[piosenniel]

Piosenniel’s post

‘My clan should have finished their Late Season Hunt by now,’ said Bear, his breath trailing in an icy fog behind him as he spoke. He rode the runners of the ice sled as the team of six dogs raced over the ice toward home. ‘We should be there soon. And by the way, we’ll pass by the northern rim of the Ice Bay. You’ll be able to see how thick the ice has grown while we’ve been away.’

Rôg spared a frozen grin back at his guide, and would have given him the universal gesture of a thumbs-up, save that his hands were encased in thick leather gloves and buried beneath the heavy fur hide covering him from toes to chin that blocked the cold from his body. Never mind that he already wore breeches and a hooded tunic lined with soft, warm fur – he was still cold, a disadvantage from having lived the majority of his life in the desert areas of the South lands and the far north east.

This had proved a most interesting trip for him. He’d seen birds and animals he’d not seen before in his travels. His notebooks were filled with description and drawings of all he came upon. The people here, too, he found fascinating – they seem to have adapted so well to this inhospitable climate. Rôg chuckled to himself at the thought that they would suffer just as much in the heat of his homeland.

They traveled on a good deal further over the white land with patches of frosted, peaty tundra just barely showing through. Bear called out to the dogs as he pulled on the reins, turning them toward the northern rim of the bay. They stopped near the edge and the two men proceeded on foot to look out across the freezing waters. Much of the bay was already beginning to freeze over, especially the shallower areas along the edges. Rôg could almost hear the ice groan as it reached out further to take hold of the deeper waters.

Rôg put his mittened hand to his brow, shading his eyes has he looked toward the far end of the bay. He squinted hard against the glare at some small, indistinct shapes he could see floating in the freer areas near the bay’s opening. ‘I didn’t know your people had sailing ships,’ he said, drawing Bear’s attention away from the dogs which had been given a small snack for their efforts.

Bear’s brow furrowed at the comment. ‘We don’t,’ he returned, drawing up alongside Rôg. His hand went in to the large pouch that hung from his shoulder and fetched out his long-seeing tube he’d gotten in a trade from one of the other clans. Steadying his arm he peered through the tube, describing as he focused it, the ships that were in the bay. Now it was Rôg’s turn to frown, and he took the tube from his companion to look for himself . . . hoping against hope, that it was not what he expected.

‘Scurvy sea-rats!’ he muttered, a term picked up on his few voyages by ship to Umbar.

‘You know these ships?’ Bear asked, not understanding the words of the imprecation but the feelings behind it. ‘Not so good, eh?’ he prompted Rôg.

‘Not good at all, my friend. They’re Corsairs . . .’

~*~

A few hours later found them at Bear’s clan encampment. News of the far southern men in ships had spread to the enclaves of Icemen about the Bay and Rôg gleaned what he could from the bits and pieces of gossip. They had been in the bay for a number of months now, seeking some sort of treasure, he heard. No, not from the sunken ships another answered to his question of what kind. ‘Old, old treasure,’ said one of the ancient elders in a thin reedy voice. ‘Those men from the old tales who sought our help. They had the great round stone, and the lesser,’ he said, recalling the old story they had all heard. ‘They were lost in the waters of the bay, it was told. Held by the ice for all these years from the Shadow and the Light.’ Those standing near the old man nodded their heads remembering the story. Other Lossoth from clans nearer the place where the Corsairs were seeking had been offered payment for their aid in helping to find the treasure, so Bear’s clansmen had heard. Not all the Lossoth thought it a fortunate venture – there was something about the men in the ships that raised the hackles of warning that they might prove untrustworthy in their promises. A number of the Lossoth who had agreed to aid the Corsairs were those ‘troublemakers’ within the various clans who had sought to challenge the present chieftains for clan leadership. It was said that the Corsairs were helping these malcontents with a promise of weapons to use in their fight for the right to be ruler.

Rôg listened silently as Bear and the others discussed the Treasure-seekers. He had no idea what they were seeking, but he knew that whatever it was, the finding of it would bode ill for any of the perceived enemies of Harad and Umbar. One of the Lossoth elders thought it might be good if they sent a message to the Elves in the Gulf of Lune, to ask for aid in ridding the Ice Bay of these treasure seekers. What use that would be, though, was debated hotly, since travel by land or sea would take many, many weeks.

In the midst of the discussion, Rôg cleared his throat to draw their attention and then spoke in a hesitating manner. ‘Begging your pardon, but if you can tell me where it is I need to go, I can take your message for you. Should only take a day if it is somewhere near the havens in Mithlond.’

The clansmen looked at him as if he had gone quite daft, and then one by one they began to laugh at his preposterous offer. ‘A day to make it to The Star and Swan at the Grey Havens?!’ one of them hooted. ‘What’s your friend propose to do, Bear? Fly?’

‘Well, yes, actually,’ said Rôg quietly. ‘The Star and Swan, you say? At the Grey Havens?’ Stepping outside the ice hut, the laughing crowd following after him, Rôg walked quickly to a large open space on the frozen tundra. I’ll return as soon as I can with help.’ Many of the group shook their heads at him, and returned to the shelter of the hut. The wind was picking up and already there were swirling flurries of snow that obscured the landscape. Bear watched Rôg as he moved farther away from the hut. He was hoping the man would give up the crazy idea and return to warmth of the hut with him. Rôg’s figure had grown dim in the distance and Bear called out to him. His words caught in his throat as he saw through the thick white blanket of snowy air a huge, dark figure take to the air

The brown Wyrm’s wing-beats stirred up the swirling flurries even more. He circled once, close over the small figure of Bear below him, then dipping his head once to the wide-eyed man, he flew south.

~*~

It was late night when he circled the Havens. Winter clouds obscured the moon and blocked the stars, making his drop down to an empty field just a short ways north of the gulf go unnoticed. A very short walk brought him to the cobblestone street that ran through the middle of the small town and down to the harbor itself. A narrow, dirt side street that paralleled the main one was where The Star and Swan sat, an Elvish watering hole for those still considering the trip West. Cirdan and his ship had not been seen in many years and the clientele of the Inn had continued to grow slowly, the patrons becoming fast friends. It was an unassuming little place . . . plain in looks, the wood greyed from years of contact with the salt sea mists and breezes. It bore no sign, only a small engraving on the thick oak door of an Elven Swan ship with a single mast; the sail of which bore a reyed, six-pointed star. What looked like waves were etched along the ship’s side and seemed to break against the bow . . . though on closer look they were not waves but clouds . . .

Rôg pushed open the door, stepping into the welcome heat of the small fire in the stone hearth. He pushed back his brown hood, letting his eyes accustom themselves to the level of light in the Inn. There were Elves . . . a fair number of them in his estimation, scattered about in the booths and at the tables in the Common Room. Their grey eyes were all turned to him, a detached sort of curiosity showing in them. ‘What sort of creature is this?’ he could almost hear them wondering. Not one to dither when action is called for, Rôg stepped into the middle of the room and cleared his throat loudly in the silence.

‘Begging your pardon, Master Innkeeper,’ he began, acknowledging the aproned Elf who leaned on the bar, his brows raised at the out of place visitor. ‘And yours also, good Sirs and Ladies . . . but I was asked to bring a message to the Elves of Lune from the men who live round the Ice Bay. Something is troubling them, and they need your assistance to sort it out.’

‘And what sort of trouble would that be, Rôg?’ came a vaguely familiar voice from the shadowed corner of a booth. Rôg squinted into the darkness, seeking a face to fit the voice.

‘Luindal? Is that you I hear?’ He went on before the Elf could clamber from the booth and show himself. ‘Big trouble, I think. There are men seeking two stones lost by other men long ago, in the bay. Good men, I think it was who lost the stones . . . a great round stone and a lesser, the elders told me . . . but I fear to tell you it is men of the Far South, Corsairs from Umbar, who now seek to gain them for themselves.