seemed eerily deathlike in the depth of weariness and pallor that had fallen over Ayar's face. The vibrant and animated woman Ráma had known was gone. In her place was someone who looked like a stranger.

Ráma walked forward, sinking to her knees and burying her head in the bedclothes. Her initial reaction was to wonder whether this could really be happening, or if she had fallen into a troubled dream and would awake in the morning with everything all right. The others in camp had been afraid to disclose her mother's illness. They had wanted to wait for her sister to come, hoping that Narika would find the right words. Ráma's earlier anger and frustration dissolved, replaced by loneliness and a trace of fear. Her mother was the one fixed point in her life, the person she could always rely on. Only now her mother was leaving. She could not have put her feelings into words, but she felt as if years had been stripped away and she was once again a small child hoping and believing that her mother could somehow make things right.

Claris leaned over and placed a kiss on the young woman's brow, whispering a brief explanation of what had happened in recent days and then adding, "Ráma, I'm so glad you're here. We all feared you would arrive too late."

The young woman looked up through tear-stained eyes and replied, "I would have come faster if I had known."

"But there was no way to warn you with the storm. And Thorn said he'd left a message for you to return at once."

Ráma nodded glumly in acknowledgment, part of her wishing that she had never met Mithadan and Airefalas, and wondering whether things would have turned out differently if she'd returned before the unknown assailant had struck. But she knew her mother would have insisted otherwise. A word once given is not withdrawn. And she had promised the Gondorians that she would help them find their missing friend.

"Was she so ill from the beginning?" Ráma pressed.

"Even worse. At first we could not rouse her. But the stranger Aiwendil arrived and was able to help. She has remained alert for several days. This morning, she seemed no different and said goodbye to Narika and Thorn before they rode south to inspect the herds. But since then, she has worsened. And even Aiwendil's potions do little to help. I did not know what to do. It is beyond my skill."

"I do not know either. I am no healer. But you must have a messenger fly to my sister and ask her to return. Reassure her that Ayar lives but that she must hurry back. Also run to see if Yalisha is in camp and can come to help."

Claris slipped out as Ráma had bidden. At the same time, Ráma noticed that Miri was curled up in a small ball not far from the door, too nervous to draw attention to herself by leaving yet uncertain if she should come inside. Ráma beckoned the girl over and asked her to refill the water jug and then come back. As the child disappeared out the door, Ráma heard a rustling in the covers beside her. Ayar stirred, opened her eyes, and gazed up with a glint of a smile. Using all the strength she could muster, the older woman leaned close and spoke to her daughter, "I was afraid you would not come. I could not leave without saying goodbye."

"Hush, mother. You mustn't say such things. You will get well soon."

"No, child. There should be truth between us. Soon I will leave behind this poor shell and fly free across the stars. Do not pity me. It is you and your sister who must stay and face the problems here. There are things I must say to you and, if I can, also to your sister. But if time will not allow, you must pass on my words to Narika and the Elders. Promise me, little one."

Ráma reached out to squeeze Ayar's hand and indicate her agreement, "Yes. I'll listen carefully and do whatever I can....."

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Thorn and Narayad

Thorn had been pleased to find that the herds were in good order and that nearly all had made the trip with without incident, with only one lost along the way. The animals were hungry though, and were busily intent upon filling their stomachs, forcing Narika and him to ride in separate directions to inspect the far ranging flocks. Fingering the bangle still resting in his pocket as he stood at the northern fringe, Thorn thought of how he no longer needed to give Narika such tokens of remembrance, but would soon be presenting her with the ordinate jewelry of a married woman to be her insurance should he die, as tradition dictated. The gold of his grandmother long since having been melted down and cast into new pieces in anticipation of this union, laying in the care of his mother for many years, while he had been in Umbar. But he regretted the timing of it, thinking he had waited over long. He had always thought of Narika with a joyous heart and had imagined that this ceremony would echo that contentment, but now it seemed destined to be overshadowed, veiled in sadness. Still he would do what he could to ease Ayar’s mind, and sought to support Narika. If only Ráma would arrive quickly enough.

“A rider, a rider!” one of the herdsman announced pointing to the horizon. The sharp-eyed youth had spotted a small cloud of dust far to the north, rapidly approaching. Thorn and the others readied their weapons, unsure of who this might be, perhaps a Haradrim outrider had also discovered this water. But after a few moments the youth shouted out to Thorn once more, “It is Narayad, on the piebald stallion!”

Riding out to meet him, Thorn asked why he had come, was there news in the encampment? But Narayad had left at daybreak and did not yet know of Ráma’s return or of the people she had brought with her. “No, he said. All is as you left it. I did not wish to alarm you, but have only come to help.”

“What of helping in the encampment? I would feel more confident knowing that you were there,” Thorn said.

“Ah, then you would be the only one!” Narayad said bitterly. “Since the incense pot was found, both Latah and I have been relieved of all responsibilities. I can understand the suspicion of me, though it is unwarranted, but why should Latah be punished? She has only tirelessly served, and all can see that there is not a speck guile in her.”

“It is only a precaution I am sure, Narayad. Do not take it ill. I know, as does Fador that neither you nor Latah would do anything to hurt the clan. And if others do not understand this, it is only because they have become skeptical of things outside of our community, and have not fully come to accept you as part of our clan.”

“I do not know what else I can do to prove to them that my heart is with them, and not anywhere else,” Narayad said dejectedly. “Thorn, what more I can do to convince them!”

Thorn felt the glass bangle once again in his pocket, and after a moment said slowly, “There is something that would be a great help to us, and would gain the confidence of the elders, when in time they found out.” Thorn paused weighing his words, “Narayad, how would you feel about living in Umbar for a time?”

“Umbar! I should not like it, but if you ask it of me I will go. But what of Latah?”

“Once, I know that you are settled in the city I will send her to you, if she agrees to it,” Thorn promised, “and that only if you advise me to, for it will be your duty to keep us informed of the climate there, and to keep your eyes and ears open.” Going on to explain the true work of an Eagle in Lord Falasmir’s employ, and of his promise to learn of the fictitious horse before returning to his position in the stables, Thorn asked if the outrider were still willing, and Narayad agreed to carry on in his stead if the position was still open, but voiced his concern that he did not know any languages other than the language of the caravans, and a handful of the maenwaith dialects. “I will try to teach you, and will ask Surinen also, for though the language of caravans will get you by in the city, you should also learn others for this work. But you must not tell anyone of your purpose, and if asked, say only that you are going back to your people, for what ever reason you choose.”

“I will do this, to help you and the Eagles, Thorn. But do not forget me once I am gone. And I will go in the hope that I might be called back soon, to live once again in the desert, with the Eagles.”

Thorn pulled the blue glass bangle from his pocket, and showing it to Narayad said, “ I had intended to give this to Narika before returning to the city, but now I think perhaps you might give it to Latah to wear until you are reunited. Here take it.”

Narayad took the bracelet and looked briefly at it sparkling in the sun before thanking him and slipping it among the folds of his dust cloak.

[piosenniel]

Aiwendil

Aiwendil was in a peevish mood. Blast this ill-starred sojourn here! His mind wandered back to the Lady’s gardens . . . sometimes the colors and scents came through clearly from that time. But this time no comfort was to be found. Only the sandy dust of the camp clogging his nostrils and the tiredness of this old body as he leaned on Rôg’s arm. ‘And what Fates have sought to throw Mithadan in my path?’ he thought to himself. The man had almost let the cat out of the bag as to his real identity.

Lost in his grumblings, he almost missed the whispered questions from his companion. He held back the waspish answer that sought to tumble from his tongue – If you hadn’t been thrown in my path, young man, I would never have come here; never made some other promise I didn’t mean to and probably will fail in as well . . . He sighed, instead, a long sound that came from the depths of him. Rôg’s eyes were on him, anxious to be of help. But Aiwendil could think of nothing to say.

Never at a loss for words, Rôg pushed on . . . He is as chattery as some of the birds he turns into! Aiwendil thought. But then his companion’s words penetrated his low mood, startling him that Rôg would ask such questions . . . that he would care to ask about such things. And not only were there questions but the promise of a certain return had now factored in to his thinking. Aiwendil had been aware on a certain level that at one point Rôg’s intent had been to reconnect with his clan, leaving the problems of Aiwendil and of the Eagle clan to resolve themselves .

The image of the skittish meara came back to him and he saw the aloof creature take a step closer in his mind.

I must be careful here. . .

‘Let us return to our tent,’ he offered. ‘My throat is dry and these are large questions that you’ve asked. The answers will be longer, I fear, than you might wish to hear.’

[piosenniel]

Rôg

Foregoing the stuffy interior of the tent, the two sat beneath the shade of a nearby lean-to, some cool tea in a flagon between them. Rôg poured a mug for Aiwendil and one for himself, then settled his haunches on the cushion waiting for the old man to speak. Rog’s escort, now that his charge was in the company of Aiwendil, had withdrawn with his own mug of tea and was drowsing in the shade of his own lean-to.

Rôg was aware that the old man’s eyes were often on him, measuring him, he felt, but what mark he had come up to in his companion’s estimation, Rôg could not tell. Aiwendil’s voice was grave as he began . . .

There was much trouble for the Eagle Clan and for those others, too, he had been told by Ayar, who resisted the demands of the maenwaith leader. One of the Wyrm clan, it was, Wyrma by name. Aiwendil went into detail on what she intended to do to build her little empire; how she wished to impose her will on all other maenwaith; how she would retaliate against those who refused her bidding. ‘It was most likely some dark servant of hers who was hired to poison Ayar.’ Much of this was known in some way by Rôg; he had heard bits and pieces of it from others, and had puzzled out what he could. But now Aiwendil had fit the pieces all together for him in a seamless whole, and it sickened him to hear his suspicions confirmed.

The old man’s next words made him break out in a cold sweat, and he trembled at them despite the heat of the desert day. ‘A war is coming,’ Aiwendil began. ‘The Wyrm clan will seek to destroy the old ways and in doing so will destroy the clans themselves. The Eagles will not allow that to happen to themselves without resistance.’

Rôg was revolted at the inevitable outcome of this. Maenwaith against maenwaith . . . The Eagle clan was small, rich in its traditions and its way of life, but with no resources to fight a larger clan with monies and powerful friends at its disposal. His brow furrowed as his thoughts raced furiously. ‘Where are the Eagle clan Elders, Aiwendil? Why have they not come in to aid their people?’ ‘Where are the Elder Eagles?’ he asked once again, not waiting for an answer. ‘Has no word been brought to them? Do they live so far away they do not know what is happening?’ A sudden thought came to him, making him catch his breath at the dread it brought. ‘Do they no longer care for their people?’

On this point Aiwendil was silent. His voice was soft when he spoke again to Rôg. ‘I do not know the answer to that question. I cannot even say if there are Elders such as those you speak of. Perhaps they are lost to the Clan. I cannot say and Ayar did not dwell on them, at least to me.’ Perhaps, if indeed they do exist, they have grown as forgetful as I have these many years . . ., flickered the thought in the old man’s mind. ‘I can only say again that Ayar’s clan and those others who choose to cling to the old ways will be crushed in the Wyrm’s grip if they are not given what help we . . . no, I will say what meager help I can offer. I made no promises regarding you. You will have to do that yourself.’

‘Promises? Offers of assistance?’ Rôg drew back, hand on knee, looking at Aiwendil closely. ‘What promises have you made?’

He looked thoughtfully at the frail appearing, old man opposite him; his image shifting in Rôg’s mind as if beneath the outer covering something other lurked, hidden away. The wondering thought came, unbidden.

And your offer of meager help . . . what do you think you have to give . . .?

[piosenniel]

Nerindel’s post – Sorona

A rush of memories hit her like a tidal wave. Memories of her relationship and friendship with the young woman Surinen now named leader of the eagle clan came to the forefront of her mind, but the joy of this revelation was short lived as Surinen gave her the awful news that Ayar lay seriously ill, worse still that it was believed that someone had purposefully brought this deadly affliction upon their leader. Genuinely concerned she asked if Ayar would be alright, but when Surinen dropped his gaze, she knew that her old friend was grievously ill.

"Do you know who would do this?" she asked changing her question at the young mans obvious distress. Surinen shook his head slowly but admitted that there were some among their people who might. He went on to describe how there where some among their people who believed the Meldakhar unwise and one in particular to whom Ayar's strength was a trial; although Surinen mentioned no names he did seem to believe that the latter was responsible for Ayar's sudden illness.

"But who is that, and to what purpose would this be done?" She asked, but even before she got the words out she knew the answer. Ráma's warning that her mother thought that Wyrma's real dream was to wield a power so great that she could someday humble even the mighty city of Minas Tirith came back to her. She was no longer the innocent young woman she remembered, she knew the evils the hunger for power bred in people, though she wished she did not. If this Wyrma had been corrupted by the lure of such a power and looked to hold dominance over her people, she would allow no one to stand in her way. Sorona suddenly feared for these people, knowing that this Wyrma was likely the one responsible for Ayar's condition. She silently scolded herself for not listening to the warning she had been given, worrying that perhaps she had come to late and that the things her dream showed her were already coming to pass.

"Perhaps it would be better if you saved that question for Ráma, for I know too little and talk too much." Surinen was saying. "And have only been given dreams that I don't understand," Sorona's head snapped up and she looked at the young outrider startled by his choice of words. She continued to stare as the young man looked away search the dispersing crowd for someone.

"Dreams are sometimes all we have," she sighed ruefully to herself as she followed him towards the tent where he spoke to the two men that stood guard outside the Gondorians tent. after a moment he gestured for her to follow him inside, The two Gondorians stood just to the left of the entrance, immersed in deep conversation, which stopped abruptly as she and the young outrider entered. Surinen did not stop to acknowledge the two men but crossed the tent to speak with the young maenwaith woman who busily attended the table set at the far side of the tent. Sorona however moved to join the two Gondorians nodded her head in way of a polite greeting.

"I do not believe my name was given before but it is Sorona," she smiled pleasantly. "I am kin to these people, but have spend most of my life in your lands and the lands further north, observing and learning the ways of the other races that we share these lands with, but as a result I have become as much a stranger here as you are." there was a touch of regret in her voice as she spoke but she pressed on, gesturing for the Gondorians to sit as she dropped her voice to a whisper.

"I do not know of how much you are aware but It seems that our arrival is badly timed, the leader of this clan is grievously ill and from what I have gleaned and what Rama has told me I believe that this Wyrma is the one responsible, I tell these things to you because you are friends with Aiwendil, one of the wise and therefore must be good and honourable people."

"You know the Istar also?" Airefalas asked slightly taken aback, she nodded slightly amused at the young mans surprise, "Yes, though I knew him by a different name, Thorondil, loosely translated in our ancient tongue it means friend of Eagles, rather apt don't you think considering where we are." The two men nodded and she continued, "I do not know if the old man will even remember me and If he does I fear I will not be remembered fondly. I owe the him a great debt, he saved my life once, though at the time I was less than thankful for his services immersed as I was in the darkest depths of my own despair." her eyes became distant as she remembered the horrors she had learned to forget and the life she had forsaken so she could be rid of its pain.

But feeling the troubled stares of the two men she shook herself forcing a reassuring smile, "I do not fully understand what is going on here or why fate has brought you and the wise one at this time, But I have seen this city that Ráma spoke of, in a dream, that is why I am here,"

"A dream!" Airefalas interjected incredously, Sorona's looked at him sharply, but to her surprise it was Mithadan who spoke, "you should not underestimate the power of dreams my friend," he whispered sternly to his first mate, then turning back he urged her to continue. She stared at him for a moment wondering who he was and were he had gain such wisdom, a new found respect welling inside her as she continued.

"At first I thought the dream no more than a punishment, you see I let curiosity get the better of me, I let myself be enamoured by the stories of the Nimir and the tales of sailors of a land far to the west and land that knew no sorrow or grief, a land of peace and tranquility. I wished only a look, to see the white spires that the Gondorian sailors sang about, dismissing the warnings the tales and songs gave out. I was cast back in on a fierce storm, and left with this dream a reminder I thought, that one should not reach beyond their own mortality. At first the urge to come south was strong, but I feared what my return would mean so ignored the dream, brushing it of as just that, a dream, something I now deeply regret. What this dream show to me fills me with such fear and dread, that I will only share its warning with the wise one and who ever now lead this clan in Ayar's stead, I tell you this much for I believe that Rama is right, if this Wyrm succeeds in gaining dominance over her people, your people will face a new threat and I do not say this lightly, I know first hand how the abilities of our people can be used and manipulated to bring harm to others." She cast her eyes to the ground as she remembered the things she had been force to do in her life in order to survive and in an effort to protect those she had been imprisoned with, slowly she lifted her right taloned foot to show them the mark of her enslavement, a long healed brand in the shape of an eye. The two men gasped audibly drawing the looks of the young outrider and his companion., she quickly replaced her foot to the ground afraid that any of her people should see it.

"There is something I must ask you, they I will answer any questions you have," she whispered hurriedly as Surinen turned to resume his conversation with the young Maenwaith woman.

"On my return to these lands a found myself strangly drawn to a young man who resides within the city of Umbar, I saw you both enter his house. This young man seems to be a merchant, he has distinctive raven coloured hair. I would ask what you know of him?"

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ayar smiled gently and stroked her daughter's curls to try and reassure her that things would be alright. Miri and Claris had also returned with Yalisha; the three were standing at the entrance to the tent. Beckoning them in with a gesture of her hand, Ayar added, "Good, you have finished your errands. Draw near to hear what I say. For Ráma may need a witness to stand before the Elders and swear her words are true. I fear some will not care to hear such things."

Ayar stared solemnly at the familiar figures who now stood before her. One a child of a dear friend, another a loyal grey-haired servant, along with the two gifted if impetuous young women who were among the most adventurous in the clan. The Eagles would need the talents of all four, and many others as well, if they were to survive the threat that was about to descend on their heads.

Ayar looked directly at Ráma and began, "Much blame lies on my head. I ask your forgiveness. I saw the danger coming, yet I deceived myself into thinking it would go away. It has not gone away, and we can not wait any longer. Wyrma and her kind desire only one thing: to destroy the life our people lead and to chase after a hollow dream of power and wealth, of dominion over others."

It was Ráma who interrupted. "Mother, you've done nothing wrong. You have kept the Eagles safe and even spoken out for other clans who were too afraid to say their mind."

The older woman shook her head. "I did too little. Long ago, I should have stood up and said 'no more'. We should have taken a stand, even if it meant bloodshed, rather than running off by ourselves into the desert. But now I finally understand. Freedom for our own clan means nothing, if all the other maenwaith become enslaved. I only wish I was here to share the burden with you for the path will not be easy."

With a heavy sigh Ayar reflected, "Times were so hard during the war. I thought when the Dark Shadow was defeated that we would all be free. Perhaps, there would be time to go back to the old ways, to remember things that even the Eagles had forgotten. With the coming of peace, it just seemed easier to sit back and rest. But there can be no rest when maenwaith raise hand against maenwaith."

Ayar's next words were directed at her daughter who still knelt beside the bed. "Whatever happens, there must be no split within the Eagles. Thorn and Narika should marry, as promised. They will be named leaders of the clan and will jointly exercise the headship, each offering their special gift: Narika, her knowledge of lore and music; Thorn, his skills as a warrior. Each will help the other find the right path. For Narika has an iron will and loves the traditional ways, while Thorn has the strength to reflect on events and decide when a change is needed. And you must help them too, Ráma."

Ráma looked straight at her mother and replied without hesitation, "I understand what you are asking. I pledge my loyalty. I will help my sister and Thorn any way I can." Yet all the while she wondered what she could possibly do.

"You must speak these things to the Elders, Ráma.....to them and, if I can not, even to your sister. The clan must use its wits and heart to do battle with claw and sword and talon and every resource they can muster. You and the others must ride out to the other clans, all those who will listen to words of reason, and rouse them to fight. Invite them to join as equal partners to put down Wyrma's tyranny."

[piosenniel]

Aiwendil and Rôg

‘Eh . . . promises . . . nothing really . . .’ The old man tried to divert the question to one of his own. ‘You’re going soon, then? And did I hear correctly, you will then return?’ He looked down and wriggled on his cushion; fumbling with the hem of his robe, he pulled the cloth of the skirt out straight, over his knees and tucked it in more loosely about his lower legs.

Rôg snorted at this all too apparent evasion and tapped him on the arm again. ‘Your promises . . .?’

Aiwendil settled back with a long sigh and seeing the young man following his movements expectantly, he began. ‘The problem of promises began long ago,’ he said as if to himself. ‘It’s the Ladies, isn’t it? The men you can reason with – why you can’t do such and such and so forth. But a Lady - they always seem to get that little hook in somehow and can’t be refused . . . and somehow, in the end, the promise must be kept, though it take years to do so . . .’

Oh, my sand and stars . . . this may turn into such a long answer that I will lose the thread of what I originally wanted to know! Rog leaned forward, intending to pay close attention to what ever twists and turns the old man might make in his telling.

Surprisingly enough, the old fellow recalled himself from his ruminations. Looking at Rôg from beneath lidded eyes he wondered if he had spoken too much of that first promise. He cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter, his eyes now on the young man’s face, and spoke of the request from Ayar . . . the one to help her other daughter, Rama. He made light of it, saying that he had said he would make himself available to help her as she asked.

‘I don’t have the years on me that you do, Aiwendil. But, it seems to me that that is a rather large sort of promise you have made. Given the immediacy of danger to the Eagle Clan and the imminent death of its leader, surely this Rama will need more than just a few words from you if she and her sister are to face the coming struggle with the Wyrm clan.’ Rôg scratched his jawbone thoughtfully. ‘The way I see it, you will be here a very long time and pulled deeper and deeper into the conflict.’ His brow furrowed as he looked at Aiwendil. ‘I’ve seen some of your little tricks and I half think of you as some reluctant magician of sorts. But, no disrespect intended, you seem a little . . . wobbly . . . if you will, at times. And these seem times that require more than wobbliness. Are you certain you should stay here? Perhaps you should come with me . . . it might be safer.’

Aiwendil huffed a little at the assessment of himself as ‘wobbly’. Young upstart! he growled to himself. Why I could show . . . He stopped himself before the words left his mouth, and would be drawn out no further on this subject. He had made his promise and he meant to see it through as needed. ‘I’ll not be going with you,’ he said instead. I’ll be perfectly fine here.’ He eyed the young man from beneath his shaggy eyebrows. ‘And besides, you’re coming back” Isn’t that what I heard you just say?’

‘Yes,' answered Rôg. 'I’m uncertain, though, how long I’ll be away. You could still come with me. Then, we could return together.’ He looked at his friend hopefully.

But Aiwendil only shook his head, his blue eyes glinting though the two companions sat well within the shade.

[Child of the 7th Age]

“And now,” murmured Ayar, “I would speak privately with my daughter.”

Miri and Claris had departed, with only Yalisha remaining behind to tend to Ayar's needs. The young healer quickly countered, “Not now. You are tired and must rest.”

“Tired or not, I will speak with Ráma." Summoning her last bit of strength, Ayar sat upright in bed and reassured Yalisha that their conversation would be short. Yalisha promised to return shortly and then slipped away, leaving mother and daughter alone in the tent.

“Mother, are you sure?" Ráma pressed. "Perhaps we should wait.”

With a glint of a smile, Ayar retorted, “Rama, I am ill, but my wits are not addled. Trust me for there are things I must say.” She leaned over to place a kiss on her daughter’s curls before continuing. “First, tell me of Umbar. Not the part about Wyrma or her grand city, for I have heard more than enough about that. I want to know what happened to you.”

Ráma responded with relish as she began to describe the mysterious Eagle who had followed her across the desert and her strange encounter with the two Men of Gondor. Ayar listened carefully but said little. Her eyes registered faint surprise at the name of ‘Sorona’. When Ráma went on to describe Bird, Ayar stared quizzically at her daughter. “Are you certain? This Mithadan spoke of a maenwaith living in the north whose raven hair was marked with a single silver lock?”

“So he said, although the part about the north sounded peculiar to me.” Ráma observed, having no idea what her mother really meant.

“Very peculiar…..” was all Ayar would say.

“But is it possible?” queried Ráma. “I thought our people all lived near the desert of Harad.”

“Possible? Yes, it’s possible. How soon you forget what I taught you! For many years, our people lived in Beleriand, afterwards migrating eastward and then to the south. Only each clan prized its independence. Some chose to linger in one place longer than others, or to push further down the route in hope of staying out of harm’s way. Even in the Third Age, there were clans that split asunder. So it would be possible for a maenwaith family or two, or even part of a clan, to have turned away from the main line of march that led down to Harad. But whether this would account for the mysterious Bird, I really can not say.”

“As to the other, if you should ever see Sorona, tell her that an old friend often thinks of her with affection. Speak to her respectfully, Ráma, for I believe she has known great hardship. Indeed, I am surprised to hear she is still alive.” When Ráma pressed her mother for more particulars, Ayar would only say that it was not right to divulge anyone’s secrets unless that person wished to share their story freely.

"But that's enough of me!" Rama objected. "You said you had something to share. We must be quick or Yalisha will come back and turn me out of the tent....."

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Thorn and Narika

As they headed back to the flocks together Thorn looked up to see a bird flying swiftly from out of the north. Straight it flew, and directly for the sprawling herds of the Eagle clan, dripping it wings to circle over the heads of Thorn and Narayad before moving on further south. Thorn could see that it was searching for Narika among the foraging herds she viewed. And when it described another slow circle gently descending to the land, Thorn quickly took leave of Narayad telling him to go and refresh himself after his long ride.

Pulling the horse’s reins sharply, he urged his mount away toward the southeast, springing into a gallop across the land. Thorn, keeping his eyes trained to the spot where he saw the messenger alight, arrived just as Narika was readying a horse, to ride out to him. The young messenger still standing at her side, as well as a herdsman with downcast expression.

“Thorn,” she called to him with a clear voice as he rode up. “Ráma has arrived from Umbar and not a moment too soon. She bids us to make haste and return to the encampment, for my mother feels she is soon to be released from the bonds of this world, and I wish to be at her side. We must not delay.”

“You are right,” he said with sinking heart. “Yet we also should not take to the air together so that any might take note of the unusual sight. But go now Narika and fly swiftly. Give me but a little time, perhaps a quarter hour, and I will follow in your path.”

[Child of the 7th Age]

"There are stories I have not taught you or your sister. Tales that relate to the earliest days of our clan. Many of these mysteries go to the very heart of who we are. Normally, this lore is not passed on until the son or daughter of the clan leader marries, or at least goes beyond their teens. But I can wait no longer."

"Do you remember when you were little, and you asked me how our clan first learned to transform into Eagles? I did not answer you then, but now I will. Thousands of years ago, our people lived in the north of Beleriand in the vale of Dimbar not far from the forests of Doriath and Brethil. Our camp lay south of the Encircling Mountains with its great cloven peak called Crissaegrim. At the top of this sheer cliff were the lofty eyries of Thorondor and his kin, those whom we look to even today. For many years, we lived side-by-side with the great Eagles, but there was little contact between us."

"Their ways were nothing like ours. Their great King Thorondor was said to have a wing span of thirty fathoms. Nor were they tame and docile creatures. No mortal was able to command them. Some say there was a mighty lord who held their allegiance, and that he is their master even today. Yet I can not say if this is true."

"One day, an Eaglet was injured fighting off many Orcs, vile creatures similar to those we saw in the last war. When an Eagle became ill or wounded, mysterious messengers usually arrived for their aid. These helpers--some called them Maiar--always came swiftly. We never actually saw them, since the healers would cover the peak with a curtain of mist and no mortal could penetrate that screen. But this time, no messenger arrived and there was no cover of mist: only a sick and very large Eagle sprawled out on the lowest slope of the Crissaegrim."

"Some of our people rushed to see what had happened and crawled up the slope with great difficulty. They administered herbs and water to the bird. Day after day, week after week, our people faithfully went and tended the creature until he was well enough to fly. All the while, the older Eagles hovered above and looked on closely to make certain that we had honorable intentions. At the end, King Thorondor approached and called us his noble children; he rewarded the clan with three special gifts. First he taught us to transform into the Eagles we know today, small but proud creatures who love the high places. Secondly, he gave us two bands of mithril set with amber stones, pieces so small that they could fit about the neck of one who took on the customary Eagle shape. And with the bands came a promise. If the clan found itself in great peril, we or our descendents could fly back and present the jewelled collars, and they would honor the request and come to help."

For a moment, Ráma sat stock still, barely comprehending what her mother had said. She had never heard a tale like this. "Do you have this jewelled collar, mama?" Ráma gasped.

"Sadly no. But I have some idea where it may be. Ráma, you must help find this collar and have one of our people present it to the Eagles. That is the only way Wyrma will be defeated, for she is powerful and cunning."

"But where do they live, these giant Eagles? And how am I to go there when I can not even take on the form of a flying creature? Surely, Narika should be the one to do this." Yet, for one instant, Ráma saw an enticing picture in her head. She was personally leading a flotilla of great Eagles back from the north and everyone in the clan was cheering.

Ayar sternly shook her head, as if reading the image in her daughter's mind. "Do not think to do this alone. That is not what I meant. You do not have the mastery of forms to go flying off for thousands of miles. You must find others to help. As to Narika, she can not be spared even to hunt down this collar. Narika must stay and help lead the clan. She and Thorn will begin military preparations for the battle that is to come. You have the freedom Narika lacks. That is my true gift to you, a gift very rare among our people. As to where the Eagles can be found, some say they went to the Misty Mountains. But that is a lot of ground to search and very far from here."

"But where do I start? And how? Who will help me?"

"Too many questions! But I do have an idea where to begin. Ride out with those who are visiting the clans to rouse them to action. On the way, pay a side trip to the tallest peak in the mountains that stand to our south, and hunt for an ancient crone who goes by the name of Ayka. Whether she will be in human or Eagle form, I can not say. But I believe she can help you find this collar and perhaps will know something about where the Eagles are. Secondly, if they are willing, get the strangers to help. All of them, this Mithadan and Airefalas and Rôg. They will know things about the wider world that we do not. Especially call on Aiwendil, the healer I mentioned. He has some part to play in all of this."

"I'll try, mama, although I do not really know any of these people. And some of the clan will be suspicious of them."

"Perhaps so, but they will need to get over their fears."

Ayar paused for a moment before she continued. "Ráma, there is one other thing that should be done. Whether or not this will work, I can not say. But you must try to hunt down the Dragon clan and ask for their help."

Ráma abruptly stood up, her eyes reflecting her confusion, "Go to the Dragons? You can not mean this!"

"I do mean it. Wyrma and her followers are not the only maenwaith who have the ability to take on the shape of a wyrm. I have heard strange tales that suggest once there were others. Perhaps some of these live even today. Just as I said before, many clans split asunder....."

"But where and how....?"

Before Ráma could ask anything else, her mother raised her hand for silence, "I am not sure. I know far less about the ways of Dragons than I do about our own people. Ask questions as you go along; see what can be discovered. I do not know if there is anything or anyone to be found, but it does not hurt to ask."

"But why must we have Dragons?" Ráma objected. "I don't even like the look of them."

"Ráma, do not judge all Dragons by Wyrma and her kind. The members of the Dragon clan were always said to be the gentlest of our people. With such great power to command, they knew how important gentleness was. Only in times of war, did they unleash their might. And we will have great need of such might. Even a dragon or two could help turn the tide of battle."

"I will try to do as you ask, but what shall I tell the Elders?" Ráma asked.

"Do not tell them too much at the beginning. Trust only your sister and Thorn and a few others that they pick. Many of the Elders have forgotten the old ways, and may not believe what you are saying. Once you have found the jewelled collars, or have spoken with the dragons who still cling to the old ways, you can bring the full news back to the Elders and invite them to help as well."

"But what will Narika say to all this? About the dragons, and the collar, and even the strangers in our own camp?"

"Don't worry. Leave that task to me. I will explain things to her tomorrow."

With that, Ráma bent down and hugged her mother goodbye, promising to return later that evening. Walking out into the bright sunlight, she signalled to Yalisha to go inside and help her mother get resettled. Only after the young woman had made her way back to check on Miri and her family did she remember that her mother had spoken of three gifts from Thorondor, and yet had only described two: the clan's ability to transform and the precious jewelled collars. Tomorrow, she promised, she would ask her mother about that third gift.....

[Mithadan]

Mithadan looked into the sharp eyes of the eagle as he spoke. "Korpulfr is a trader. A rich one by the look of things. He invited us to dinner on the evening we escaped. He was at all times friendly and seemed eager to forge a bond between us for future trading..." Mithadan paused here for a moment and looked over to Airefalas. Then he blinked rapidly as if facts which had seemed unrelated previously were now linked together like pieces of a puzzle.

"He did, however, ask a number of questions about my friend, Bird. She was... or is a shapechanger who was a good friend of mine in the north. She is one of the reasons I agreed to visit Umbar. Most of the other city-folk laughed if I asked about your people, saying shapechangers were but a legend. But Korpulfr did not laugh and Tinar... Tinar was there! And he is Wyrma's son! It appears that Korpulfr may be more than just a trader."

He looked over at Sorona, who bobbed her beak. But she fell silent and turned and hopped away out of the tent, followed by Surinen. Airefalas could only watch as they left, but he spun and growled to Mithadan, "Secrets and more secrets! Whenever we begin to figure things out the mouths of those who know the most slam shut!"

Mithadan nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps we will lears more from Rad...Aiwendil. He did invite us to dinner. Wash up and get ready."

But Airefalas scowled. "Now we are going to ask questions of an Istar? They are a closed mouthed lot if what I've heard is true...." But he opened his pack and attempted to select a shirt which was less dirty than the one he wore. This proved to not be an easy task...

[piosenniel]

Aboard The Sandpiper

Red sky at night, sailor’s delight . . .

‘Red sky – bodes well for us Mistress.’ Hamar had come up silently behind Piosenniel, his words echoing the old rhyme that ran in her head. ‘Indeed,’ she said, with a nod. Her gaze was taken by a far off pair of frigate birds. They moved gracefully through the air, effortless in their long glides. ‘I wonder if they ever land,’ she thought to herself. ‘I cannot say I have ever seen it so,’ she murmured to herself.

‘Begging your pardon,’ began Hamar, puzzled at her reference.

‘The birds,’ she said, her finger pointing at the faint blotches that skimmed the air, far off. ‘I have never seen one land. They seem to live on the wind.’ Pio laughed at his perplexed expression. ‘No need to answer, Hamar, just doing a little wool-gathering this fair evening.’

She turned from the railing and sat down in a chair nearby, bidding him to do so also. ‘We should be sailing past the Havens of Umbar late tonight , I think,’ Hamar commented as he settled himself against the chair’s back. Pio poured them each a small cup of wine from the flagon on low crate between them. ‘And meet with Faragaer and The Gull late in the afternoon of the following day,’ continued Pio. ‘With any luck, he will have met with one of his trading groups and found some news for us.’ ‘That and a way for you to get in country,’ nodded Hamar, ‘to where you can pick up the trail for Mithadan and Airefalas.’

The conversation fell to desultory observations on the trip south – how the crew was faring, supplies gone through . . . ordinary, day to day things of a ship’s running. Hamar, his wine finished, took his leave to check on the watch for the night.

Pio poured herself another cup of wine and pulled her chair closer to the rail, parking her long legs comfortably on the middle length of thick rope. The sun was just inching down into the waters at the world’s rim, and she knew if she looked behind her the moon would be fat in the darkening sky. Her thoughts wandered, back to voyages made some time ago along this coastline. A smile crinkled the corners of her eyes as a familiar face loomed up and then adjusted itself, growing younger in the remembrance.

Bird’s face . . . twenty-five years ago . . . the same wry smile lurking on the then stranger’s face as on the one of more recent memory . . .