Here There Be Dragons - RPG

[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.