Here There Be Dragons - RPG

[piosenniel]

Rôg . . . in the place where the Elders live

That night and all the following day found him far to the east, over the sea, following the coastline in the distance. North he flew, above the scudding clouds when he could, avoiding the eyes of men. Only one small boy, out fishing in the early light of day with his grandfather in their longboat, spied him as he passed. Rôg could see the child’s wide-opened eyes and the grin of surprise when he dipped his head to him as he slipped into the cover of a cloud bank.

The range of tall, jagged peaks to the west signaled he had reached his destination, and with a glad heart he turned toward them. Beyond them, he knew, would lay the older range, now standing here and there like broken rows of ragged teeth. Red in color, their slopes caught the westering sun and flamed up for a brief space of time each day with its living light. Great cliffs honeycombed with caves stood high above the stretches of sandy dunes; themselves giving way to the broad stony plains that ran between the arms of the rocky mountains and the foothills. He circled once taking it in . . . the scatterings of low-growing grasses – needlegrass and bridlegrass, thick about the rims of the salty ponds. The randomly strewn scrubby brush in shades of greys – sages and saltworts. Here and there he could see where the prankish winds picked up the sandy dust of the plains and set it dancing in little whirling cones.

Save for its dryness it was vastly different from the southern deserts. Stories passed down through the years spoke of it as once being an inland sea. Then changes had come, the lands broke and shifted; the waters of the sea had dried up. Life had adapted to the foods available and the sparse sources of moisture – small springs in the lower regions of the craggy mountains, snow in the higher elevations during the winter season . . . buzzards and eagles and smaller birds; fox, desert-bear, snow leopards, and lynx; red deer and mountain sheep; wild donkeys, wild horses. And even small things prospered in their own way . . . lizards, and desert mice, and butterflies.

Rôg dropped down in a lazy, tightening circle to a place he recalled from his younger years. A small gravelly pond still gathered beneath a rocky ledge, fed by a trickling freshet from the mountains. He could refresh himself, then set off to find the Elders. Or just let them find me . . . he thought to himself as his feet touched the ground. ‘They’ve probably already seen me, anyway,’ he chuckled to himself, his eyes sweeping the darkened openings to the caves that riddled the cliffs . . .

[Ealasaide]

Hilde Bracegirdle's Post - Latah & Narayad

As they walked together through the encampment, Latah tried once more to learn of her husband’s errand. He had proven reticent to discuss Thorn’s directive with her, though she looked carefully for a chink in the barrier between them. But as he prepared to leave, Narayad had grown suddenly wistful and she hoped he might share at least how far he might be traveling. “Will you not tell me anything of your journey, so that I might ask the Father of the Wind for your protection,” she pleaded, as they threaded their way through the many tents.

“Do not bother yourself unnecessarily over me, for trouble seems to haunt this camp of late, and that I take as a good omen that I will return to you also,” he said with grim smile. “But I will enter this camp again only when I know that you will no longer suffer by calling me your husband.”

Latah’s gaze dropped, her eyes fixed on the metal disk with its black cord that now adorned her husband’s neck. Thorn’s, she recalled briefly. She found her heart filled suddenly with dread. Why would Thorn choose to give him such a thing? Although Latah had hoped that her husband might speak openly to her, now that he hinted at what he intended, she began to feel a greater distance from him. She felt she had failed him, and it was a familiar track she did not wish to follow. “Do no speak so,” she said.

“It was a mistake,” Narayad continued, as they walked together, “to be tempted by your father’s offer, to hope that through marriage I might find a place in your heart and acceptance in the clan. I see now, the vision that had given me great happiness has brought only hurt to you.” He stopped as the sentiments that had until now been left unspoken were now brought to the surface. Responding, Latah too became still for a moment as he spoke on. She did not want to hear what was coming; she did not want to admit the defeat she felt too near her. “Foolishly, I had not considered that I might jeopardize your standing in the eyes of the people. What has it availed us? I am accepted less now, than when I first arrived.”

“I knew what it was my father asked of me, Narayad, when he urged me to accept you. And you have given me no cause to regret his decision. I have only wanted the best for you, to help you. Nothing has changed.” Latah took his arm gently and began walking again, refusing to ponder her own heart. “Things are difficult now, that is all. But perhaps Thorn is right, it might be good to forget the rumors that surround you here, but only until this upheaval has passed. But where should you go? Do you have some place that you know of?”

The outrider hesitated. “Thorn had mentioned the wolf clan…” he began. Latah stopped short at Narayad’s whisper, Fador’s dwelling now looming before them.

“The wolf clan!” Latah repeated in disbelief. “Thorn suggested that? He knows you well enough to know you would never return there.” Her brow furrowed as she tried to understand. “Surely, you are not thinking of it! If your detractors were to hear of it…” she shook her head. “I do not believe you would do such a thing, no matter what happens or who suggests it.” Latah reached out to touch Thorn’s necklace with the tips of her fingers. “Would Thorn really give you such a token only to send you back to your people, as though you have won the favor among the Eagles?”

“I have won some friends here if not the favor of the clan.” Narayad said, gravely. “Can you not see? Who would not wish to be among the people that have known him since childhood? Those who might accept him yet if he were to return in humility? Who would not desire to return to where he had once known affection?” Latah lowered her head at this. “It is convincing, is it not?” he continued in a lighter tone, seeing that he had struck a chord in her. “Something that might be believed by those who have not taken the time learn anymore of wolves, but would cut them off without a thought! Thorn knows that the people might whisper among themselves that this is where I have gone.”

As she lifted her face again Narayad saw that Latah’s soft cheek glistened with a trailing tear. “I have tried to help you…” she said.

“Shhh,” Narayad silenced her gently. He looked now away from his wife and toward the west. “Do not finish. Know that I hold you to be my truest friend and it is I who am sorry. You are right, I cannot go back, and desire only to show my faithfulness to the eagles. I go prompted by my heart to seek proof that Wyrma has ordered the destruction of Ayar, for I think it would do much good to expose what creature she has chosen to become, not only for the sake of the eagle clan, but the wolf clan also. Then maybe this rift between the two might finally be overcome.”

“Then you might travel to Umbar?” She guessed. “Might I not also go with you?” she asked her eyes filled with a little hope. “I would also look for peace between the our clans, and may be of some aid to you.”

“No,” Narayad replied quickly. “It is best that you remain safely here with your father.” And reaching into his pocket he brought out the blue bracelet. “Perhaps you would accept this, a small gift, that you might see it and remember me.”

“You keep it husband,” she said closing his fingers around it. “Keep it to remember me by and in hope that soon reunited, you might place it on my hand. Do not be long away.”

Narayad shook his head sadly at her remark. “I will keep it then if it is your will,” he said sliding it back into his pocket. And with that he departed from her.


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

Ealasaide's Post - Airefalas

As the third day of imprisonment in the Eagle encampment dragged on, Airefalas again found the hours weighing heavily on him. The outing to the fallen Eagle leader's bier the evening before in the company of Surinen, Narayad, and Latah had been a welcome break in the monotony. In fact, for a funeral, it had been almost fun. Now, back in the stuffy tent, he found himself searching for ways to occupy his time. His sword and dagger had been honed to a razor's edge, almost sharper than he preferred to keep them, and the blades oiled. Out of boredom, he had also combed out his curly brown hair that he had been wearing in a tail at the back of his neck and plaited it into the long queue down his back that was traditional among sailors. It was on the second attempt that he finally decided the braid was smooth enough and straight. Binding the end of it securely with a piece of cord, he cast his gaze around the tent in search of something else to do. With Mithadan either lost in his own thoughts or dozing - he had been so quiet for so long it was hard to tell which - Airefalas turned his attention to his pack, which had already been packed and re-packed several times over.

"I suppose I could do some mending," he sighed. Reaching into the bottom of his neatly organized belongings, Airefalas extracted the shirt that Ráma had shredded when she had changed into the cat back in Umbar. Laying it out on the low table in the center of the tent, he smoothed the fabric with his hands and surveyed the damage. There were several long tears in the cloth, as well as a few scattered drops of dried blood where Ráma-kitty's claws had raked his chest. "Hmm... not a total loss," he added aloud.

He was just pulling the edges of the longest tear together when Latah's voice was heard conversing with the guards outside. He turned as she entered and the two of them exchanged a friendly greeting. Following her usual routine, the young maenwaith woman then began a general tidying up, even though the tent was in near perfect order already. Airefalas returned to his shirt. Having folded the edges of the first tear into an even and narrow seam, he flattened it with his thumbnail, then repeated the process on the second tear. It was only when he was ready to begin sewing that he groaned and shook his head, realizing suddenly that he had no needle or thread. It was all back on the ship. Suddenly, he felt a soft touch on his arm and something pressed gently into his hand.

Turning, he found Latah standing at his elbow. She smiled. "You can use and give back."

Looking down, he saw that the item she had given him was a small roll of leather, tied with a thong. As he opened it, a slow grin spread across his face. She was lending him her sewing kit.

"Thank you," he said warmly, scarcely concealing his surprise at the way she had known so quickly what he needed and been able to supply it.

"You can use and give back," she repeated pleasantly, smiling as he chose a needle and threaded it with an arm's length of thread. She stayed to watch as he began to close the seam he had prepared with a series of tiny, precise stitches. "You do this very well," she added suddenly.

Airefalas smiled at her, strangely pleased that she approved. "Well," he answered, pausing with his needle halfway through the cloth. "When you have been at sea as long as I have, you get a lot of practice. I must have sewn miles of sails over the years."

At her blank look, he continued. "Sails... you know... to catch the wind. Every once in a while one gets carried away by the wind or a storm and we have to make new ones."

Latah looked at him suspiciously. "No one can catch wind," she said softly.

It was Airefalas' turn to give her a blank look, then he laughed. "No, I don't mean we capture the wind. It's more like we harness the wind's strength. The wind in the sails makes the ship go." He paused again as another idea occurred to him. "Have you never seen a sailing ship, Latah?"

When she shook her head no, he put his torn shirt aside and took her by the hand, leading her just outside the tent to a level patch of ground. Kneeling down with their heads together like two children, Latah watched as Airefalas smoothed the top layer of sand away with his hand. Then, he drew into the dirt a remarkable likeness of the Lonely Star, explaining as he went what each part of the vessel was called and what it was used for, paying especially close attention to the sails and rigging. It was only as he launched into an enthusiastic explanation of tacking and wearing that he happened to glance up at her only to find her watching his face, rather than his drawing, with an amused look in her dark brown eyes. Embarassed, he sat back on his heels. "What?"

"You miss your ships? You miss the sea?" she asked.

Airefalas gave his drawing a long, contemplative stare, then nodded. "It's what I know."

Nodding that she understood, Latah reached out and drew a tiny fish in one corner of the space next to the hull of the ship. "I like to see someday the sea," she said softly. Catching his eyes one last time, she rose to her feet. "Maybe someday I go with my husband."

Airefalas rose beside her. "Yes, maybe."

"Someday you bring your wife to the desert?"

Caught offguard, Airefalas gave a short bark of laughter. The image of Isabel, with her blonde hair and fair skin, wilting under the beating sunshine in her silk dress without the benefit of a fan or a sunshade, her thin slippers scorching in the sand, arose sharply in his mind. "No!" he said quickly. "No, I, um... " he trailed off helplessly, trying to imagine how he could possibly explain someone like Isabel to Latah. Finally, he shook his head.

"I'm not married."

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Latah

Wondering what Airefalas’ reaction might mean, Latah thought fleetingly that perhaps these men who would live on the surface of the sea were not permitted to take a wife. She thought sadly that such a life would be a cheerless one. Going up to him she touched his arm lightly, “I am sorry,” she said with a sincere expression, “I say something wrong.”

“No, you spoke perfectly well,” the sailor assured her, and turning away from her, he stooped down quickly wiping away the image he had drawn in the dust. “The question was unexpected, that is all.”

Hearing a light whistle behind her, Latah looked over her shoulder to the guard who stood watching them. The large maenwaith nodded in the direction of a small boy slowly crossing the encampment. As she watched the boy stopped, pausing to talk to an old woman several tents away, before disappearing into her tent.

Latah twisted the long wavy hair that had crept forward over her shoulder into a knot at her neck, looking at her guest just as he rose to his feet. He stood brushing the dust off his hands. She needed to get back inside to get things ready. “The sun is hot,” she said. “We go inside.”

As the foreigner moved Latah noticed that though the sketch of the sailing ship had now vanished, Airefalas had left the fish untouched. It looked quite stranded and out of place in the dirt. “Ah, but this must go too!” And lifting the hem of her skirt slightly she swept the image away with a warm hued foot. “Fish do not like desert, not happy here,” she explained with a smile, as she walked back to the tent.

Once inside, her guest picked up the shirt that lay half mended on the cushion, and sitting down he returned to work on it. Latah withdrew to a dark corner, where she had kept the what she had used in the service of Ayar. Soon, the boy who had come earlier looking for her, would be asking for the rest of these things. Latah had avoided thinking about this moment until now. She had not wholly given up hope that she would return to her work. But the hollow feeling weighed on her as she looked about her. The tray that had once held the rows of incense pots in ready, now stood empty. It looked battered and worn, for the carefully polished pots had been quickly removed from her care after the fire. With a sigh Latah began heaping the tray with pungent bags and small wooden boxes she kept stored in a metal casket. Carrying the tray over to the door she set it down and went to bring also the gunny bag of charcoal used to burn the incense.

As she reached the door, she heard a gruff command as the guard pulled back the tent’s opening further and a small silhouette appeared in the doorway. “Latah?” a thin and airy voice called.

“I am here,” she replied softly, and then pointing to the motionless form of the sea captain, she brought her index finger to her lips. “We must be quiet.”

“But I have been told to collect the incense things from you,” the young eagle said in a loud whisper.

“I think that maybe it was your older brother that was asked, and he convinced you to run this errand! For I was expecting him.” The young boy hung his head shyly. “Never mind. But see, it is heavy,” Latah warned, picking up the tray to show him. The child looked uncomfortably at it. “I will help you,” she said smiling. And resting the tray on her hip, she chose a small bundle, giving it to him. “Here, you can carry this one for me.” With a look of relief the boy took the bag of incense, and held it to his nose, breathing deeply.

Reaching for the charcoal, Latah grabbed the sack just above the twine that held it closed, and worked to straighten herself. From the corner of her eye, she saw that Airefalas who watched them sprang to his feet. Offering his help he reached down and relieved her of the burden. Happy to be unencumbered, Latah nodded her thanks, but the boy looked warily at the stranger, as if weighing whether or not he might be eaten. Truly the boy looked a mere slip next to the Gondorian. And as the northerner easily swung the bag onto his shoulder, Latah noticed again how tall he was; much more imposing than any of the few outsiders that she had met. And though he towered over them, as had most of the visitors the camp had received of late, she thought him not unkind and strangely solitary.

Suddenly her brown eyes went wide as it dawned on her what he carried. “No!” she cried. “This thing is very dirty! It will make white shirt black!”

Airefalas simply shook his head, “I suppose it is too late now. But what is in here that is so dirty?” Latah glanced about, her brow furrowing as she searched the tent for words. “Hmm, wood coal?” she said at last. “It helps to burn incense.” She held up the tray. “See. Some good for sickness, some for thinking, but all have nice smell. Leaves, wood, roots, they all smelling very nice,” she said pleased to discuss this subject. “We must go now, wood coal is too heavy. But wait, first this,” Latah set down the tray and crossed the room.

When she returned, she was carrying a strip of heavy cloth. “Let me put here,” she said pointing to his shoulder that still held the charcoal. Airefalas obliged, lowering the bag. As he leaned forward Latah saw that only a dusting of gray was on the shirt. Attempting to brush it off she gave up, laying the cloth in place. “Shirt looks only little gray,” she said. “I think it alright.”

She could see that he seemed amused rather than angry. “I hope so, for as you have seen, my spare shirt is worse shape!” He returned the sack to its high perch. “But tell me, where are we taking this wood coal?”

“We must follow, the young eagle,” Latah replied, and turning back to the boy she told him that they were ready. The guard scowled at Latah as she announced in passing that they would return shortly, and struck off across the encampment.

They did not have to go far, only the short distance to the tent of Ayar’s serving woman Claris. As soon as the gray-haired woman came outside the tent to greet them, the boy thrust the bag of incense into her hands and ran off quickly, considering his job finished. Claris smiled warmly as he disappeared. Turning her attention to the remaining visitors, she offered to take the tray that Latah held. “I am very sorry to trouble you Latah, but I must get things ready for later.”

“I understand, do not worry,” Latah said, as she took the gunny bag from Airefalas. “Where shall this go?”

“You can set it just there, inside the door,” Claris said absently as she looked over the contents of the tray. Latah followed her directive setting the bag on a frayed mat inside. Emerging again she noticed that Airefalas was looking about the encampment as he waited. She wondered what his eyes might see when he looked at her people and their simple encampment. “Where are the tools to repair the pots?” Claris suddenly asked, breaking into her thoughts.

“I do not know.” Latah admitted, growing embarrassed, for it looked again as though she had been careless with something entrusted to her. She found herself wishing that she had not brought Airefalas along. “I have not seen them. I thought that when the burners were taken, that the tools were taken with them.”

“No, no child. They were not. And now I have a pot in need of repair with no way to fix it,” Claris sighed. “Ah well.”

“I will search again,” Latah quickly promised wishing she had more hope of finding them. She had already hunted for them several times. Just as the older woman was entering her tent, Latah suddenly remembered Ráma’s knife and called to her again. Claris wheeled around to face her. Looking furtively to see if Airefalas might be watching, Latah withdrew Ráma’s knife and handed it to her. Without offering any explanation on how it had come to be in her possession she simply said. “Please see that this is returned to Ráma.”

“Certainly,” Claris said.

Latah forced a smile before turning to back Airefalas, but her thoughts were far away. She started toward the tent in silence. It wasn’t long before the northerner asked her if anything was amiss. “Too many things gone bad!” she said looking up into his eyes. “But I can not say I have angered Lord Falasmir by burning docks and ships,” she added with a weak smile before “I have only burnt leader’s tent,” her voice serious as she bent her head in shame trailing off to speak in her own tongue. “But I am always careful! I do not know how this could happen.”

Airefalas strode along beside her for a moment, and Latah could sense that he was weighing which course this conversation might take. “Why would you set fire to your leader’s tent?” he asked at last. “From what I have seen, it appears that your leader was well loved by all.”

“How well you have learned of the eagle’s affection for their leader in so short a time.” Latah continued in her dialect. Then switching to her poor Westron she answered him. “You are right. But I did not do this, incense did.” She looked ahead as she walked. “Yalisha said to me when the Meldakhar was sick ‘Latah, tomorrow we use this incense. Maybe it will help Ayar.”

“the Meldakhar?”

“Yes, the ‘dear lady’. This is what we call Ayar. She is very good woman, good leader. But after Yalisha tells me this, I go home with used pots. I clean and fill them; first I put sand, then wood coal, then incense. Last goes grate. All ready for next day. This fire had no reason to happen. But pot fell and embers came out. And now …” Latah looked quickly at the northerner, “Now Narayad is leaving because so many are giving him dark looks, thinking he did this.” She shook her head. “And now Narayad’s wife has even lost tools to mend pots!”

“Narayad, is leaving?” Airefalas echoed. “What do they think he did?” The foreigner seemed not to follow her and Latah thought that perhaps she had said too much, and badly as well, though she felt a little better for it. “But I thought the Meldakhar did not die in the fire,” her guest said after a moment.

“No, poor Ayar! She was so very, very sick. And now she is gone, Narayad is leaving. The wind blow him away too.” Latah looked towards the mountains. “But maybe he learns to harness wind too, then wind bring him safely home!”

“But I don’t see, how the fire and the Meldakhar’s death should drive him away from the encampment.” Airefalas said cautiously. “Why is it people think he was even involved? Was he involved?”

“Because,” Latah said matter-of-factly, “because he is maenwaith, but not eagle. He is outsider. He is wolf. People here not trust wolf clan. Maybe the ancestors are unhappy and do not protect us since he is here. This is why. Narayad wants good for eagles, so he goes now. But he will return. He said he would return.”

[Ealasaide]

Airefalas

Airefalas listened closely to Latah's words. Her Westron, which had started out rather shaky, seemed to be getting stronger the more they spoke. She now expressed herself quite well, without the long pauses or searches for words that had initially peppered their conversations. Thinking over the events that had occurred in the Eagle camp since the time of his and Mithadan's arrival just following the fire, Airefalas realized that Latah's explanations had clarified a great deal for him. For one thing, he had noticed the difference in the way people had responded to Narayad as opposed to Surinen on the evening Airefalas had gone with Latah and the two outriders to the ceremony at the fallen leader's bier. He had noticed a reserve amongst the tribesmen where Narayad and, to a lesser degree, Latah, were concerned. At the time, he had mentally chalked it up to his own presence, but in retrospect, he could see that the unease ran deeper than that. Having also heard from Ráma and others that there was a long-standing rift of some kind between the Eagles and the Wolves, he could see why suspicion might fall on Narayad. Based on his own judgement of character and the outrider's seemingly guileless nature, however, he guessed that Narayad was probably not involved in anything underhanded where the Meldakhar, as Latah had called her, was concerned.

And how would you know that? he chided himself mentally. You scarcely know the man. Aloud, he said to Latah, "He will come back. I'm sure he would not leave you for long if he could avoid it."

Latah gave him a thoughtful look, then shook her head. "Perhaps not," she said softly. She turned her face away, but Airefalas caught a trace of deep sadness in her expression. She must love him very much, he thought to himself, to be so sad at his leaving. He wondered why she did not accompany her husband into exile, but did not ask. If she wished to tell him her reasons, she would do so on her own. Unconsciously, his thoughts shifted toward Isabel and of how he would not have even offered for her to accompany him on one of his voyages. She was such an indoor sort of girl and frightened of boats. She would never have considered sailing with him, even if the mission had not been a dangerous one, even if he had asked her to come. Nonetheless, he wondered if she felt the same sadness at his absense that showed plainly in Latah's expressive face when she spoke of her husband's departure. It must be nice, he thought, to be so loved.

"Ah, that we may all look back in our dotage and say to ourselves, I, too, was once adored," he mused. Latah stopped walking and eyed him curiously.

"What is dotage?" she asked.

"Old age," he answered. Then he smiled. "Please don't mind my rambling. It's just something I overheard once. I meant nothing by it."

"I see." Latah nodded gravely. "It is nice thought," she added after a moment, with an almost wistful look in her eyes. Then, saying no more, she turned and began to walk again in the direction of her father's tent. As Airefalas fell into step beside her, a companionable silence overtook them. Airefalas found himself pondering the things Latah had said about herself, her husband, and the fire in the Meldakhar's tent. It did sound like someone had committed a sabotage on one of her incense pots, thus setting the fire, but who? The idea that Wyrma might have agents hidden amongst the Eagles had obviously already occurred to others in the camp, hence all the tension and suspicion. He was grateful that he and Mithadan had not arrived earlier. By pure luck of timing, the two Gondorians had been left beyond suspicion. Nonetheless, he resolved to mention what he had learned to his captain at the first opportunity. It might serve them well to keep their eyes open and their minds alert to any hint of treachery.

Upon their arrival back at Fador's tent, Latah took her leave, sending Airefalas into the tent alone. He found Mithadan not only awake, but standing near the center of the large tent beside a maenwaith elder that Airefalas had not seen before. The man was tall for a tribesman and rather thick through the middle with gray-streaked black hair and a neatly trimmed black beard. He was dressed rather conservatively in the robes of a maenwaith elder, but the hilt of the dagger sheathed at his belt shimmered with inlays of gold and lapis lazuli, hinting that this was a man of power and relative wealth. The man looked toward Airefalas with brown eyes that were both bright and shrewd.

"There you are, " said Mithadan to Airefalas as though he had been expecting him. Turning back toward the waiting tribesman, Mithadan said, "Allow me to present Airefalas of Gondor, first mate of the Lonely Star."

The tribesman made a shallow bow, which Airefalas returned.

"I am Fador, humble elder of the Eagle clan," said the tribesman. "It has been my honor to offer you the hospitality of my tent. As I was telling your captain, I can only apologize for my delay in making your acquaintance, but my absence was unavoidable. I hope that you have been comfortable."


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

Fador

Leaving Hasrim behind in the field, Fador had returned quickly to the Eagle encampment, his absence seeming to have gone unnoticed. Knowing what he had to do, Fador moved amongst the dark tents finding the men he needed to speak with. His plan to send the Gondorian sea captain and his first mate as gifts to Wyrma would have to be put into play quickly, before Thorn and Narika were given control of the clan. Bearing that thought in mind, he spent the remainder of the night making secretive arrangements for the trip. He found the guards who would be loyal to him and, rousting them from their tents, set them to the business of gathering provisions and preparing their own and Fador's horses for the journey. Finally, as dawn began to touch the eastern edge of the sky, Fador sought out the tent of his fellow elder, Mumtaz, for a few hours of sleep, his plan being to meet and persuade the Gondorians to do his bidding when his mind was clear, not clouded from lack of sleep.

Waking a only few short hours after laying his head down on to the sleeping mat, Fador returned at last to his own tent. Upon his arrival, he found the Gondorian captain awake and standing near the flap of the tent, looking out across the encampment. The first mate was nowhere to be seen. As Fador approached, the Gondorian captain stepped back inside to let him enter the tent, but instead of passing him, Fador stopped in front of the man and gave him a polite bow. The two of them exchanged introductions, with Fador offering his apologies for his delay in making the acquaintance of his guests. The Gondorian captain had barely begun to respond, when he hesitated. Fador’s daughter had just appeared outside the tent with the Gondorian first mate in tow. Fador and the captain waited in silence as Latah took her leave and sent the young man into the tent alone.

"There you are," said Mithadan mildly. Turning back toward the waiting tribesman, Mithadan said, "Allow me to present Airefalas of Gondor, first mate of the Lonely Star."

Again, Fador exchanged bows and made his excuses. "Please," he said, gesturing to the mats and cushions surrounding a low table in the center of the large tent. "Let us sit. There is much I would like to talk with you about."

"And much we would like to talk with you about as well," said Mithadan with a smile.

The three men took their seats around the table. Fador began the conversation cautiously, asking first about the Gondorians’ escape from Umbar and the burning of the docks. As the captain patiently told the story yet again, Fador listened, watching both of his guests’ faces with interest, trying to read what sort of men they were from their mannerisms and gestures. He had only a short while to figure out how best to convince these two strangers that their best course of action would be to go to Wyrma’s city. After only a few minutes, Fador came to a quick conclusion. These men could not be bullied or coerced. If they went on his errand at all, it would be because they chose to do so. He must befriend them, convince them that the Eagle clan needed their help. Inwardly, Fador smiled, although outwardly he maintained an expression of friendly neutrality.

As the Gondorian captain concluded the tale of their escape from the clutches of Falasmir, Fador applauded with enthusiasm. He asked a polite question or two and then, leaning forward, lowered his voice, allowing his face to go grim with worry. "You are brave and intelligent men," he said, choosing his words carefully. "You no doubt have heard the rumors that circle our camp like vultures."

"We have heard some talk since our arrival, yes," said Mithadan, nodding. The first mate nodded as well.

"Then you have no doubt heard that there is much trouble amongst the maenwaith people. An assassin has struck at the very heart of our clan, taking the life of our beloved leader." Fador paused as the first mate opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, his words going unspoken. A troubled look flitted over the young man's face like a shadow, then was replaced by a look of calm neutrality, the same look worn by his captain. Fador plowed ahead with his plan. "There is talk that this assassin was sent by none other than Wyrma of the Dragon clan, a maenwaith woman of great power and influence in Umbar."

"I believe we had occasion to meet her briefly during our stay at Falasmir's palace," Mithadan replied.

"Then you know of whom I speak." Fador eyed him sternly. "There is talk that she builds a walled city somewhere to the south of Umbar, which she plans to use as her fortress. From there, many of us believe, she intends to enslave all of the maenwaith people, forcing us to give up our nomadic ways, to live in her city and to exist only to do her bidding." He paused looking from one Gondorian to the other for emphasis. "She must be stopped."

Receiving no immediate reaction from his audience, Fador continued. "You may ask of what concern this is to you, what the problems of a few scattered desert clans might matter to the citizens of such a great nation as Gondor, but I tell you, it does concern you, in the most serious kind of way. Wyrma's ambitions are not bound by the borders of Harad. Ultimately, not even your Minas Tirith will be beyond her grasp."

"And you know this for certain?" asked Mithadan.

Fador smiled wisely. "Nothing is certain. I only speak of rumors and images sent to me from the dreamtime. I sit and I think on these things for hours on end, but when I put them all together, I can see that there is only one solution. We must act at once. We must prevent Wyrma from establishing her stronghold in the desert. Only then can we, as a people, be safe. Only then will your people be safe."

"And why do you tell us?" asked Mithadan. "We are only two men a very long way from home. How can we hope to stop these threats from becoming fact?"

Fador leaned forward, his dark eyes locking on to the gray eyes of the captain. "You are experienced men of war. You know how to attack a walled city. We nomads of the deep desert know nothing of city warfare. We have never laid siege to a city such as the one Wyrma seeks to build. We would not even know where to begin. You... you can help us. With your knowledge of warfare, you can tell us how we might attack this city and defeat it."

Mithadan smiled, casting a sideways glance at his first mate. "Yes," he said at last. "We may be of some eventual help to you, but I'm afraid we will not be able to offer much advice without seeing this city for ourselves. One city is as different from another as one man from another. We cannot tell you how to attack it without first knowing its layout, its strengths and weaknesses, where its vulnerabilities lie."

"Then you must go there." Fador rose to his feet and walked to the open tent flap. "I ask you to do this, not just for the welfare of my people, but for the safety and welfare of yours as well." Then, with his back turned to them, Fador waited to see if the Gondorians would take the bait.

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

Airefalas

Airefalas watched as the tribesman turned and walked to the tent flap, stopping there with his back to him and Mithadan. For an instant, a tense silence prevailed. Then Mithadan spoke.

"Well, what do you make of that?" he said quietly to Airefalas in Quenyan, the barest hint of a smile playing on the corners of his mouth.

Airefalas shook his head. “I don’t like it,” he answered in the same language. “Or rather, not to put too fine a point on it, I don’t like him. While I’m sure what he says is true and while he has been nothing but a gracious host, there is something about him that puts me in mind of a certain type of eel you can find if you pick up the right rock in a coldwater river delta.”

Mithadan’s eyes twinkled, though his expression grew grave. “I was thinking the same thing, although perhaps not quite in those terms. Nonetheless, I am inclined to take him up on his offer.”

Frowning slightly, Airefalas nodded.

“You disapprove?” asked Mithadan, having caught the dark look on the younger man’s face.

Airefalas shrugged. “It’s not my place to approve or disapprove,” he said honestly. “It’s just that - didn’t he say that this walled city is located somewhere near Umbar? It seems to me, by going there, we would simply be walking out of the frying pan right back into the fire. We went to a good deal of trouble to get away from Umbar. I find it surprising, considering our situation, that you are thinking of heading back that way. If there were a chance of catching an outbound ship, I could see it, but this...” He trailed off. “Aside from the possible defense value to Gondor...”

Mithadan nodded. “It could be of tremendous value to Gondor, or it could be of no use at all. It is hard to predict. But I have reasons of my own for wishing to see this city, quite apart from the reasons this man puts forward. Frankly, I don‘t think that even he is quite as sincere in his motivations as he would have us believe. Whatever his game is, however, I think we should play along.”

Airefalas gave his captain‘s words some serious consideration, then nodded as well. “As long as we play with our eyes open, I suppose I have no objections. Anything is better than sitting around here in idleness.”

Mithadan nodded again, but before he could say anything else, the tribesman turned back toward them, a shrewd look visible on his dark face for a mere fraction of a second. Then the sharpness vanished, replaced by a mask of hopeful congeniality.

“Will you go?” he asked. “For the good of my people and yours?”

Mithadan rose and approached the tribesman, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I will consider it,” he answered, dropping back into Westron. “But I do have some questions.” He paused. At an encouraging gesture from Fador, he continued. “When would this trip take place? You speak of urgency and haste, yet we would need a guide, horses, supplies. Those things take time to assemble. Do we even know precisely where this city is located?”

Fador nodded. “We do, and I shall supply you with all that you ask: horses, supplies, a guide, and an additional pair of my kinsmen to go with you and assist you as needed. They are loyal to me and can be trusted. If you agree, you shall go at once.”

“At once?”

“Yes.” The shrewd smile flitted again across the tribesman’s swarthy features. “I had anticipated that you might agree to this mission. My men stand ready with horses and supplies enough for five. I have but to speak a word to my nephew who shall serve as your guide, and your number will be five.”

“You assume much,” said Mithadan mildly. “Why such haste?”

Fador’s expression turned solemn. “An assassin haunts this camp. Perhaps he sends word to Umbar of our movements, as well. I am sure that you, as a captain and a strategist yourself, understand the need for secrecy. If too much time is taken up in preparations, then word may seep out to our enemies. If that should happen, then you and my kinsmen alike should amount to nothing more than lambs on your way to the slaughter.”

“Salmon to market...” muttered Airefalas. A vivid image of the sharp knives of the fishmongers, slitting and gutting the silvery, scaled bellies of a day’s catch rose starkly in his mind. He knew he should not like to meet the same fate, but somehow the image remained stubbornly ensconced in the forefront of his mind. Finally he sighed, pushing the graphic vision away from himself. Following Mithadan’s lead, he rose to his feet and walked to the corner of the tent where he and Mithadan had left their packs and swords. At least the forced idleness of the past few days had left them uncommonly well-prepared for immediate travel, their weapons all sharpened to a razor’s edge and their packs well-organized and as well-provisioned as they could manage under the circumstances. Picking up his sword belt, Airefalas smiled grimly to himself. He had walked knowingly into dangerous situations often enough in the past. This would be no different. After all, as he had said to Mithadan only moments before, anything would be better than idleness.

As Airefalas buckled his sword into place, behind him, Mithadan and Fador made the final arrangements for an immediate departure. Airefalas was pleased to hear that the guide who would be leading them was none other than Surinen, the outrider who had gone with him and Latah and Narayad to Ayar’s bier the night before. Surinen seemed like a solid fellow, with a good head on his shoulders and an excellent command of Westron. He would be a good companion, even if he was a little gruff and standoffish at times. As for the other two... while Airefalas hoped that they would be tribesmen of the same caliber as Surinen, he decided to reserve his opinion of them until later. After all, for all he knew, they could turn out to be eels.

Moments later, with their swords and packs in place, Fador led the two Gondorians out of the tent and to the edge of the Eagle encampment. He took a circuitous route between the many tents, a route that kept them well out of sight of most of the other Eagles. Arriving at a meeting place that had been prearranged by Fador and his kinsmen, the northerners found two sturdy horses saddled and waiting for them, being held by two hard-looking tribesmen, one of them as stout as the other was lean and wiry.

“Fador’s kinsmen,” thought Airefalas to himself as he pulled himself into his saddle. “They look more like jackals than Eagles to me... or even eels for that matter.”

Having seen his charges delivered into the hands of his kinsmen, Fador left again briefly to find Surinen. A short time later, he returned with the guide in tow. Shortly thereafter, the five travelers left, riding single file northward into the desert. Looking back, Airefalas saw Fador disappear again between the tents, a shadowy figure, moving surreptitiously back in the direction of his own quarters. Losing him at last, Airefalas’ eyes continued to search the outskirts of the camp for a long moment before he understood what it was that he was looking for. Finally, as the realization hit him that what he sought was not there, Airefalas turned swiftly forward again in his saddle.

Of course, Latah would not be there to see them off. She did not even know they had gone.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Day 3

It was noon of the third day. The original watchfire beside the bier burned low and was finally extinguished with the help of many buckets of water. As the last of the red flames reluctantly spluttered and died, plumes of smoke swirled upward until an overhanging curtain of grey was visible across the desert even from a distance. For the past two days the maenwaith tending Ayar’s watchfire had fed the flames with small twigs or dried bracken gathered from the watering hole. But such a fire would not be large enough for the new job at hand, since this was the final day of mourning, a time when family and clan would offer their last goodbyes. Ayar’s spirit would depart and fly free across the heavens. The maenwaith would burn her body and inter the remains beneath the desert sand, with a cairn to mark the grave.

Some weeks earlier, once the council had understood that their leader would not regain her strength, the Elders had dispatched swift messengers to the south on horseback. Now these messengers had returned dragging sledges behind their horses, each one bearing a sizeable bundle of logs . These horsemen had journeyed to the lower slopes of the mountains in the south to secure the precious wood of the cedar, an aromatic pine that burns sweet and clear.

On this afternoon, the crowd of mourners was even larger than the first two days. Clan members removed the cedar logs from the sledges and arranged them in a single giant stack. On top of this pile, they lovingly placed Ayar’s body. The Eagles stood and watched as tiny tongues of gold and blue flared, taking hold of the sweet smelling bark. This time there was no singing. The two sisters stood erect at the foot of the bier, struggling to hold back tears as they held each other’s hands and watched the flames creep up and tinge the hem of Ayar’s gown. In another instant, a massive sheet of red and orange leapt forward, rising some ten feet above their heads. Ayar’s body and features were blurred and then lost forever beneath its relentless spread. The men of the clan would remove the charred remains, bury them late at night, and pile up the stones, once the ashes were no longer so hot to the touch.

That evening just before the burial, the gathered crowd of mourners again lifted their voices in a final song, urging Ayar to fly free in whatever direction she chose and learn to master her true form, whatever that might be. As the last notes of the melody died away, the two sisters left the gathering and returned together to their tent to await the ceremony at dawn when they would upturn the pot of water, which had sat there from the first day of mourning. This simple act would signify that the clan was now free to go forward and begin to rebuild its life.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ráma slowly made her way back through the small cluster of mourners that still circled the ring of ashes; the latter was the only physical evidence remaining of the three days of mourning now drawing to a close. The moon stood high in the heavens. In just a few hours it would be dawn. She stopped and lingered at the entry to the tent, glancing over her shoulder at the vast expanse of sand extending southward, an ocean of blackness enshrouded in heavy shadow. Her sister already awaited her. Narika crouched near the dying embers of the hearth and idly fingered her mother’s ceremonial brooch with its flying eagle engraved in silver over a base of jade. With all its beauty and memories, the piece would belong to her as head of the clan after the Elders met later that morning.

“Come inside.” Narika gestured to her sister. “Only an hour or two till we overturn the pot. Lay down and rest a while.”

“I cannot. I am restless. There is still much to do.” Ráma hesitated as she wondered whether this was a good time to bring up what Ayar had said. Impulsively, she reached out to touch her sister’s hand. “You and I must talk. I have put this off too long. The afternoon before mother died, she spoke of several things. She planned to share all this with you the next day….” At this juncture, Ráma’s voice trailed off.

“I knew you were bothered by something, even beyond mother’s death. What is it? Speak, and I will help if I can.”

“Mother said the time for talking had passed. You and Thorn must marry and jointly lead the Eagles. Ride out to the other clans and speak with all who will listen, urging them to come together. Use every sword and talon, every tooth and claw, to combat Wyrma and her ilk. That is what she told me.”

“It brings me little joy to take arms against my own kin,” responded Narika with a sigh, “but Thorn and I have come to feel that we have no other choice. If Wyrma is not stopped, the Eagles and all others who follow the old nomadic ways will be destroyed.”

“There is something else,” Ráma noted. “Mother said the strangers may be willing to help us, and we should not turn away from them.”

A look of displeasure flitted over Narika’s face, one that was slowly replaced by a calmer and more thoughtful gaze. She chose her reply with care, “At one time not long ago, I would have scorned such a thought, but as I know these men better—especially this Aiwendil---my feelings have softened. Perhaps these outsiders are meant to be here. It is likely the strangers will flee at the first hint of war. And even if they are willing to stay, I can not promise what others will say. But I give you my word: I will not oppose them or you in any reasonable request.

“In fact,” she added with a hint of a smile, “Perhaps, I will ask Thorn to put you in charge of keeping track of them. That would serve you right. Is that all, then?”

Visibly relaxed and emboldened, Rama continued, “There was something else. Mother related an ancient tale how Thorondor and the other Great Eagles befriended our clan in return for some small service we’d done for an injured eaglet. Because of this, he granted us the gift of taking the eagle form.”

“I have also heard this. But how does it involve Wyrma?”

“Mother spoke of an ancient promise. The Eagles swore to come to our aid if the clan ever found itself in terrible peril. She even mentioned a wise woman dwelling in the southern mountains called Ayka. Ayka may know where these Eagles are and can help us find them. I must go south and beg her assistance. And not only the Eagles,” she continued, “Mother even spoke of wyrms--members of the dragon clan who scorn Wyrma and her evil ways. Perhaps they too can join our fight. ”

“Stop, Ráma. Enough.” Narika raised her hand as if to ward off any consideration of these ideas. “You have a strong sword arm, and Thorn would welcome you into the ranks of those who fight. Do not waste time chasing after old dreams.”

“But these are not my ideas. They are Mother’s, and she spoke with great urgency. I dare not ignore the promise I made to her, nor would I wish to do so.” Ráma planted her feet apart and glared obstinately at her sister.

“I can see nothing good coming from such fancies. Perhaps near the end, Mother was confused, with all the poison spreading through her body. But if you feel compelled to follow this course, do what you must. There should be a group going south to alert the clans in that region. Go with them. Take a few friends and make a quiet side trip to visit this strange maenwaith who lives by herself in the mountains. You will probably find her old and addled with little of worth to share. But at least you will have done your duty and can come back with a clear heart. Only say nothing of this to the Elders, for some are less friendly to Thorn, and they would laugh at such silliness or use it as a pretext to stand against him.”

“Thank you. I will tell only a few, and those whom I trust. Not a word to the Elders, I promise.”

At that instant there was a slight stirring outside the entrance to the tent. Narika went to look if anyone was there, but she saw no one. “Only the wind,” she reported. Come now. With all our chattering, the remaining night has fled. It is dawn. We should go now to overturn the pot.” With that the women headed out of the tent. The period of mourning had ended; the time for action had come.

[Nerindel]

Save: Sorona