A “play by
e-mail” chronicle for The Lord of
the Rings Roleplaying Game,
Narrator: Scott
Metzger (Scottomir)
PLEASE NOTE: Since this account comes from RPG narration designed
for the game’s players, it is sometimes written in the second-person
(“you” / “your Fellowship”), present tense. This may take a little getting used to as an outsider
reader (just imagine yourself “in the game” as part of the group).
Dramatis Personae
Bergalad, a Grey-elf of Ithilien (Elf Minstrel)
Eogar son of Garbald, a disgraced exile from Rohan, known as
“Vornmir” in Minas Tirith (Man Warrior)
Finbor son of Angbor, the surviving heir of Angbor, lord of
Lamedon in Gondor (Dúnadan Warrior)
Frolin son of Droli, a Dwarf from Gimli’s colony in the
“
Herubrand of Framsburg, brother of Horn, thegn of the rebuilt town
of
Rariadoc Brandybuck, kinsman of Meriadoc ‘the
Magnificent’ and a former Shire Bounder (Hobbit Rogue)
Scene 1: Farewell to a Friend, and a Welcome
Arrival
AMON LHÂW, the High Seat of Hearing upon the Nen
Hithoel, north of the mighty
The
Grey-elf minstrel, young for his kind, born in the decades between
Bilbo’s finding of the One Ring and Frodo’s quest to destroy it,
had traveled far to bring his music to this somber land so in need of
joy. From the woody banks by Cair Andros, in Ithilien where Legolas
settled with his people after the War of the Ring, the Elven-minstrel traveled
along the banks of the
The
minstrel walks his fair Elven-steed along the lakeshore as he sings, his
farseeing eyes drawn to the three peaks dominating the vista between the
awe-inspiring Argonath and the
"Béma,
grant this steed the strength and swiftness of your own Nahar!" a man
shouts in Rohirric, invoking the Vala Oromë.
"Six
of your friends have I slain this day. Come and make it
seven!" a Dwarf growls in Westron.
"Master
Frolin, come back here, we will cover you!" a little hobbit-voice
responds.
Moments
later a lordly voice calls out in Quenya and Westron, "Aurë entuluva! Day
shall come again!"
The
Sindarin minstrel knows that a battle against orcs is raging far to the east,
and travelers from the West have somehow become embroiled in it. His
heart sinks as he contemplates that they might be scouts from the
*
* *
DORWINION, the land of wine. The
Fellowship that set out from Rivendell nearly three months ago now rests
peacefully in one of the mightiest wine-estates. Galleth’s villa
will long be remembered in the lore of this land, where Master Galleth and
fifty-some of his folk, led by five travelers from the distant West, held out
against a goblin horde of some five hundred. But Galleth’s estate
suffered greatly in the battle; the crop-fields and vineyards have been
trampled and the lush hill upon which his manor sits has been churned to mud;
many of the defenders were killed in the fight, and all of the survivors were
wounded. The large buildings on the hill have been turned into hospitals,
and every spare room in Galleth’s manor-house holds a sick-bed for the
injured. While the wounded convalesce, the unharmed women, children, and
old-folk of the estate honorably bury the dead and begin the slow process of
repairing the damage. Their work goes on is safety under a bright
summer-sun; for in the days after the defeat of the goblin-army, the unnatural
darkness dispersed and a proper bright and golden summer returned to this land
of vineyards.
It
is now July the 4th, one full week after the battle. For the
past seven days the Fellowship from the West has rested here in comfort and
safety, waited upon as triumphant heroes by the grateful people of the
estate. Rard, Herubrand, and Frolin are injured badly enough to be kept
in bed the whole time; Éogar, who was once called Vornmir (the Shadowed
Jewel, a prophetic sobriquet!) but who has now reclaimed his true name, and
Finbor are well enough to move about freely, so long as their light wounds are
daily washed and bandaged anew. Master Galleth, too, is badly hurt and
still lies in bed, under the care of his son Halgo. In their absence it
is Garad who commands the estate, leading the people in their work. The
grateful retainer visits the heroes daily and sees that their every need is
met. After resting for a week in the haven of Galleth’s villa, the
companions’ wounds begin to heal…
Éogar : 7 [natural healing] + 4 [required Stamina
test (TN 10: 7 roll + 3 Stamina + 4 Warrior’s Heart – 0 Healthy + 5
haven bonus = 19, superior success)] + 3 [bonus Stamina test (TN 10: 3 roll + 3
Stamina + 4 Warrior’s Heart – 0 Healthy + 5 haven bonus = 15, complete
success)] = 14 damage healed (0 damage remaining, Healthy)
Finbor:
7 [natural healing] + 3 [required Stamina test (TN 10: 9 roll + 4 Stamina
– 1 Dazed + 5 haven bonus = 17, superior success)] + 2 [bonus Stamina
test (TN 10: 5 roll + 4 Stamina – 1 Dazed + 5 haven bonus = 13, complete
success)] = 12 damage healed (7 damage remaining, Healthy)
Rard:
7 [natural healing] + 2 [required Stamina test (TN 10: 9 roll + 2 Stamina
– 1 Injured + 5 haven bonus = 15, complete success)] + 3 [bonus Stamina
test (TN
Frolin:
7 [natural healing] +2 [required Stamina test (TN 10: 8 roll + 2 Stamina
– 3 Wounded + 5 haven bonus = 12, complete success)] + 2 [bonus Stamina
test (TN 10: 9 roll + 2 Stamina – 3 Wounded + 5 haven bonus = 13,
complete success)] = 11 damage healed (28 damage remaining, Injured)
Herubrand’s
lot is less fortunate. The Northman was badly hurt in the battle, and it
soon becomes clear he did not benefit so readily from leechcraft after the
fight. Infection sets in as the days pass, and Herubrand deteriorates
rather than recuperating. Whereas the other companions, even Frolin, can
leave their beds after the week of rest, Herubrand is incapacitated by his
injuries and remains restricted to his bed. On the afternoon of July 4,
the villa’s healer-women tending to him confide to his friends that
sickness is serious and that it will be a long while ere he may leave his
bed—if ever. The women solemnly file out of his bedchamber, leaving
the other companions to speak privately with their comrade.
The
proud Northman lies stricken and still on his bed, but he manages to find the
strength to open his eyes and offer a weak chuckle to his friends.
“It seems my part in this story has come to an end, for now…”
he murmurs with a faint smile.
“You
are strong, proven on the battlefield,” Éogar
says to him. “I know you can recover.”
Rard
stares at his prostrate comrade and looks desperately to the Dwarven
loremaster. “Frolin, can you not help him?” he asks.
Frolin
shakes his head sadly and says, “His wounds have already been treated
with care and poultices, there is nothing more that can be done. Now only
time and rest can heal him.”
Herubrand
gazes at his two small friends, close to his eye level as he lies on his
back. “Do not concern yourself for me, little Rard,” he says
gently. “Nor you, Frolin, for you suffer enough hurts of your
own.” He then looks to Finbor, captain in the fight against the
goblin horde. The Northman speaks to him plaintively, “You must
leave me here. Carry on your quest without me.”
Finbor
frowns somberly and replies in a low tone, “You are a brother-in-arms to
us, Herubrand. We cannot abandon you.”
Herubrand
shakes his head once and returns, “You are not abandoning me,
Finbor. I am in a safe haven, secured by our efforts. But, I know
that I am dread ill, and it will be many turnings of the moon before I am well
enough to leave this place, if I do not expire first. I have hope that I
will recover, and then I may make my own way back to my homeland. Yet I
know that I may die here, and if my body is to be committed to this foreign
soil my only regret is that my kin in Framsburg will not hear of my
end.” He then holds out his right arm and says, “Hand my
sword to me.”
Éogar
picks up the masterful blade from where it sits on a nearby table, placing the
sheathed sword in its owner’s hand. “Your Fellowship must continue
without me, but I wish to go on in spirit,” Herubrand says, holding out
the scabbard to Finbor. “This sword is an heirloom of my family, a
masterwork forged in the Vales of Anduin and borne in battle by my
father’s father when he reclaimed the ruins of Framsburg. My
brother Horn inherited our father’s place as chief of our folk, and I
inherited this mighty sword to protect them. This blade and I are one,
even unto our shared name: for ‘Herubrand’ means ‘brandished
sword’ in the old tongue of Eotheod. Take my sword, and I will be
with you: ‘Herubrand’ is a sword meant to be wielded in an
honorable cause, not to languish unused while there is work to be done.
All I ask is that, when your quest is finished for good or for ill, you bring
the sword back to Framsburg. I would that I am there to greet you and
feast you in honor, but if I am not and instead lie in
the earth of Galleth’s estate, tell my people of my deeds and doom
here.”
Finbor
takes the proffered sheath, drawing the blade from its handsome scabbard.
The burnished steel sings sweetly as it slides free of the leather and lacquer,
a blade light and sturdy and sharp with a double-handed hilt. It is the
finest weapon Finbor has ever held, better balanced and keener than even his
own Gondorian sword.
Raising
the blade in salute, he cries: "Herubrand! You are already a blade
well-known by your people; before this sword returns home the whole of Rhûn
will fear and respect its blade, and both Orcs and Easterlings will
tremble when they hear its name! So I, Finbor of Calembel, son of Angbor, lord
of Lamedon, swear upon the White Tree of Gondor and the honour of the
House of Lamedon!"
The
Northman smiles when he hears Finbor’s pledge to his namesake
sword. “Herubrand the sword serves a new master worthy wield him;
and Herubrand the man must now say farewell to a fellowship of good
friends. But, I rest happily knowing that my sword will see good service
in your cause.”
"I
cannot leave you here unarmed, my friend. We have defeated the Orc-host,
but the Balchoth still roam free. Although my blade, forged in the armouries of
the
Herubrand weakly holds out his hand to receive
Finbor’s proffered sword. He gingerly rests the heavy blade at
the side of his bed and replies in a failing voice, “Even the basest
sword forged in the
Éogar , Finbor, Frolin, and Rard sadly leave their
stricken comrade to rest, knowing he will be unable to accompany them on the
next part of the quest. Much is left to be done. Frolin fetches his
copy of Wogan’s map, spreading it out on top of a large outdoor table,
and he studies it along with his companions. Rhûn is a very large region,
and almost nothing is known of the lands beyond Dorwinion. It is not yet
clear if the Fellowship will need to venture into these uncertain lands,
populated by the warlike Bolcoth Easterlings (referred to in Gondor and the
West as the Balchoth, transliterating their name to include the pejorative
Sindarin Bal- prefix…not without some justification). How
many Angril shards are there, and how far could they have
scattered? These are the two chief concerns that weigh upon the
companions as they study the map and decide where to go from here.
Unable
to see very well atop the high table anyway, the restless hobbit Rariadoc
Brandybuck slips away from the map session to check on the Fellowship’s
traveling supplies. He makes his way to the stable, which was not badly
damaged in the battle. Inside he is delighted to find the company’s
faithful mule “Barion” alive and well, unfazed by the tumult of the
past week. The mule is being well-fed and well cared for, and his pack
saddle rests on a nearby bench. He estimates the packs contain a grand
total of about 75 pounds worth of dried foodstuffs, enough for 75 man-days of
sustenance. He also finds the group’s coil of sturdy rope tucked
into the pack. On the ground next to the bench is the party’s water
barrel, which can easily be refilled at the estate’s wells and will hold
50 man-days worth of water when full. Rard pets “Barion” for
a few moments, and then leaves the stable to rejoin his companions and report
his findings.
*
* *
Rard
rejoins the rest of the Fellowship from the West in time to confront a major
tumult. Galleth’s laboring folk tending the western part of his
estate come running up the hill in panic, crying out warnings to their fellows
working to repair the hill villa. “One of the Wood-folk
comes!” a woman cries. A man close behind bemoans, “A
Wood-spirit upon a great horse, bearing an enchanted bow!” A third
voice wails, “Beware! Whether from East or West, the Wood-folk
bring naught but witchery in their wake!” With Galleth indisposed,
Halgo constantly at his father’s side, and Garad occupied elsewhere,
Finbor the Captain decides to intervene and calm the people. Éogar
follows at his side, with Frolin and Rard running to catch up to the
swift-striding men.
As
the Fellowship reaches the western ridge of the hill, Finbor looks out upon the
fields below and smiles. Éogar watches impassively; Frolin reaches
Finbor’s side and lets loose a wry chuckle, while Rard can only gasp in
amazement. It is an Elven-rider with a longbow strapped to his back,
mounted upon a fair Elven-steed. “One of the Sindar Grey-elves, I
think,” Finbor states to his companions.
“Could
Thranduil have sent us an ally to replace Belegil, whom he took from us?”
Frolin ponders.
“Perhaps,”
Finbor answers, “but this Elf comes from the southwest. I think he
is more likely one of Legolas’ folk from Ithilien.”
The
Elf-rider spots the Fellowship standing calmly atop the hill and rides toward
them. “He looks just like I’ve always imagined Legolas in all
the stories!” Rard squeals in delight.
Scene 2: Giving of Gifts
The
arrival of an Elf upon horseback has panicked the simple laboring folk of
Galleth’s villa. Still moving with a slight limp, the dwarf trails
behind the others as they go to meet the visitor. "Be at ease, good
people," Frolin calls out in Dorwinion, grinning at the panicked
farmers. "There is nothing to fear. He looks to be a traveler
from the West like us. And a friend."
Frolin’s cheerful bellow is all that the nervous people of Galleth’s
villa need to hear to be calmed. Reassured by the trusted Dwarf that the
Elven stranger is no threat, the panic quickly subsides. Most of the
people scatter and go about their business, although curious glances from afar
continue to be fixed on the Elf-rider as he arrives atop the hill.
Finbor
calls out in Sindarin: "Hail fair Elf of Ithilien. What news do you
bring from Gondor?"
As
the Elf moves closer, Frolin speaks to his companions softly: "His coming
can be no coincidence."
The
broad man of Rohan watches the Elf approach and turns to Finbor, "I know
little of the magics of the elves...could this one have news from Elladan and
Elrohir? News from the Last Homely House and King
Elessar? Clearly he does not ride from Rivendell," Éogar says
pointing briefly to the West Northwest, "but long have we been gone from
the King's camp and great is our need to report our findings to him."
Finbor
replies, "I once heard they could speak over great distances without using
speech, but these surely are old wives tales. Their woodmanship is certainly
bordering on the magical though. But after Belemir's dramatic escape before the
battle, I'd say we can use some fairy-tale magic."
Rard
stands on his tippy-toes to see better. Spying a
nearby woodpile he runs to it and clambors atop. He claps his hands
together. "It is Legolas come to aid us! No, wait, his coloring is
not quite what cousin Merry told me!"
The
Elf smiles, "No indeed small friend, I am not Legolas though I am honored
to be mistaken for such a noble member of my kind. I am called Bergalad
and I have ridden from Ithilien from where I am happy to declare all is well
and prospering. The once blighted Brown Lands are flowing with life
again. But I am gravely concerned and eager to hear your own story.
Atop Amon Lhâw I rode and from far away I heard the sounds of battle and of
orcs. With victory so recent over the darkness of in the land where
shadows laid vigilance is all the more important that the embers of that great
evil not be rekindled. With such worries I rode quickly to see the danger
with my own eyes and offer aid. And indeed, it seems aid is much in
need. Tell me your tale and of the threat of these orcs".
"Swift
indeed are the steeds of the elves if this one bore you here from Amon Lhaw in
only seven days' time!” Frolin jovially announces. "The threat
in these lands is far greater than just an uprising of orcs," Frolin
continues more seriously, but then pauses for a moment. "But if you
wish to hear of it, let us retire to more comfortable quarters. The tale
is a long one, and I at least am still ailing from the recent
battle." The Elf assents, following the company back to
Galleth’s manor house. He dismounts from his fair steed, and with
but a whispered word the mount trots off out of the way to graze upon this new
land.
As
the Fellowship guides Bergalad into one of the drawing-rooms in Galleth’s
manor, Rard whispers privately to his comrades, "Do you think he is on the
level? I have a good feeling about him."
Finbor
smiles at Rard and whispers back, "I have met elves before; occasionally a
messenger from Lord Legolas would visit the
The
four companions and the Elf sit down in the comfortable drawing-room, pouring
drafts of fine local wine to be sipped during the conversation. It is
then that Frolin relates the wide-ranging journey that brought the Fellowship
to Dorwinion; he ominously describes their discovery of the Angril,
their encounter with Belemir, and the loremaster’s disquieting
disappearance with Galleth’s shard. "Now that you have heard
our tale, Bergalad, you know the dangers we have faced and the dangers we may
face in the future. If you do not wish to join us, we will not think less
of you. But if you do travel back to the West, please carry a message for
us to King Elessar."
Bergalad
is somewhat more cautious around the Dwarf than the other three and does not appear
to warm to him immediately, but as Frolin begins to tell his story the Elf
seems more and more interested by the tale and the telling of it. When
the Dwarf is through Bergalad notes, "You tell your story well. Such
tales well deserve to be put into song. Indeed your mission is both noble
and vital. I am compelled to assist you in your noble goal and would be
honored to receive your welcome into this well-intended fellowship".
"Our
Fellowship seems both cursed and blessed by fate." Finbor adds.
"Cursed, for we have already lost two of our companions along the road,
and we are about to leave the third behind. Blessed for every time we lose
someone, someone else stands up to take their place."
*
* *
The
Fellowship, increased by the addition of Bergalad the Elf of Ithilien, next
begins to plan their new journey; for they know that the Black Crystal
continues to exude its foul presence over this land, and they must soon leave
the comforts of Galleth’s villa to pursue this lingering work of the
Black Enemy. Frolin insists that the first course is to travel to
Marsburg and seek out Dáma, the sage who taught Wogan the lore of the Black
Crystal. The others quickly consent to the Dwarf’s course.
Yet, it is certain that the Fellowship cannot risk the dangers of the
countryside until wounds have furthered healed, especially Frolin’s
serious injuries. The companions rest for another week at Galleth’s
estate; Éogar is wholly recovered from his scrapes, and after seven more days
Finbor’s remaining injuries have entirely closed, but Rard and Frolin
continue to require daily cleaning and bandaging by the healer-women of the
villa. Fortunately, by the week’s end Rariadoc is back to full
health and Frolin is only dazed from a lingering laceration that should heal on
its own over the next week…
Rard:
7 [natural healing] + 3 [required Stamina test (TN
Frolin:
7 [natural healing] +3 [required Stamina test (TN 10: 8 roll + 4 Stamina
– 1 Injured + 5 haven bonus = 16, superior success)] + 2 [bonus Stamina
test (TN 10: 6 roll + 4 Stamina – 1 Injured + 5 haven bonus = 14,
complete success)]; 14 damage remaining (Dazed)
In
the time before the Fellowship departs from Galleth’s estate, the
companions prepare for their travels. The party’s mule is groomed
and readied with its packs, and the travelers see to their own packs and
equipment. Rariadoc Brandybuck is especially concerned about his own
supply shortage, for he shot away all his arrows in the battle. The
little hobbit scours the estate looking for arrows, and even though he cannot
speak or understand the local tongue he manages to figure out that there are no
arrows left anywhere in the villa—they all were used up in the fight
against the goblins. [Persuade test, TN 10: 8 roll + 1 – 2 language
penalty = 7, failure] Rard tries to persuade the folk of the estate to
craft some arrows for him, but he cannot cross the language barrier to convince
them that they should delay their work repairing the estate to make him some
arrows. The disappointed hobbit will have to venture into the countryside
an empty quiver. If only he knew how to craft arrows himself!
*
* *
July
the 11th. After one more week of rest, the day has finally
come for the Fellowship from the West to leave Galleth’s
estate—Finbor, Frolin, Rard, and Éogar’s home for the past many days,
a place which they all spent blood to defend. Bergalad, who like Belegil
needs no true sleep but merely a few hours dreaming under the night-sky, is
already prepared to depart by the time his new friends awaken. The Sinda
minstrel greets the companions as they emerge from their beds to have
breakfast. “Take your time readying yourselves for the
journey,” Bergalad says with a warm smile. “I will ride out
before you and scout our way a short distance, for I perceive that I will not
be needed here this day.” The Grey-elf bows his head and stealthily
slips out of Galleth’s manor undetected.
When
the Fellowship finally sets out to depart, the companions find that all the
surviving residents of the villa who can rise from their beds have turned out
to see them off. Garad stands at their head, and he leads them in a
rousing cheer. The little children of the estate jump up and down in
excitement, and their mothers cry out “thank you!” in their
Dorwinion tongue. During the outcry of jubilation, Master Galleth emerges
from the manor house; he is heavily bandaged and still hurt, but he now can
slowly walk with some care. His son Halgo stands at his side, his arm
supporting his father and helping the older man walk to the front of the
assembly.
“Garad
would not hear of your departing us without turning out all the people to say
farewell,” Galleth says with a light chuckle. “I could not
refuse such a deserved request, for every one of us, man, woman, and child,
owes you a debt of thanks, visitors from the distant West.” Halgo
remains at his father’s side, and he flashes a bright smile at Rard, his
companion in the battle.
“Fate
it was that brought you here,” Garad says solemnly, “and we wish
you good fortune on the rest of your journey through these lands. We
shall never forget what you in our tales and songs, and word of your deeds
already spreads to Dunburg and the rest of Dorwinion.” The veteran
retainer gazes into the faces of the heroes and notes a sign of concern.
Intuiting their thoughts, he adds in a gentle voice, “Do not fear for
your friend Herubrand. He remains in a deep sleep, and our healer-women
will keep vigil over him until he recovers or until he no longer draws
breath. His every need will be met, and we shall do everything in our
power to see that he regains his strength and returns to his homeland.
But if the spirits of life and fate deem that his time on this earth has come,
I will see that he is interred in our free soil in great honor, though I hope
it shall not come to that.”
Master
Galleth bellows loudly and cheerfully, “Come now, let us not think dark
thoughts at our parting, for saying farewell to cherished friends is pain
enough. Herubrand still lives, and he is a hardy
man who is like to thrive for many years untold. Finish your quest in
these lands, my friends, and when you return to the West may you find Herubrand
waiting for you.” The gathered folk clap and cheer, their spirits
lifted by Galleth’s optimistic words.
Young
Halgo then calls out, “But we cannot let our friends leave empty-handed,
not after they have given us so much!” His sentiment is cheered by
the people, and both Garad and Galleth smile broadly.
“Indeed,”
Galleth says, a twinkle in his eye. “These
travelers came to our villa as strangers but leave as dear friends, and we have
gifts to give you, in thanks and to remember us by.” Before the
companions can demur and foreswear the need for presents, Galleth raises his
hand in authority to dismiss any protest. “We owe you more than
could ever be repaid by gifts, so think of these not as reward but as tokens of
esteem and affection.”
Garad
steps forward, gesturing for the crowd to part. From out of the stable
comes a servant leading the estate’s finest stallion, a mighty charger
belonging to the Master of the Villa himself. “Finbor
Angbor’s son, captain of our defense, we gift you with my beloved
steed,” Galleth announces. “He is one of the finest
war-horses in Dorwinion, and his charges are irresistible. May he serve
you loyally and well.” Galleth renders the
horse’s name in his own Dorwinion-speech, and Frolin and Éogar work
together to translate it into Rohirric and then Westron: Grimmód is the
name most akin in Rohirric, which means “fierce-spirit” in the
Common tongue.
[Grimmód
is an extraordinary-quality warhorse with the Steady, War-trained, Mighty
Stallion, Mighty Charge, and Trample Under Hoof
abilities.]
Finbor looks
at Eogar, smiling, "Grimmód was a name well chosen, I see." Then
turns to Galleth again: "You are a noble man, Galleth, and a royal
giver of gifts. The lands of Rhûn will need men like you in the years to
come." He then makes a deep bow, "On behalf of the
Garad waves his
arm, and a second servant emerges from the stable leading another masterful
horse, this one the powerful and swift mare which Garad himself rode to Dunburg
on his most urgent errand. Galleth calls out, “Vornmir, or Éogar as
I now should call you, we gift you with our swiftest
steed, a mare unmatched in all Dorwinion. She is as tall and powerful as
a stallion, but more nimble and bitable. We are told that your folk in the West ride swiftly across the open plain
wielding spear and bow, and this steed will suit you well.” Galleth
states the mighty mare’s name in Dorwinion-speech, and Frolin and Éogar
decide it is best rendered in Rohirric as Hildwyn, which means
“battle-joy” in the Common tongue.
[Hildwyn
is an extraordinary-quality warhorse with the Steady, War-trained, Swift Mare,
Robust Steed, and Edge-Tireless abilities.]
Eogar
smiles broadly beneath his beard. "Thank you Lord Galleth. She
is easily the equal of the fine horses of Rohan. Your villa has been more
of a home to me than anyplace I have been in recent times. I will forget
neither this hill nor these people, and Hildwyn is the greatest reminder of my
'Home in the East' one could ask for."
It
is now young Halgo who steps forward, gesturing for a servant to follow him
bearing a parcel wrapped in a cloth. The lad comes to stand before Rard
and announces to the crowd, “I have a gift to give to Rariadoc
Brandybuck, our dear friend from the Shire-land. His people may be small,
but they are the surest at the mark of any archer who has ever drawn a
bowstring!” He takes the parcel from the servant, removes the
cloth, and reveals his own stout bow that he wielded in the battle against the
goblins. “This bow was my father’s before me, and his
father’s before him. It was the mastercraft of my
great-grandfather, the finest bowyer in all Dorwinion. Its stock is
carved from the stoutest oak, fixed to ends made from horns of the great wild
kine of the south, with an unbreakable horsehair string. This bow has
become an heirloom of our House, given to the eldest son for his first hunt
alone upon reaching manhood. It is right that now this bow pass to Rard,
because were it not for him I would have perished and there would never be
another heir to receive this bow. Rard has given me my life, and my
family gifts him with this bow. May it preserve your life and defend your
homeland, as you have preserved my life and saved my land.” When
Rard takes the shortbow, sized for a young lad and thus perfect as a
full-length bow for a hobbit, he is impressed by its craftsmanship – the
composite materials used to make it are unlike anything he has seen in the
West, and the bow has tremendous pull for its size, giving it much greater
range and penetration power. Halgo smiles weakly and adds, “If only
we had arrows to give you to go with it, but we shot all of them away in the
battle.”
[Halgo’s
Bow is a mastercraft (+1 damage) composite (+0/+5/+10/+20/+5 range)
shortbow.]
Rariadoc
receives the bow with wonder. "Master Halgo, this is magnificient. It is
too much I couldn't take a family
heirloom" Seeing the faces around him though, he quickly
relents. "But I will consider it for now a
loan. I will try to return and meet this heir when one
arrives." He hugs the lad and quickly turns back to his companions,
feigning a coughing fit to cover a few tears have appeared in his eyes.
Now
Galleth hobbles forward, his son reaching out to help him. Another
servant walks behind Galleth, also bearing a small parcel wrapped in a
cloth. Galleth turns to Frolin and intones respectfully, “And what
gift can be given to the loremaster whose lore guided his company to our
estate? Without the sage knowledge of Frolin the Dwarf, these travelers
would never have come to our land and we would have stood alone in the fight
against the goblins. Dwarves are not riders, it is said, and any weapon
we would gift to you would be inferior to the craft of your kind. But, I
have thought of one thing Dwarves desire yet cannot craft for themselves…” He takes the parcel from the
servant and pulls away the cloth, revealing a thick glass bottle sealed by a
heavy cork. “Frolin, I gift to you a bottle of my finest vintage,
the best and most aged wine from this estate. I am told such a bottle has
great value in the West, fetching the price of a fine sword or even a
horse. This vintage was harvested 95 years ago, and has been preserved
since then for a time of great celebration. May it bring you cheer on
your long travels, Master Dwarf. When you are weary in body, mind, or
spirit, may its draughts refresh you.”
Frolin
reaches up and takes the bottle from Galleth, chuckling to himself.
“Ninety-five years ago, you say? That would be Year 2941 of the
Third Age, by our reckoning. A good vintage indeed for
Dwarves!” He inspects the bottle and estimates that it holds
six goodly draughts fit for a Man or Dwarf, or even a hobbit.
[Galleth’s
finest vintage contains six draughts; a draught halves the time needed to
recover the next Weariness level or provides a +3 bonus on the next Stamina
test for Weariness; it is also a highly valuable trade commodity desired in
every region.]
Amidst
rounds of applause and exuberant cheers, the folk of Galleth’s estate
bids the Fellowship farewell. The crowd disperses,
returning to the many tasks that must be done ere the estate will be restored
to its former glory. Galleth and Halgo remain standing before the
company, and Garad soon returns, for he slipped into the stable and now leads
out “Barion” the mule, groomed and packed; the water barrel has
been filled and strapped to the animal’s back, and its pack bags have
been filled with food. “You already possess a plentiful store of
dried foodstuffs,” Garad states, “but we have put a small quantity
of fresher foods in your packs: cheeses, fruit, and honey-cakes enough to
sustain each of you for three days, including your Elven-friend. I hope
that will be enough to last you to your next destination.” Rard takes
the mule by the bridle, gently petting the animal’s snout.
Galleth
regards each member of the Fellowship in turn, taking in his guests one last
time. “Farewell, my friends,” he says. “You are
ever welcome here. I wish you luck in your travels. I do not
understand why Belemir left the way he did before I could give him a personal
gift, but I suspect that he already received that gift he desired most. I
know some of you have doubts about Belemir, but nonetheless I owe him for the
life of my son. He fulfilled his word and nursed Halgo back to health,
and for that I will be ever grateful to him. If you intend to seek out
your countryman from the West, I pray you remember my regard for him and
preserve him from danger. The last and only gift I can give him now is to
implore you to safeguard his life.” Galleth turns back toward his
manor-house, assisted by his son. Halgo and Garad both bid you a fond
farewell, and then follow Galleth back inside the building, slowly being
repaired of the damage suffered in the great battle. The Fellowship sets
off on the next leg of its travels with the faithful mule in tow, and in the
company of two mighty steeds of war.
*
* *
Finbor,
Frolin, Rariadoc, and Éogar follow the path leading down from Galleth’s hilltop
villa and away from his estate. They find Bergalad upon Cúroch, waiting
patiently for their arrival. He looks at the sun rising higher in the
morning sky and jests, “You’re late.” The hour is
nearing
Scene 3: Sails on the Horizon
Shortly
before departing Galleth’s estate, Bergalad scoured the estate for shafts
of wood, twine, bird-feathers, and spent metal heads. Though unable to
speak the local tongue, the fair Elf through gestures and example was able to
demonstrate to the peasant-folk what he sought and persuade them to help him
gather the materials [Persuade (Charm) test = 8 roll + 9 – 2 language
penalty = 15, complete success]. Throughout the night the Elf-minstrel
worked on his craft, carving the shafts, binding the feathers to the stocks,
reshaping the heads, and binding them to the tips [Craft (Arrows) test = 10 + 6
= 16, superior success]. The next morning when Bergalad’s new-found
traveling companions came down the path from Galleth’s hilltop villa, he
was waiting for them with a bundle in his arms. With a gentle smile the
Elf slips them into Rard Brandybuck’s empty quiver, a dozen fresh arrows
of fair Elven quality.
The
Fellowship spends some time at the edge of Galleth’s land discussing
their course of action. It is explained to Bergalad that the companions
hope to find the missing Belemir again by tracking down the remaining shards of
the Angril, and it is hoped that the sage Dáma of Marsburg can instruct
them where to search. The Elf-minstrel asks of Belemir and Baldur, and
whether they may be one in the same. Frolin states his case against
Belemir, arguing that it was he manipulated Halgo’s injury so that he
could get Galleth’s shard and then fled the villa upon a giant dark bird
known to be in Baldur’s service. “There can be no
doubt. Belemir is Baldur,” he pronounces. The compassionate
hobbit is not quite so certain, expressing doubts that Belemir was responsible
for the goblin assault, but he resolves himself to the purpose of the quest:
"It doesn't matter. Either way we are going to get all the shards and
destroy them.”
The
Fellowship collectively decides it is best to head straight to Marsburg as
swiftly as possible, Frolin pulling out his map to judge the route. Bergalad
espies the map of the region and points out that it is best to cut
cross-country to the shore of the inland sea north of Dunburg, then follow the
shore to the river’s mouth right to the town. Bergalad cautions,
“With such evil around I believe it would be best to avoid encounters if
they are barriers to which we can give wide berth. And as
weariness does not pull upon me in the same vein as on men and dwarves and
hobbits, I shall keep watch when we camp as well". No one gainsays the
Elf’s proposal, and the companions ready themselves for the trek along
his proposed route.
"For
travel," he adds patting his steed, "Curoch will surely handle the
weight of a halfling as well as my own. And I would be honored to be
accompanied by any kin of Meriadoc the Magnificent. Many times have
I heard Lord Legolas recount his tales with the hobbits in the Fellowship of
old, but I know too that there must be many tales he has not told.
I will be eager to hear stories of the age as told in the Shire".
Rard
immediately clambors (with assistance) onto the Elf's mount and begins
chattering: "So how many times have you met Lord Legolas?” To
the dismay of Frolin, Eogen, and Finbor Rard has a new audience to share his
tales of the Fellowship of the Ring with and he does so with gusto.
Finbor
calls down from Grimmód’s back, "Master Frolin, although the
Dwarvish distrust of animals is legendary, for the sake of speed I'd still ask
you to ride with me.”
Frolin
stares up at the massive warhorse and heaves a sigh. "If I
must," he says resignedly. "But I shall require some
assistance." Finbor smiles and expands down a hand, helping to seat
Frolin on the horse behind him.
Éogar
urges Hildwyn forward, and Finbor and Bergalad immediately join alongside
him. “Barion” the mule follows along faithfully behind, the
slowest traveler but steadfast nonetheless, bearing the Fellowship’s
provender and water-barrel. Finbor the captain calls out the pace of the
march, keeping a steady trot for 10-12 hours a day. “I suppose we
are back to cold lunches that will be wolfed down and not properly
enjoyed," Rard sighs. "I'll have to prepare
‘elevensies’ ahead of time. The same with
‘threesies’ and tea. I guess slices of apple and a
wedge of cheese will have to do. Or perhaps the waybread with jam already
on it...” The hobbits musings fade into thought as the Fellowship
passes through open countryside of Dorwinion, lightly hilled meadowland of
average difficulty to traverse; Éogar estimates that the company travels a league-and-a-half
each hour. Marsburg is some eighty miles from Galleth’s estate, as
the crow flies; Bergalad’s route cross-country to the seashore then north
to the town at the river’s mouth is somewhat longer, one hundred miles or
so, but it is more certain, for the travelers cannot miss the town by following
the coast and river.
The
first day of travel is quiet, uneventful, even
sullen. The July day is pleasant, with a bright sun and a warm breeze
that breathes renewing life into the ravaged countryside, but there is no
animate life to be found. Even the goblins are gone, and all that remains
is the occasional pile of slain goblins rotting under the sun. There are
no Dorwinion folk, no refugees returning to their rural homes after the
destruction of the goblins. The companions pass many open villas and
farms as they travel, but every one of them is deserted; many are badly ruined
and have not been occupied since the pillaging goblins left them.
[Siegecraft test] Finbor sternly observes the situation, shaking his head.
He murmurs to his friends, “This does not bode well. The goblins
have been defeated, and the militia of Dunburg surely has brought news.
Why have not the folk of the countryside begun returning to their
homes?” The Fellowship pauses briefly a few times, allowing the
horses and especially the mule to rest, graze, and drink, and allowing Rard to
serve up hasty light meals, but Finbor keeps the party moving upon hoof until
it has covered fifty miles; it is not until the sun has completely vanished in
the west that he calls a halt for the night. Éogar, whose travel-sense
has proven unfailingly trustworthy, gauges that the Fellowship is now half-way
between Dunburg and Marsburg in the wide open land between the towns, and coast
of the
Bergalad
rouses his companions shortly after the first rays of the sun stretch through
the Gates of Morning. Rard prepares the morning meal while Finbor and
Éogar see to the horses, giving them time to graze on the plentiful meadow
grass. Soon the Fellowship resumes its journey, Finbor calling the same
steady pace as the day before. At this rate, Éogar states, the companions
should reach the walls of Marsburg before dusk is out. His travel-sense
once again proves its worth, for by the
The
Fellowship now turns north, following the coastline to the mouth where the
mighty Redwater flows into the sea; Marsburg is no more than ten leagues
away. [Bergalad Farsighted ability, Observe (Spot) test, complete
success] Bergalad the Elf-minstrel gazes toward the horizon, seeing farther
than anyone else in the Fellowship can. He cannot yet see the town, for
it is obscured by slight contours in the countryside south of the river, but as
the company follows the coastline he gazes out to the east. Suddenly, he
halts Cúroch and holds out his arms to tarry Finbor and Éogar.
“What
do your Elven eyes see?” Finbor asks.
“Ships,” Bergalad replies, gesturing to the
sea, “low to the horizon and with sails furled, oars plying the water. They are
coming this way and quickly.”
Frolin
frowns and rumbles in his low Dwarven-voice, “The Men of Winburg warned
us that Golaric’s Easterlings plied a flotilla of war-boats. It
could be that they are now active along the Dorwinion coast.”
“Can
we outride them?” Rard asks warily.
Bergalad
shakes his head and replies, “Our steeds with single riders could but not
weighted with two, and not with a heavily packed mule following behind.”
“Then
let’s gallop ahead to the nearest rise and hide ourselves and the
animals!” Rard urges. “I have a good eye for finding
hiding-spots, hurry!”
The
companions gallop as fast as they can, pulling along the braying mule by the
guiding rope tied to its harness. Within a few minutes they have made it
off the beach, up onto the grassy heights to the west, and behind a hill
ridge. [Rard Stealth (Hide) test using Wits, TN
The
Fellowship resumes its steady pace, pausing sparingly when necessary for food
and water. As the hours pass and Marsburg along the river draws closer,
Bergalad keeps a careful watch upon the waters. Several times he cautions
that he spots more ships in the far distance, especially thick at the
river’s mouth, but they are not heading in your direction. By the
coming of dusk the Fellowship has covered nearly nine leagues, and Marsburg now
lies a little more than three miles to the north and slightly west, situated on
the south bank of the River Carnen just before it widens into a mouth flowing
into the
It
does not take Elven-eyes to see what has befallen this land. The River
Carnen and its mouth flowing into the
Bergalad,
a stranger to these lands, looks to his friends for an explanation.
Finbor says somberly, “The war has begun…”
Scene 4: The Lines of
the Enemy
As
dusk arrives on the 12th of July, the Fellowship reaches the grassy
downs three miles south of Marsburg; to their dismay they observe the town besieged
by hundreds of Easterling warriors drawn up in five separate camps blocking the
southern approach to the town, and at least twenty of their longships blockade
the River Carnen and its mouth flowing into the Sea of Rhûn. Bergalad
shakes his head and intones, "With all the races of Middle Earth still
celebrating victory over the great evil, it is all too easy to forget that not
all lands are at peace. We must not allow ourselves to slumber once again
into the complacency that permitted the land of shadow to regain its might
after the Second Age".
Rard
stares wide-eyed at the enemy arrayed and gasps, "There are so many.
And they all came across the water! How far to the other side? I'm
not sure that I would want to sail that far…"
Frolin
surveys the invading army with a grim expression on his face. "We
must consider our next actions very carefully," he says. "It is
no certain thing that we would be able to get past the Easterlings to enter the
city and speak with Dama. And if we do, will we be able to get out
again?" The Dwarf loremaster takes a deep, slow breath: "Still,
I see no alternative other than to leave this place. I say we parley with
the Easterlings."
"Parley? Are you mad?” Rard cries.
“They will simply arrest us, if we are not killed outright. They do
not look like they are here to parley." He looks out at the siege
again for a few moments and adds ruefully, "But we cannot fight them
either."
Bergalad
rests his gentle gaze upon his new friends and says in his fair voice:
"This siege is strong with many men. I believe Frolin is correct,
that our best action is parley. We can do little else until we know what
this band of men seeks. I know little of the Easterlings and do not speak
their tounge, but I will accompany any who wish to approach and question these
men".
Finbor
cautions, “I do not have much hope in negotiating a peace with an
Easterling tribe on the warpath in search of revenge. Besides, whatever any of
us may think about Belemir, he spoke truly when he proclaimed the need for
secrecy."
After
listening to the others, Éogar offers his thoughts. "We cannot march
in and expect a parley without something to offer them. All we have is
information; we know who stole their crystal, but not where he is." He
adds more confidently, "Another option is a show of strength. Even
if we cannot defeat all of them, showing we have honor and strength may gain us
respect. Perhaps they send out patrols we could capture and 'ransom'
them?" Looking to Finbor, the Rohirric warrior says, "What say
you brother? Can we capture some of them and expect honor from these dark
men upon their return?
Finbor
meets Éogar’s gaze and answers, "As to capturing some of their
scouts, I would be hard pressed to trust upon an Easterling's sense of
honour. No, if you want to capture someone, you better make sure it is
their chieftain…" The young captain is gripped by a sudden and
passionate idea: to capture Easterling scouts, borrow their guise to sneak into
their camp, and negotiate with their chieftain after taking him unawares.
"Finbor,
I expect a bit more sense out of a young lord of Gondor!” Frolin
castigates the plan, which he fears is foolhardy. "These are not
goblins,” he says. “They are Men. We do not know their
tongue, but they certainly have Dorwinion-speakers who can translate for
us. They can be bargained with, but not if we begin the conversation by
waylaying their guards and taking their captain captive."
Finbor
retorts defensively, "Yes, it's a bold plan, but at least it gives us a
fighting chance. I say it makes more sense than putting ourselves at
their mercy by trying to negotiate with them. These people do not
negotiate, Frolin, they take what they want, or get beaten back."
The Gondorian captain is a Proud man, and his
pride has been pricked by the Dwarf’s stinging words.
At
the suggestion a frown crosses the Bergalad’s sharp features.
"Bargaining from a point of strength is always of benefit, but to ambush
and abduct men for the purpose of bargaining their freedom? This is no
action I would council, nor will be a part of.”
"These
Easterlings are the aggressors here," Eogar says back to Bergalad.
"We have already allied ourselves with the Dorwinions by our actions at
Galleth's Estate. They are our enemies and they know the price of the war
they have brought."
"Indeed
the Dorwinions are our allies," Frolin states. "And yet it
seems we would be content to creep into their besieged town, take what we want,
and then skulk out again like cowards. What will happen to the folk of
Marsburg after we abandon them? They will be left to starve and die while
we go about our business. I say these folk deserve whatever aid we can
bring them. We have not the force of arms to break this siege. The
only hope I can see for the folk of Marsburg is for us to somehow convince the
Easterlings that the Dorwinions are not responsible for the theft of their
crystal.”
Finbor
grows increasingly irritated at Frolin’s words and snaps back, "One
does not simply negotiate with Easterlings! You can force them to
negotiate perhaps after you have defeated their armies, or captured their
captain, but they will not honor a white flag's truce."
Bergalad’s
gentle voice intervenes in the tense moment: "We cannot face such a large force
with arms. If we cannot speak with them I see little choice but to take a
third option and attempt to gain entrance to the city through stealth".
It
is a plan that quickly appeals to Rard, and the little hobbit starts suggesting
ways for a small group to slip through the siege lines on foot. As the
conversation continues, and Frolin shares what he knows of these Easterlings
and their crushing defeat in 3019 TA at the foot of the Lonely Mountain,
Rariadoc offers yet another possibility: "Are they scared of the People of
the West? Could we bluff them into thinking that we are an advance team
for the Western army?"
By
the time that the sun finally dips beneath the western horizon and the moon
casts her full, white light through a darkening sky, the Fellowship still has
not come to any firm agreement. Nearly two hours has passed since they
first arrived in these hills south of the town, and while they debated a course
of action they have all recovered from the weariness of their long ride during
the day. Cúroch and Hildwyn both seem to be fully rested as well, though
Grimmód remains spent from his burdensome work and “Barion” the
mule is still tired. This midsummer’s night is pleasantly warm with
a gentle breeze from the west, and in the sky above only a handful of drifting
cloud occasionally mask the celestial fires kindled ages past by Varda the
Star-queen; as time passes the evening grows darker, but there remains light
enough for slight visibility. Meanwhile, most activity in the Easterling
camps gives way to slumber, but many campfires remain lit and cast their
dancing light into the distance. In the faint glow the companions can see
a few watchmen on guard in each camp, and Bergalad can barely make out motion
between the camps, though even he cannot espy how numerous these patrols
are. However, none of the Easterling guards approaches the hills, and the
Fellowship remain stationed safely atop the downs south of Marsburg.
The little
hobbit Rard stands up and faces the others reluctantly. He sighs
somberly as he admits to his friends that the Fellowship cannot all sneak into
Marsburg, yet Finbor and Frolin are needed to speak the local tongue.
"And I'm not sure that we can capture some of their men without bringing
the rest of them down on us,” he adds. Taking a deep breath he
finishes, "I'm of the mind that a parley of some kind is the best of
some hard choices. And I think at least posing as scouts for the Army of
the West will give us some clout. Could we have been
sent ahead to hold off hostilities, and the Army of the West follows behind us,
slower but surely?”
All
eyes turn to Finbor. "It is clear some of you do not agree with
me..." Finbor looks sharply at Frolin, his eyes cold as ice, "and
prefer a more foolish course of action. Well, so be it! Walk into
the hands of the enemy and let us see how far you come before they put a sword
in your gut. I refuse to be part of this folly.”
"Master
Finbor, you cannot just leave the Fellowship!” Rard gasps woefully, but
the Gondorian lord turns his back and walks over to his horse, loosening the
animal’s straps for the night. For once Rariadoc Brandybuck seems
to be short on words. "We are like the Fellowship of the
Ring,” he whimpers as he sits down roughly on a nearby rock.
“We are coming apart.”
Frolin
puts his hand on Rard’s shoulder and says, “Have hope, lad.
Finbor must do what he thinks is best, and we must do what we think is
best. At first light upon the morrow you and I and Bergalad, at least,
will venture to the Easterling camp and see what parley may be had with
them.” Frolin looks to Éogar silently, awaiting his decision.
Éogar
looks at the Dwarf and says, "I will go with you, Frolin. Not
because I believe your course is right, though perhaps your honeyed words will
find success, but to protect you. If these men prove violent, Hildwyn
will ride us to safety. She is swift and strong enough."
Rard
begins to search through his pack, mumbling that he was certain he had a white
sheet from Galleth’s villa packed away. “Vornmir,” he
says and then corrects himself, “I meant, Éogar, let’s attach the
white flag to your spear, and you can carry it…”
Eogar
levels his gaze on Rard and states, "We will not carry a white flag into
negotiations -- we will deal with these men as superiors or equals, not as
captives." The little hobbit stares back at the mighty warrior, the
edge of a white sheet in his hand; he quickly stuffs it back in his pack,
sighing ruefully.
*
* *
It
is a tense and unhappy night that passes for the Fellowship.
Finbor angrily lies down to sleep without saying another word to Frolin
or anyone else. Rard holds his tongue as he tends to his beloved mule,
taking off the animal’s heavy packs and stroking its mane tenderly.
Choking down the last morsel of his dinner, perhaps the most
unhappy meal he has ever tasted, the little hobbit lies down on his
bedroll and tries to drift off to sleep. Éogar stands watch for a few
hours while the others sleep. Bergalad rests upon the earth facing the
starry sky, dreaming for a time; the Elf rouses himself before
Rard
opens his eyes as he feels a gentle hand upon his shoulder, and as he raises
his head he looks into Bergalad’s gentle face. “Dawn is come,
my friend,” he says with a smile. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes,
he sits up and looks around for the others. Frolin and Éogar are already
awake, readying themselves for the task that lies before them. Finbor is
nowhere to be seen.
“Where
is Finbor?” Rard asks Bergalad in a worried tone.
“He
woke first, and he bid me to let the others rest until the coming of
dawn,” Bergalad answers. “Do not worry,” he adds with a
soft smile, “he is not gone. He has taken Grimmód to graze and find
water. Finbor told me he will wait here for us, guarding our camp and
your dear mule.”
“Oh,”
Rard says. “Well, I’m glad Barion will be safe, at
least.”
The
hobbit quickly pulls together a bit of nourishment from what remains of the
fresh foods provided by Galleth’s folk, offering it to his
companions. The food is quickly eaten, for Bergalad has mounted the ridge
and spotted the first signs of movement in the Easterling encampment.
“The army is rousing,” he informs the others.
“Let us hurry,” Frolin growls. “It is
best we announce ourselves to them before the bulk are awake and under arms
again.” Éogar climbs astride his noble mare Hildwyn and guides her
over to Frolin, extending an arm to help the Dwarf upon onto the horse.
Hildwyn huffs and Frolin grumbles, and it is clear
that neither particularly cares for the other, but Hildwyn bares what her
master bids her. Bergalad mounts atop Cúroch and lifts Rard up onto the
horse, sitting the hobbit in front of him; the Elven-steed placidly accepts the
additional rider, perhaps sensing the hobbit’s love for animals.
Rard looks around one last time for Finbor, but in the dawn’s faint light
he cannot find him.
And
then the horses canter forward, riding up and down the rolling hills south of
Marsburg, heading toward the siege lines. It is a ride of slightly under
three miles. Éogar passes the time in taciturn silence, Frolin in grim
determination, Rard in anxiousness, and Bergalad in Elven calmness. As
the party of four comes within half a mile of the Easterling’s closest
encampment, the sun in its fullness appears just above the horizon to the
right. Up ahead some activity can be seen in the encampment, and in the
open land between the camps, and some of the fearsome men are pointing in the
direction of the approaching riders. It is then that Bergalad lifts up
his voice in Elven-song, a lilting and fair tenor that seems as natural as the
wind or running stream. His words are from the Lay of Leithian,
“Release from Bondage” in the Sindarin tongue; he sings of Beren
Erchamion, son of Barahir the friend of Finrod Felagund, born from the Gate of
Angband along with his beloved Lúthien Thingol’s daughter by Thorondor,
Lord of the Eagles of Manwë. [Perform (Sing), TN 10, 10 roll + 9 = 19,
superior success]
The
Easterling outpost-guards stand amazed, spears and bows in hand but lowered, as
they listen to the Elf’s beautiful song. However, Bergalad’s voice
is not yet possessed with the magic of his kind, and the guards are not long
kept from their senses. But, at the least, they do not shoot arrows from
afar but allow the company to come closer, drawing within a hundred yards of
the siege line. A pair of guards runs into the center encampment, calling
out a name: “Kurgan Golaric!
“This
is it!” Rard whispers to Bergalad. “Tell them about the Army
of the West, and that we have come to parley.”
Bergalad
raises his voice and pronounces, “Hear me, Men of Golaric! In the
West reigns the mighty King Elessar, lord of a great
host. We are his envoys, and in his name we call for parley. If you
desire peace with the Kingdom of the West, let your chief come forth with one
who speaks our tongue.”
Out
of the central camp rides a mighty Wild Man upon a fierce horse, mane braided
and bejeweled. The rider is not tall but broad of build and muscular,
wearing a corslet of exotic scales upon his breast; in his hands is an enormous
battle-ax, and at his side is a wicked, curved dagger. His life-guard
rides alongside him, four men with long spears strange to your eyes. The
riders gallop to the position held by the outpost-guards, halting next to
them. The commander stares across the open expense with a haughty
expression, and then turns to a companion and barks something in his barbarous
language. The companion, a grim campaigner with only one good eye
remaining, listens to the words and then calls out in a loud, graveled voice
heavily accented Weston: “The King of the West does not rule here!
Golaric, my lord and king, wages a war to punish the men of this land, who are
thieves. Turn back now to the West, and tell your king his affairs do not
extend beyond the Brown Plains.”
Frolin
shouts back, “But you see before you representatives of the mighty People
of the West! An Elf of Ithilien, a Rider of Rohan, a
Dwarf of Aglarond, and a hobbit of the Shire. We speak for our
lord King Elessar, and we will not turn back without parley.”
The
chief, now revealed as King Golaric himself, throws his head back in a mocking
laugh. Taking his cue, his companions join in his boisterous
chortle. Golaric sneers a response in his tongue, and his man shouts it
out in an equally derisive tone: “Is the King of the West so desperate
for retainers that he sends Dwarves and Wood-spirits and little children upon
his work? Let the King of the West come himself if he wishes
parley! You are bidden to fly now or perish, for we will not bear our
siege to be interrupted.” Golaric waves his hand, and several of
his soldiers begin to draw arrows and fit them to bowstrings.
Suddenly,
the neighing of a mighty horse echoes in the morning air! The four
companions look behind them at the source of the peel, afraid that the
Easterlings have treacherously sent riders around to attack from the rear
flank. But, they see in the distance Grimmód high on his back legs,
kicking his forelegs up into the air; upon his back is Finbor, adorned in the
full panoply of battle with the sword Herubrand raised above his head!
The warrior brandishes the glorious blade is a swirling arc, glinting in
the dawn’s red light. The powerful stallion pounds his four hooves
upon the earth, as Finbor presses the steed into a thunderous gallop toward his
friends. Grimmód leaps across the grassy meadow, fast and furious and
fierce. Finbor rides his steed like a warrior born, a lord and captain of
dignity and valor. Finbor’s mail corslet is newly burnished,
gleaming in the morning light, and his shield is washed and shining, bearing
the white field of Gondor’s standard. Finbor’s expression is
stern and commanding, and he does not pause to ask leave to approach but rides
confidently through the ranks of his friends to their head. As Finbor
rides to the fore, he lowers Herubrand to his side and holds it like a
scepter. “Choose carefully your words, Easterlings, for a lord of
the West is come! I am Finbor son of Angbor the Fearless, Lord of Lamedon
in the great
[Intimidate
(Majesty) opposed by Golaric’s Willpower, complete success]
Golaric
glares at Finbor across the grassy meadow, less than sixty feet separating the
contending lords. After a time, Golaric turns his gaze aside. He
waves his hand once more and hisses some word to his warriors, and they lower
their bows and return the arrows to their quivers. He grumbles something
to his translator, and the man relays the message in a subdued tone of voice:
“King Golaric asks what parley the envoys of the West desire?”
Scene 5: Terms and
Conditions
As
the lordly Finbor arrives on the scene astride mighty Grimmód and confronts
Golaric the Easterling king, Rard beams an elated smile—he just knew
that Finbor would not turn his back on the Fellowship! "He
is like stories come to life," the hobbit whispers happily to Bergalad.
When Finbor finishes his speech and Golaric begrudgingly agrees to parley, Rard
whispers again to his horse-mate, "Perhaps we could suggest proper
manners, and do this in a tent somewhere. Most customs usually require a
drink of some kind, and perhaps a bit of food. Fresh apples?
Or some rolls? Or even a pastry of some kind."
Bergalad
allows himself a small smile, "I had heard your kind have trouble keeping
the task in mind when food may be near. Keep focus, Rard, the longer we
engage these Easterlings the greater risk we run. After they have let us
safely into the city I will give you a piece of lembas. It should
hold even a hobbit's appetitie for several hours". Rard Brandybuck
nods once and sighs, mumbling to himself that he is little better than baggage
in these situations, merely a curiosity to Men.
Frolin
turns atop Hildwyn to face the rest of his companions, sternly admonishing them
not to mention crystal shards other than the one Golaric lost: "Say that
Baldur seeks treasures, but not crystals."
Golaric
is seen to talk among his men for a few moments as well, and his translator
calls out: “My master says that parley is hard work in the open field,
and he invites you to come to his tent where you may rest and drink and speak
your peace.”
[Wisdom
tests, TN 10] Rard’s eyes light up in eagerness, and Finbor looks
to his friends for their reaction. Frolin scowls, shaking his head.
Bergalad whispers in Sindarin, “My heart warns me not to trust them, for
I perceive that once in their camp and under their power they would lay hands
upon us and hold us prisoner.”
Finbor
shakes his head so that the Easterlings can see and calls back, “Hard
work it may be, but our errand requires such sacrifices. We cannot delay,
and here we shall parley.”
“Very
well…” is Golaric’s frosty answer, clearly a man
rebuffed. “Then speak what you have come to say, for we have
business of war to wage against the thieves of this land.”
With
Finbor at his side, Bergalad sits up on Cúroch and announces to the Easterlings
not even 20 yards away, "Your words have a sharp edge, King Golaric, and
they cut deeply into the honor of the men of Marsburg when you name them
'thieves'. We would know what wrong has been done to you that you would
call them thus, and what testimony has been given to
you that you are so certain that it is men of this town who are to blame".
Golaric
spits on the ground before barking a reply, which his guard translates in heavily
accented Westron: “We need not answer to you what testimony we receive,
but it is no secret that we witnessed the crime with our own eyes! Baldur
came among us some months ago, before winter’s end. He persuaded us
to show him our sacred Black Jewel, heirloom of our kings and totem of our
tribe; during the night he stolen our relic and vanished into the shadows, not
to be seen again. We are not fools to be tricked so easily. He was
one of the Wine-men, for he spoke to us in their tongue. And he looked as
the Wine-men, except that he was very tall; he was light of hair and eye, and
fair of skin, and he dressed in their style of raiment. Thus, I rightly
name the Men of Dorwinion as thieves, and their lives and lands are forfeit
lest they return the Black Jewel and surrender Baldur to us.”
Frolin
bows his head for a moment of meditation, calling upon the subtle magic of
Middle-earth. [Weariness test, TN 10, complete success] "Lord
Golaric," he begins "our errand in this land is quite similar to your
own. We too seek the thief Baldur. But Baldur is no
Dorwinion." The Dwarf waves his hand dismissively in the direction
of the walled town of
Golaric
listens to his serving-man, spending some moments in thought before
replying. “So say you,” is the answer that finally comes from
the Easterling camp. “We do not absolve the Dorwinions so readily,
but we will pause to hear what you know of the man called Baldur.”
Frolin
continues in his powerfully persuasive tone, "Baldur is a cunning thief
who has stolen precious treasures from King Elessar and the Dorwinions as well
as from your tribe. Provoking a needless war between the Dorwinions and
Golaric's tribe is perhaps the greatest of his crimes. As I have said, we
seek Baldur. We have learned something of his mind, and we know what
treasure he seeks to acquire next. We do not know where to find this
treasure, but there is one in Marsburg who might. So we ask that you
grant us leave to enter the town of
Bergalad
adds to Frolin’s proposition, "There has been much bloodshed and
great loss in recent years, as the fortunes of your own tribe can attest.
The races of the West stand ready to ensure no evil is done here, but there may
be no need for the battles of the past to revisit themselves in the
present. We will venture into the city and investigate your
concerns. You stand little to lose by agreeing to this, for if we find
your accusations true there can be little doubt in our eyes where the weight of
justice lies, and if we find you have been mislead the truths we learn may set
you on the path of the true culprits".
Golaric
listens impassively, yet his hesitancy to reply betrays his uncertainty.
The one-eyed translator speaks again to his master; Golaric nods once, and then
holds up a hand to silence his entreaty. The Easterling chieftain utters
a curt statement, gesturing for his man to translate: “We do not seek a
quarrel with the Kingdom of the West, and we will entertain your request, but
what assurances do you give us of your intentions?”
"We
have information that may be useful in tracking our mutual enemy Baldur,”
Éogar calls out. “We spied a great raven and have confirmed that it
indeed travels with the thief. Your men and scouts cover much of this
land; what know you of such a creature? Was it seen when Baldur stole
your jewel?"
The
translator seems stunned and quickly conveys the message in his tongue, and
immediately all of the Easterling react. Golaric confers with them
briefly before having his reply transmitted: “Then it is true that you
know Baldur. Our people first spotted the Great Raven shortly before he
came among us. Baldur said it was a propitious portent, for the raven is
a sacred symbol among our race. But nevermore! Henceforth, the
raven shall be an ill omen to us.”
Éogar
presses, “Have your scouts seen signs of the beast recently?”
The
Easterling responds, “The raven was not seen again in our land after
Baldur vanished, and he has not returned.”
Frolin
fixes his gaze upon Golaric and states in his voice of suasion, “Grant us
safe passage, and in return we shall pursue our mutual enemy Baldur. We
pledge that he shall be punished for his crimes and all of his possessions shall
be returned to their rightful owners. What say you?"
[Persuade, TN 10, +1 from Bergalad’s combined test, superior success]
The
translator conveys the words to Golaric, obviously entreating him to grant the
request. Golaric nods several times and offers a reply in measured tones
stripped of their previous haughtiness. “Your proposal seems wise
to us. We grant your company safe passage into the town and back through
our siege lines…but only upon conditions.”
“Name
your conditions,” Finbor says coolly.
“First,
that you pledge to share with us all that you learn in Marsburg about where the
thief Baldur may be. Second, that you leave behind one of your number to
remain in our camp; if you do not return to our lines before nightfall tomorrow,
his life will be forfeit. Third, that you will deliver
unto the Men of this town our terms to depart their land.”
“And
what are your terms?” Finbor asks cautiously.
“Bolcoth
are a warlike people, and I cannot ask my men to abandon a siege without
recompense. Tell the Dorwinions of this place that, if the information
they provide convinces me they are not harboring Baldur, I and my host shall
depart upon payment of tribute. Twenty talents of silver we demand, and
twenty casks of their finest wine.”
The
demand is a heavy burden for a town of this size, though possible.
“And if they do not pay?”
“Then
the siege shall continue, and we shall break their town and take all that we
desire.” Golaric the Easterling chieftain now levels his shrewd
gaze on the Fellowship, a fearsome grin upon his face: “If you like not
my conditions, ride back to the West.”
The
Fellowship listens to Golaric’s terms and conditions. Finbor
remains utterly silent throughout and says not a word, leaving the matter to others
to decide. Rard suggests the terms are reasonable, while Bergalad regards
the tribute as steep but says it is not the Fellowship’s place to bargain
on behalf of the town; together they reason that accepting the terms is the
only way to gain access to Marsburg.
"Indeed, I do not like your conditions" Finbor states as he
looks at chief Golaric sternly, "but we will accept them. We will convey
your terms of departure to the men of Marsburg, although they will have to
decide wether it's a price they want to pay. And we will share with you the
information we will learn in Marsburg on the whereabouts of Baldur."
Éogar
immediately dismounts from his steed. "I am the one who should be
left. I do not fear these men,” he states.
Rard shakes
his head. "I am not necessary for the negotiations either,” he
says, “but if you volunteer to stay..." After thinking a
moment, he turns to face Frolin and Bergalad, wetting his lips before speaking:
"Perhaps if we leave two members behind they will trust us more, and
perhaps lower the terms?”
"No, we should
not leave more behind, one is too much already. If something goes awry, Eogar's
life is forfeit, and he knows it. We must make sure nothing goes wrong,
Rard," Finbor says.
Eogar
shakes his head at the hobbit and says, "No, little one. Your
presence lured the last minstrel we needed to meet. Go with the others,
and perhaps your very presence will open
doors..." He then looks to Frolin still mounted on his horse and
says, “Take good care of Hildwyn, she will keep you in the saddle to the
city." He secures his javelin to the side of the horse as well and
adds, "Deliver the Dart of Elessar to the king should these barbarians
betray us." Looking to the others he adds, "Do not be late,
friends." Éogar turns away from his companions and boldly strides
over to the Easterlings, who are now his hosts. As Eogar prepares to walk towards the
Easterlings, the two brothers in arms, who know each other's darkest secrets,
give each other a long look, which makes any words between them unnecessary.
“We
will be prompt and prove your trust well-placed,” Bergalad calls out to
him. The Elf then leads the remaining Fellowship forward to the town,
Rard seated before him upon Cúroch. Finbor atop Grimmód follows in
silence. Frolin urges a hesitant Hildwyn onward, rider grunting in
dislike and horse huffing in displeasure. The companions make their way
through the Easterling siege line between the camps; Golaric’s champions
go ahead of you, calling out for the army pickets not to interfere. The
Man of the West, Elf, Dwarf, and Hobbit all receive surprised and nasty
glances, but no one dares to hinder their movement across the last few hundred
yards to the south gate in Marsburg’s wooden palisade. Once the companions
come within bow-shot of the wall, Golaric’s champions turn back and leave
them alone to approach the besieged town. Even though it is early in the
morning (July the 13th), there are watchers atop the palisade;
militia-men with spears, small shields, bows, and axes observe the approaching
travelers. The gate in the palisade is closed up tight, and looks to have
been recently reinforced more stoutly than it would have been in times of
peace.
As
the Fellowship comes closer, the bowmen ready arrows and pull. One of the
men atop the wall shouts out in his native Dorwinion speech, “Halt!
Come no closer, spies of Golaric. If you have a message for this town,
deliver it from where you stand and then return to your master.”
Scene 6: Éogar among
the Easterlings
After the others
leave, Eogar turns to Golric and says, "So. If we are to be allies against Baldur perhaps
we should learn more of our situations?"
He looks to the city, "You are in control of this town and have the
time."
Golaric's men
surround Eogar as he approaches their king, who regards his new hostage
carefully. The guards level their spears
at Eogar as they surround him. The
translator holds out his hand and says, "You must surrender your spear and
shield while you are in our camp. They
will be given back to you, if your friends return. If they abandon you, your life will be
forfeit." Only when Eogar
relinquishes his arms do the guards lower their spears, and only then Eogar is
permitted to approach Golaric and speak with him as the troop returns to the
main encampment.
[Inquire (Converse)
test, -2 untrained, +6 from 2 Courage, marginal success]
It is clear that
Golaric and his men do not trust Eogar, whom they rightly regard as a dangerous
warrior of the West. The king says
something curt, which the translator renders as, "We shall see anon if
your friends are worthy."
"My friends will not
betray you," Eogar says confidently.
"I would not have so readily stayed with the likes of you were their skills not so competent and hearts not so distinguished...Your
people could learn much of honor from one such as Lord Finbor."
Once inside the
camp, the royal entourage dismounts and Eogar is led into the king's tent. A morning feast is laid out for Golaric and
his guards. Eogar is seated on a short
stool at the far end of the table, where he can be observed by all; some food
and a mug of mead are issued to him. The
king, already eating and drinking, indicates for Eogar to relate his tale. If the king is pleased, he will deign to
respond.
[Perform (Tell
Stories) test, -2 untrained, complete success]
Eogar relates the
story of the Fellowship's journey from Rivendell, under orders from King
Elessar to pursue Baldur, omitting the name of Belemir. He describes the passing of the
"Does the King
of the West still dwell in the place called Rivendell? Where will he travel next?"
"I have served in the King's great Tower Guard for some time,
but I do not know his schedule. His
kingdom is vast and the land prospers under his rule," Eogar boasts not
betraying how many forces are preparing to campaign against Gundabad. "Our company has been away from
Rivendell for many months now. Once we
return to Gondor with the treasure Baldur has stolen it will not be difficult
for us to return what is his."
[Éogar’s
wisdom test vs. Golaric’s Bearing, failure; he does not notice malice on
the part of Golaric] Golaric merely nods, studying Eogar
carefully. Several of his companions say
something to him, and he replies briefly.
"How did you
learn of Baldur's presence in Dorwinion?
Over such a great distance, how were you able to discern his
trail?"
"Finbor's fellowship is a skilled group. Not only are we potent warriors, but also
trackers and gatherers of information.
Baldur was difficult to follow, but with some luck we have found his
trail..." Eogar responds.
"In your
travels through Dorwinion, did you encounter the great host of Orcs that had
gathered to the south? Our scouts had
reported that they raided deep into Dorwinion in great numbers, but now they
are gone."
"...And this is where our trail led us to most
recently." Eogar recounts the
battle against the orcs at Galleth’s estate. Attempting to further
the greatness of the group he adds, "Lord Finbor took the untrained men
and forged a sufficient fighting force from them — truly a grand captain
if ever there was one. Frolin the dwarf
secured defenses against the marauders, further strengthening our position, and
I, personally, slew more orcs than I could count and more than one troll in the
fray," he says proudly.
"Losses were heavy, but the goblins were repelled. They have little organization left for now,
but do not think the Dorwinion countryside is safe from the beasts or
undefended by the wine-makers. We have
left them strong enough to deal severe damage to any attacker," he notes
harshly.
The Easterlings
listen to this part of the tale with great interest. It is clear that some of the men do not
believe a small force of villagers could defeat a mighty orc-host, but others
appear to disagree — if this stranger is not telling the truth, then what
happened to the goblins? Golaric
silences the debate with his translated response: "The orcs always were a
craven and untrustworthy rout. We fought
at their side in the Great War only at the command of the Lord of the
In return story,
Eogar presses the warlord for his own encounter with Baldur, and specifically
the jewel that was stolen. After Eogar
answers his questions and finishes his tale, King Golaric drains his mug and
belches. His companions do the
same. Wiping his mouth with his
fur-trimmed sleeve, Golaric leans back on his wooden throne-chair and relates
his tale in angry tones...
"The Black
Crystal was my cherished heirloom, as this stolen ring is a beloved heirloom of
your king. It was cold and hard, but
smooth like glass; it was jagged as if shattered, and fit in the palm of a
man's hand. The crystal has passed from
to every king of our tribe for generations beyond reckoning, and long has it
been the secret totem of our people.
Rarely do we show it to outsiders, and not even to Lord Sauron of Mordor
did we reveal it. Of its origins, it is
said that it fell from the sky long ago like a blazing star. Our ancestors found it, and worshipped it,
and it has been a symbol of rulership ever since.
"Baldur came
among us five moons past, before the end of winter. At times we have trade with Dorwinions who
arrive at our coast, but he came to us from the west, alone and by land. My warriors captured him and brought him to
my royal encampment, for he had bade them not slay him and instead bring him to
me. My wrath was great that my warriors
did not slay this outlander, and now I do greatly desire that they had! But, at the time my wrath was stayed, for
Baldur spoke well and was very great in lore.
Baldur revealed two Black Crystals in his possession, each identical to
my own, and he offered them to me as gift and tribute. O, flattering tongue, he said that I was the only
king worthy to bear them!
"Cruelly was I
deceived by this man, for I kept him in my encampment as an honored guest; I
desired to learn from him the lore of the Black Crystal. He told me that long ago all three Black
Crystals were one, a glorious jewel in the crown of the Night Sky. He confessed to me that he possessed the magical
art to forge anew the whole crystal, and fortune and strength one hundred fold
would accrue to the king who possessed it.
Blind to his treachery, I bid him ready the spells to rejoin the
crystals. It was a long ritual of magic,
he said, and one that could only be performed under the sacred Night Sky. I prepared the camp as he required, and at
night brought to him the three crystals.
It seemed there was no danger, for he was alone among my numerous people
and had no way to flee from us, even should he desire to steal the
crystals. Once he had the three crystals
in his hands, he chanted the words of his spell. And lo, all of a sudden the shadows of our
bonfires rose up and swirled around him, taking him from our sight and
confusing our minds. He vanished from
our camp, and when the shadows cleared none had seen him depart. I dispatched my trackers to hunt him down and
slay him, but after a short distance no tracks were to be found anywhere, and
he was utterly gone from our land.
"Now you
understand our wrath at this man, and why we will pursue him to the ends of the
earth! We will have our whole crystal
back in our possession, and will suffer none else to hold it, and Baldur's life
is ours to claim. We do not desire the
treasures of the King of the West, and all that Baldur stole from him you may
take back to him." King Golaric
orders his mug refilled with mead and takes a deep swallow. He rests his gaze darkly upon Eogar and
concludes, "We have suffered treachery once, and we will not be betrayed
again."
Eogar frowns at the obvious implications. "The Lords and their servants of the
West are not thieves. No treachery will
be served from us. We will deal with
Baldur appropriately when we find him."
By
mid-afternoon Golaric's interview of Éogar concludes. The luncheon has been consumed and the mead
flagons drained. Several of Golaric's
chiefs have already begged leave to go out of the tent to see to their warriors
manning the leaguer around Marsburg. With little courtesy Golaric rises from his chair, flanked by his
life-guards. The Easterling
chieftain says something in the Rohirric warrior's direction and then to the
translator before walking out of the tent; he shouts a lengthy command to a
group of nearby guards, who take up positions outside the royal tent. The one-eyed translator says, "My master
bid you farewell, and said you will not be harmed in this camp lest your
friends fail to return for you by tomorrow at sundown. For now, you are to be taken to a tent of
your own, where you must stay until that time." The translator leads Éogar out of the royal
tent to an empty tent now far away. The
Rohirric warrior is left alone inside, and the band of guards ordered by
Golaric to watch him stand outside the tent, keeping a careful eye on the
stranger inside. As the day passes, camp
servants from occasionally are sent into the tent to bring him water, bread,
and even a little meat.
Periodically,
translator (who seemingly has been charged to serve as Eogar's keeper) enters
the tent to see that all is well. Éogar
takes advantage of these brief visits to inquire of the man's past. [Inquire skill test, -2 untrained, complete failure] The man
clearly is irritated with the assignment thrust upon him by his chieftain only
because he was unfortunate enough to learn the Western speech during the
war. The one-eyed translator ignores
most of Éogar's questions or tells him to "mind his own affairs" in
response. The only information revealed
is when he points to his missing eye and says, "This I suffered in the
Great War from an arrow of the Wood-elves, and their prisoner I remained for
many months until our king parleyed for peace and secured the release of all
captives. Unless you want me to have out
your eye, be silent and trouble me no more!"
Scene 7: Behind the
Siege Lines
As
the group travels to the walls of Marsburg, Frolin turns to Finbor, both hands
still gripping Hildwyn tightly. "It gladdens me that you saw the
wisdom in the parley with the Easterlings, my friend. Your contributions to
the negotiations were invaluable."
"I will not
have it said that the son of Angbor stood by while his friends were
killed. Nor would I be too happy with
the result yet, Dwarf. The negotiations were rather costly, possibly in lives
as Eogar is still in their hands, but certainly in information. Every word we
reveal to Golaric about Baldur's possible location is one too many,"
Finbor replies, looking ahead to the gate.
The
four members of the Fellowship make their way through the Easterling siege lines
to the gate in the south facing of the palisade. “Barion” the
faithful mule follows behind the horses; the mule trotted after Finbor when the
warrior rode to confront the Easterlings, but he is much slower than Grimmód
and only caught up to his owners just in time to follow them through the enemy
leaguer. Rard reaches down from atop Cúroch to stroke the mane of the
braying mule, happy the faithful beast of burden is safe and in sight once
more.
Irritated
by the frosty reception from the town watchmen, Rard speaks his mind: "Why
don't they open the gate? Surely they saw us ride down the hill. And I am
sure that the sharp-eyed guards would have seen Finbor's arrival and our
parley. Tell them we just saved Gareth's villa from orcs and that we rode
here to help. King Aragorn suspected that trouble was brewing and that someone
would cause trouble and sent us out. Or something like
that. This is just rude to keep us out here." His stomach
grumbles as he adds, "And at second breakfast time as well."
Finbor
sits high upon his horse, holding visible his shield emblazoned with the White
Tree of Gondor. He calls up to the men on the wall in broken Dorwinion:
"Hail, Men of Marsburg, I am Finbor, son of Angbor, Lord of Lamedon of the
mighty realm of Gondor and Captain at the Battle of Galleth's Villa. My
companions and I seek entrance to Marsburg. In name of King Elessar, open the
gate!" [Language: Dorwinion skill test, marginal success]
The
watch-captain atop the palisade calls back, “Hail, Finbor Angbor’s
son. Our town is besieged, and I would not now open this gate for the
King of Dale, whose realm brings us much trade, and less even for the King of
Gondor, whose realm to us is but a distant affair. Besides, you claim a
strange title – I know Galleth’s chief retainer, a man named
Garad. Alas, at last report Galleth’s people were overrun by a
mighty goblin host, and we have no hope that any survived.”
Frolin
calls out in Dorwinion, "Surely you can see we are no Easterlings. I
am Frolin son of Droli of Aglarond, and these are Bergalad of Ithilien and
Raridoc Brandybuck of the Shire. We come for we are truly friends of the
folk of Dorwinion. Our company recently were
guests of Hengel in Winburg, and then fought alongside the Dorwinions in the
great victory over the goblins at Galleth's villa.”
The
guardsmen whisper excitedly to each other for several moments. Their
leader shouts back, “Then Galleth’s villa was not overrun?
Such news is wonderful if true! Our town has been besieged for the past twenty
days, and no word has reached us from the outside world since. Yet, two
days before the Bolcoth landed a boat from Winburg arrived at our docks.
The crew told tales of a strange company from the
Frolin
answers, "We have come because we wish to remove these invaders from your
lands. We know that no Dorwinion stole the crystal they so desire.
We know who the thief is, and wish to bring him to justice and end this
war. But we require the help of Marsburg to do so. Will you not let
us in so that we may see this siege ended in something other than starvation
and bloodshed?" [Persuade (Oratory) test, superior success]
“You
speak words beyond hope, Frolin Droli’s son!” the watch-captain
calls back. “Hurry, come forward!” With a few shouted
orders, guards below lift the crossbeams fixed in place to reinforce the gate,
which is slowly parted to reveal a five-foot breech. The Fellowship
quickly presses through, with their faithful mule following behind, and as soon
as they are inside Marsburg the gate is slammed closed and the crossbeams
lowered back into place. The guard-captain, a middle-aged soldier armed
with sword and buckler, greets the arrivals. Though he bears a happy
expression, there is nothing inside Marsburg that inspires joy. The town
is dirty and overcrowded; thousands of people from the surrounding area are
sheltering in the safety of the town’s palisade, but Marsburg is
ill-equipped to deal with so many refugees. Every alley and town square
is occupied by refugees in shanties, some lucky enough to have tents but many
lying out in the open upon blankets. The town is blackened by a thousand
smoldering campfires, the gutters fouled by the waste of so many people, and
the few wells rapidly drained. It is also apparent that most of the
people have not eaten well in some time. After twenty days of siege, food
supplies are running low.
“My
name is Harin the Guardsman,” the watch-captain
says, “and I welcome you. Sadly, there is little hospitality that
Marsburg can offer you.” The companions from the West ask the man
about speaking with the town elders – and Dáma the sage. Harin nods
emphatically and says, “Yes, you must immediately speak with the Master
of the town and his counselors. Dáma is one of the chief counselors, a
man of great lore and wisdom. It looks like the Fellowship will not have
to divide any more after all, if Dáma is with the town leaders! Harin
directs the Fellowship to the town hall, a tall, elaborate wooden building in
the center of the town: there the leaders of Marsburg deliberate and plan the
defense of the town.
The
walk to the town hall is depressing. The companions pass row after row of
desperate and sullen people, most of them driven from their homes by orcs and
now kept from going home by the Easterling host. Several marketplaces are
passed, but they are all empty. Without much hope, Rard asks Frolin to
inquire if it is possible to buy arrows or arrow-making tools anywhere in the
town – Rard has been talking to Bergalad about how to craft arrows, and
he is eager to try his hand at it. Harin shakes his head somberly and
answers, “As you can see, all our markets and
closed and emptied. Every weapon, shaft of wood, and bar of iron has been
commandeered for the defense of the town, used to arm every able-bodied man who
can fight in our militia. I am afraid you will find no arrows or
fletching-tools here.”
It
is late morning by the time Harin leads the company into the town hall.
The Fellowship leaves their horses and mule at mount-posts outside, and Harin
orders a pair of nearby guards to watch over them. Though the town hall
was constructed to be august and spacious, every open chamber is filled with
refugees. Harin parts the gawking crowds, who are pointing at Rard in
great curiosity – and at Bergalad in nervousness. The gregarious little hobbit smiles and waves to the people,
putting them at some ease in this dark time. Harin guides the
Fellowship into the Counselors’ Hall, where the Master of Marsburg sits
in council with his advisors. The men number a dozen in total, and they
sit around a long, rectangular table. At the head of the table sits a
middle-aged man in a fancy robe now dingy from wear; around his neck is a chain
of office, very much like Hengel’s. To his right sits a very elderly
man in crumpled, old robes. Harin introduces them as the Master of
Marsburg and Dáma. The guardsman bows to the assembled counselors and
says, “Sirs, these travelers are the company that set out from Winburg
last month. They bring us great news from Galleth’s
villa!” Harin repeats the tale of how the Fellowship fought in the
victorious battle against the orc-host and has come to Marsburg to end the
Easterling siege.
The
Master of the town rises from his seat and dimisses Harin, who bows once more
and leaves the chamber to return to his post. The man looks very weary,
though still sharp of mind. He says, “We are gladdened to hear that
Galleth’s estate was not overrun and destroyed like so many others.
Most country-folk had the wisdom to abandoned their villas and seek shelter in
one of the towns, but Galleth is a stubborn man who would never flee. It
was assumed that he and his folk were slaughtered by the goblins. But,
even happy news brings us little cheer now. Tell me, why have you come,
and what can you hope to accomplish here besides joining us in our fate?”
“We
have come to speak to Master Dáma,” Frolin says. “He may hold
information that can help end this war.”
The
aged loremaster rises from his seat, staring at the Fellowship in surprise.
“If I knew such lore, I assure you I would have already used it!”
Frolin
replies, “Master Dáma, we come to you because of the tale of the
‘Wizard and the Dragon’ told to us by Wogan. The thief Baldur
seeks to collect all the shards of the great black crystal. He has
already stolen the shards belonging to Golaric's tribe and Master
Galleth. If we can catch him, we may be able to end this war.”
Dáma
smiles and says, “Ah, Wogan. An apt pupil, but more interested in tales
and song that in true lore. So, he also told you of Golaric’s
crystal? Long has it been believed to be a surviving shard of the Black
Crystal of legend…”
The
Master of Marsburg places his hand on Dáma’s arm, silencing him.
“You speak in riddles to me, Master Dwarf. It is I who commands
Dáma’s sage counsel, and I would know more of what you speak before I bid
him to share his lore. Tell me, how did you pass through the Bolcoth
leaguer? How do you intend to leave this place, when the Bolcoth blockade
every route by land and water? And what do you know of Baldur, who has
stolen Golaric’s heirloom and brought this war upon our heads? I
will be satisfied before any counsel is shared with you.”
Scene 8: The Master
and the Captain
The
walk through the besieged town of
*
* *
Inside
the town hall building, the four companions face the Master of the town and his
council of advisors, including the old loremaster named Dáma. Before he
will let Dáma offer his sage counsel to the strangers, the Master demands that
they account for how they have come to Marsburg…and for what purpose.
Frolin
nods respectfully to the Master of the town and explains, "We came to
these lands from the West in search of Baldur. We believe he is
attempting to gather all the shards of the ancient Black Crystal. Baldur
is a cunning thief, who convinced Golaric he was a Dorwinion before spiriting
away the Easterling's crystal. In the meantime, he has also stolen
Galleth's crystal. We nearly caught him at Galleth's villa, but he
escaped. We have come to Marsburg hoping that Dama's lore might lead us
to another shard and thus to Baldur."
The
Master regards Frolin with a steely gaze, silent. Dáma looks at Frolin
with some alarm, but says nothing yet. The other advisors murmur in a
mixture of confusion and irritation, grumbling dismissively to each
other. The Dwarven loremaster turns to his friends and whispers,
“The counselors are complaining that the Black Crystal is merely an old
legend. All that matters to them is finding Golaric’s crystal and
returning it to him.”
The
Master finally replies in a measured tone of voice, “That explains why
you have come into our land from so great a distance. It is well to know
that Baldur is a thief wanted in other lands as well. You have yet to
explain how you have come through the leaguer into this
town…” He regards the travelers with a palpable air of
caution.
"Allow
me to answer, my lord." Finbor says to the Master. "We were able to
negotiate a way in and out with the Easterlings. There were certain
conditions, however. Since both the people of Dorwinion as well as the
Balchoth seem to have fallen victim to Baldur's schemes, they want to know what
we have learned here in Marsburg concerning this Baldur. Second, we have to
leave Marsburg again before nightfall tomorrow, for they are holding one of our
company as a hostage to ensure we keep our end of the
bargain. And third, we bring to you their conditions for departure from your
lands. In exchange for their retreat from Marsburg's lands they demand a
payment of twenty talents of silver and 20 casks of your finest wine."
[Finbor’s
Language: Dorwinion test, TN 10, failure] Finbor’s answer is rendered in
broken, accented speech, and his word choices are not always perfectly
clear. When he finishes stating Golaric’s demand for tribute, the
council erupts in anger. Rard flinches, taking a step behind Finbor – he
saw this coming! Dáma lowers his head somberly, and the Master grits his
teeth as he tries to silence his assembled advisors. The other counselors
shout angrily, and Frolin struggles to translate as best he can:
“Outrageous!
Twenty casks is a whole season’s trade to the Men of Long Lake!”
“Twenty talents of silver? That is
every coin and candlestick in the town!”
“Who
are these strangers to dare come before us and demand we pay such a sum to our
foes?”
“They
are spies, I say! They are in league with Golaric and bring us his
poisoned words!”
“Aye,
arrest them and let us return their heads to Golaric as payment!”
Hoping
to quiet the anger of the counsel, Finbor shouts, "My lord, I bear no love
for the men outside your town. If I could, I would drive them back into the
Rard
peers around Finbor and whispers, "Tell them it is a steep price, but not
too steep to avoid starving to death!" Bergalad tries to speak to
the assembly, but he knows not their language and the men regard the Elf so
suspiciously that they shout him down and will not even bear Finbor or Frolin
to translate.
Bergalad
is taken aback by the reaction. In Westron he murmurs to his companions,
"What puts these men at such unease around me? I have never been the
aim of such an anxious reaction."
Finbor
says quickly, "When I was but a lad, in the years before the War of
the Ring, I heard a lot of strange tales about Elves, and that was in the
heartland of Gondor. One can only imagine the tales other, more barbaric people
tell each other about Elves.”
"Just
Northeast of the
Bergalad
states ominously with the prescience of his race, “I sense there is
something more in the looks of these people".
[Combined Persuade (Oratory) test, Finbor assisted by
Frolin: complete failure for Frolin, superior success for Finbor…count
your blessings, Roel, poor Mike got a natural 2 but you got a natural 12!]
Finally,
the Master of the town regains control over the council and berates them until
they are silent. “Peace, I say! Peace! Since when is it
the custom of Marsburg to slay those who merely bear ill-news and are not the
cause? Golaric is our enemy, and not these far-travelers. They have
done us good service to negotiate passage through the leaguer and bring us news
of outside events.”
“It
would be better if they brought us outside food,” a counselor retorts
angrily. “And if we now have news of what lies beyond our walls,
when they leave us Golaric will have news of the condition inside our
walls.”
Frolin
protests, “We are no spies! We are friends of the Men of Dorwinion,
as we have proven first to Hengel and then to Galleth and all his folk.
If you would have us stop Baldur, who has plunged your land into war, let us
speak with Dáma.”
The
Master breathes deeply and nods once. “I grant my blessing to
confer with Dáma, for perhaps he may learn more news from you that could be of
help to us.” When the counselors begin to grumble that the
travelers should be taken captive, the Master states firmly to his assembly,
“I will not permit these people to be harmed. They are our
guests.” He turns his gaze to the four travelers and adds, “Yet, I cannot permit you to leave these walls
whilst the siege lasts. The Bolcoth are fierce and treacherous, and no
sooner will you return among them that they will lay hands upon you and compel
you under torment to speak all that you know of us. I regret the life of
your friend whom you left behind, but it is like as not that he is already
slain.”
The
dreadful thought strikes the companions of the Fellowship at once: brave Éogar
captured and cruelly murdered! After the intial shock passes, Finbor and
Frolin attempt to protest but the Master raises a hand to demand silence.
He states, with one eye to his counselors, “It must be so. I have
spoken, and your company must remain in Marsburg as the guests of this Council
whilst the siege lasts. Once Golaric’s host has departed, you will
be free to leave. But do not hold hope for your friend.” The
Master gestures for his advisors to rise, and he orders them to adjourn to an
adjacent chamber to discuss Golaric’s proposed terms and whether they
should pay the tribute; he tells Dáma to remain in this chamber and confer with
the new “guests” of Marsburg. The Master and his eleven other
advisors file out of the hall and retire into a room deeper inside the
building.
* * *
The
four companions are left alone with Dáma, who invites them to be seated at the
table. As they take seats, Rard (who chooses to sit on the edge of the
table rather than sink into one of the over-large chairs) gasps to his friends,
“We cannot stay in Marsburg! We have to leave by tomorrow night, I won’t give up on Vornmir!”
“Patience,
Rard,” counsels Finbor. “We must handle one problem at a time.
I discern that the Master’s decree was meant the more his council’s
benefit than ours.”
Dáma
smiles weakly at his four guests, his great age very apparent on his
face. “I am sorry for what you had to endure before the
council,” he says in excellent Westron—apparently he is a sage of
wide knowledge! “More than twenty days we have suffered this siege,
and tempers are badly tested by this ordeal.”
“I won’t be held here,” Rard
protests. “How quickly will it take them
to decide on whether to pay the ransom and then to gather it?”
“I
think they shall debate through the night,” Dáma admits, a weary
expression sweeping across his face. “The terms are severe,
especially since we cannot call upon the other towns to contribute to our aid
whilst the leaguer remains in place. Some on the council, and many in our
militia, would prefer to fight to the last than willingly surrender even a
sliver of silver to our foes; the Great War lives still in their
memories. Yet, I have hope that reason will
prevail: we cannot defeat the Bolcoth in our current situation, and paying the
tribute will buy us peace and survival for now. But, my little friend, I
think you should not expect an answer to come from the council before tomorrow
is out, and perhaps not even the next day.”
“What
is the state of your defense?” Finbor asks. “How long does
the council think Marsburg and withstand the siege?”
Dáma
shakes his head sullenly. “We were ill-prepared for it.
Golaric had threatened Dorwinion with war since the end of winter, and the
three towns joined in league to resist him. Two months ago his vessels of
war began to raid the seacoast near Dunburg and Winburg’s neck of the
river. By that time the goblins had already massed in great numbers in
the southern countryside, and thousands of the farming folk sought refuge
inside the three towns. The Bolcoth had allied themselves with
goblin-hosts in the past, and we fear they may have done so again.
Certainly the timing of the goblin raids in the countryside favored Golaric,
who planned to assault us after the three towns were swollen with
refugees. With the goblins menacing Dunburg, and Golaric’s vessels
threatening Winburg, it seemed wise for Marsburg to send what aid it could to
the other towns. What boats we could fortify and board with armed men we
sent to Winburg, and a company of spearmen we sent to Dunburg. Alas, it
was a ruse of Golaric’s design: after we had sent out a portion of our
strength, he landed his main host on our shores. Though Golaric’s
demanded tribute is harsh, it may be best that we pay it.”
It
is an indirect answer, but Finbor realizes it is all he can hope that will be
told to him in the air of suspicion gripping Marsburg. Finbor nods once
and asks, “Now of the tale of the ‘Wizard and the Dragon’
that brought us to you. I would hear your version of the legend.”
Dáma
responds, “If you have heard Wogan’s version, then you have heard
mine. It was I who taught Wogan the legend, as I learned it from sages
who came before me. It is an old legend, long thought of as a fairy-tale
by most folk of the land.”
“But
you know it is more,” Frolin states. “You know that it speaks
to a true occurrence a thousand years ago, when the Black Crystal came out of
the West to Rhûn and was sundered, scattered across the land. Master
Dáma, share with us your insights that may lead us to the other crystal
shards.”
Dáma
gazes upwards in reverie, contemplating all that he has learned in his long
life. “It is said that, long ago, the Blue-Robes came among our
ancestors. They came out of the West, and stayed in this land for a time,
and taught some of people their arts. Even to this day there are some of
us who still know the spells and words of power, knowledge preserved from the
time of the Blue-Robes. Their magic was fair and good, though it could be
turned to ill-use. A thousand years ago the Blue-Robes returned to this
land, it is said, pursuing the Black Crystal. One of them traveled beyond
our land to the Further East, and passed out of our lore. The wizard
called Far-Traveler remained, trying as he might to unite Men and Elves and
Dwarves against the goblins who wielded the Black Crystal. It was only
through his sacrifice that the dragon who had taken the crystal was destroyed,
and in the tumult the crystal was broken and scattered…
“Many
generous have passed since that time, and the truth of Far-Traveler and the
Black Crystal has been lost. But, always have there been sages who have
kept the legend, and studied what is left of the arts of the Blue-Robes,
knowledge passed from father to son. I am the last of my line, and I had
hoped that Wogan would be as a son to me and inherit all my knowledge.
Alas, he has a head only for songs and glory, and would not commit the effort
to studying the spells and words of power that I have learned…
“In
my long life I have trained my mind and body in the mastery
of one spell above all others, that which senses the currents of power,
of magic fair and foul. It is not a difficult incantation to learn,
although it can take a life to master, and it is how I came to know that the
Black Crystal still lingers in this land. I can feel the pull of its
shards from across the leagues: I knew that one lay in Galleth’s estate,
and I knew that one lay in the dominion of Golaric. One also lay in the
Goblin-hills to the south, and one lay in the Dragon’s Pit on the western
shore of the sea—but these two vanished from my ken many months ago,
during the winter. No longer do I sense them. Neither do I sense
Golaric’s shard any longer, nor Galleth’s. They have been
drawn behind a veil that obscures them from my perception. If Baldur is
the man who has acquired all four of the shards, he is no ordinary thief: he
possesses a great magic that is stronger than mine or any I can teach
you.”
Frolin
asks in an urgent tone, “How many shards remain, and how may we find
them?”
Dáma
answers in a wary tone, “It is not wise to send any Man, Dwarf, or even
Elf to find the crystals!” He looks at Rard curiously with a little
smile and adds, “I do not know of your kind, little friend, but I would
not curse you with the burden either.” He continues more seriously,
“Long have I and the few remaining sages like me known of the Black
Crystal and its lingering presence, but never did we aid others to find the
shards. The Black Crystal was a fearsome relic when whole, and we fear
that its evil will be fully reborn if the shards are reunited. Our fears
grew worse in the years after the Great War and the fall of the
“I
do not mean to frighten you, only to stress the seriousness of what you
ask. Were it not for Baldur and the threat that he represents, never
would I reveal to anyone what I know of the crystals. But, if Baldur
truly already possesses four shards, and if he can veil them from my senses, I
must trust in your company to prevent him from gathering all eight shards
together. This Baldur may not be aware of his danger, and he may unleash a darkness upon himself and all the land that he cannot hope
to control. Even the mighty wizard Far-Traveler could not contain it, and
could only disrupt it for a long age at the cost of his own being…
“Four
shards remain. They have never been recovered by the hands of Men
because, I fear, they have long merged with beasts of the wild. If a traveler wanders Dorwinion and beyond for long enough, he will
hear tales of fearsome beasts with the strength and malice of devils.
These creatures inhabit the wide wastes, where few Men dare to go. It is
in these places that I sense the remaining shards, and my heart tells me they
are the source of the tales of the devil-beasts. If you go to the Brown
Lands south of the goblin-hills, in the burnt plaints between Dorwinion and the
“That
accounts only for three shards…” Frolin prompts.
Dáma
gazes at the Dwarf hesitantly before responding, “The fourth and final
shard also lies in the Great Wood, and I sense none too far from the
Spider-Demon but separate and apart from this beast. The fourth shard is
surrounded by a great and ancient power beyond my ken and reckoning: I cannot fathom
it, nor dare I try. I fear that he who comes for the fourth crystal will
face a Power that has not been known in the earth for many an age, and one that
wishes to remain hidden and forgotten.”
The
companions look at each other in mounting concern—the quest for the Angril
is proving to be even more difficult than previously guessed. Meanwhile,
as the Fellowship remains in and around Marsburg, Belemir is out wandering the
wilderness, searching for the crystals. If he finds them, what will he do
with them? That is a question no one can yet answer…
“You
have told us much, Master Dáma,” Frolin says gratefully, “but these
are vast regions to which you direct us, and we do not know these lands
well. How may we find the crystals in such vast wilderness?”
Dáma
answers, “If I am right, you may find the shards by tracking the
devil-beasts who possess them. This may prove most difficult, for their
mighty devilry often masks their presence, the better to slay those whom they
will. The best way to find the shards is the same manner by which I have
learned of them—through the incantation that senses their power. It
is a common spell among loremasters, though normally its reach is very
slight. However, I have mastered the wizard Far-Traveler’s spell
that allowed him to sense the Black Crystal from many leagues
afar.” The old sage looks at the four companions, eventually
settling on Frolin. “I sense that you know something of
spellcraft—if you stay with me for three days, I can train you in the
art. It will take time for you to master it, but with effort you may
sense the crystal shards from afar as I can.”
Frolin
does have another question for Dama. "What do you know of the
Dáma
looks sheepishly at Bergalad and answers, “You must forgive them, most of
my people know nothing of the Elves of the West and cannot distinguish them
from the Elves of the Great Wood. In truth, I myself have never before
seen a Sea-elf of the West. The Wood-elves of this region are not hostile
to us, but neither are they friends and allies.
They are very secretive and never come out of their wood, nor do they suffer
others to enter it. Many Dorwinion folk resent the Elves for their
secrecy and isolation: for the past many centuries whenever the Bolcoth set out
to attack the west they never dared cross through the Great Wood, for they knew
a foreboding presence lay therein, and so they always marched through
Dorwinion. We suffered very grievously during their last occupation
twenty years ago during the Great War, and we only freed ourselves from their
oppression when their army was shattered in the West and the Lord of the
Rard
is about to ask about Elves in general when Frolin speaks, so the hobbit is
content to listen to the answer. But he cannot let the rest of the
comments about beasts go by, and so mutters something intended for himself, but
said aloud. “We will need more arrows and bandages to face
demon-monsters.” To the others he adds, “Do you need
special weapons to face demon’s are are they killed by sword and arrow
like we are?”
Dáma
stares at Rard for a moment and lifts his shoulders in a helpless shrug. “I don’t not know,” he replies in a weak
voice, “I have never hunted monsters before. Yet the goblin-host at
times has had fell creatures among their ranks, and we have seen them slain in
battle by swords and arrows. We can only hope that the demon-beasts are
similarly vulnerable. Though never disregard their might: others have
tried to hunt them in ages past, and none has ever been triumphant. As for
arrows and bandages, if the Bolcoth agree to withdraw from this land you will
find both in plenty here in Marsburg; if the Bolcoth remain I fear will you not
be able to acquire either in this town.”
Rard
looks skeptical. “It is possible
that Belemir is gathering the shards to give to King Elessar for
safekeeping.” Under his breath he adds, “Not likely but
possible.” After a few moments he looks up startled.
“What would we do with the shards when we have gathered them?”
Bergalad
nods. "An excellent question. Belemir's
intentions aside, we must find a way to destroy this ancient evil for
good."
Looking back in the direction of Dama, "Good sage. You clearly
have great knowledge on these matters. Have you any idea how these shards
could be destroyed beyond the abilities of any ill-intentioned to reunite its
evil"?
Dáma
looks to Bergalad with a rueful expression on his face. “I have
only ever set eyes upon one shard of the Black Crystal,” he says.
“I saw Galleth’s shard many years ago, shortly after he inherited it
from his father before him. It looked to me to be more akin to cold iron
than crystal, and its strength is surely greater than any steel, for it is
possessed of a powerful shadow that has only grown far greater in recent
years. I do not think any hammer of this earth will break it, nor can
strength be relied upon to rend it to dust. Perhaps it could be melted by
a heat greater than whatever flame forged it long ago. There may yet be
flame-drakes who live far to the North, whose fiery breath might consume the
Black Crystal. It is said there is a great fire in a mountain far to the
south, in the ruined waste of the
"Has anyone
been able to send a message to the other towns before the siege started?”
Finbor inquires. “Do Marsburg's
forces in Winburg and Dunburg know that their own town is under siege? Or are
those companies pinned down by other Easterling warbands?"
The old man
replies, “We daily exchanged couriers with the other towns before the
siege, and surely word has been brought to the other
towns of our plight. But, with the goblin-host
threatening the south and Golaric’s war-boats raiding the upper river, we
do not expect that Winburg or Dunburg will be able to undertake our
rescue. Lo, even if they could, the
fight would be bloody and many lives would be lost among our nation, for the
Bolcoth are a numerous and warlike folk.”
"If only we
could find treasure afterward to help pay the ransom…” Rard
muses. “Do you think King Elessar
would reimburse Marsburg? After all it's his man that is stirring up the
area…"
Before the sage
leaves the chamber Finbor asks him, "Master Dáma what can you tell us
about a Man, about my height who goes by the name of Belemir? Have you ever
spoken to him?"
Dama shakes his
head and answers, “I have not heard of this man. We do not often receive Men of the West in
this town. Most often they arrive to do
trade in Winburg, and it is only their goods, coins, and tales that reach us in
Marsburg. The Men of the West who come
to Dorwinion hale from
Scene 9: Persuasive
Words
Throughout
the afternoon of the 13th of July, the Fellowship meets with the old
Dorwinion sage Dáma while the town council debates the tribute demanded by
Easterling besiegers. Frolin nods gravely when Dáma offers to teach him
the spell to detect the Angril. "I accept, Master Dama, for I
do not think we will thwart Baldur without it,” he says. "But
before we begin, I must urge you to rejoin the Council. You are the only
one here who comprehends the threat the black crystal poses, a threat far
greater than the Easterling host beyond these walls. Our company is all
that stands between Baldur and his goal of reuniting the crystal. You
must use whatever influence you have over the Master of this town to convince
him to allow us to leave, regardless of their decision about Golaric's
demands."
Dáma
nods weakly and replies, “I do not altogether understand the Black
Crystal or its earliest origins, but I know in my heart its dark power. I
will return to the counselors and do what I can to convince them, but I am a
decrepit old man in the eyes of many and have little hope they will listen to
me.” The elderly loremaster rises from his seat and says to Frolin,
“Come back to me at nightfall and we will begin instruction.”
The old man hobbles down to hall to the far chamber when the rancorous
councilors are debating Golaric’s demands.
*
* *
As
soon as Dáma is gone, Rard immediately raises his concern over being trapped in
Marsburg while Éogar languishes as a hostage of the Easterlings. Bergalad
states, "I will not willingly remain in Marsburg and sentence Éogar to
death by my inaction. If the Easterlings have treachery in their heart, I
cannot say, but I will not give them cause to carry out their threat and put to
death our companion. Though I prefer to act with the will of this city's
leadership, we must find a way to leave Marsburg by tomorrow, with or without
the leave of her Lord".
Finbor
answers Rard and Bergalad with a grim expression and a fierce light glittering
in his eyes: "Do not worry yet. As we say in Gondor, ‘morning often
brings new council.’ Éogar has put his trust in us, and I have no
intention of betraying that trust."
"If
the rest of you leave against the Master's wishes, what do you suppose will
happen to me?” Frolin protests. “I
suspect I will be tossed into the town's darkest dungeon and forgotten! I
am willing to take that risk in order to save Éogar, but it would be much
better for us if we can talk our way out of here."
"Well,
Master Frolin, it was you who wanted to 'negotiate' with the Easterlings, and
now we have to deal with the consequences,” Finbor counters
petulantly. "Let us hope the Master and his advisors see the wisdom
in agreeing to Golaric's terms, and do so before tomorrow evening."
The
discussions among the companion continue for some time but come to no clear
resolution. All that is certain is that the Fellowship must remain in
Marsburg until the morning, when Finbor hopes the Fellowship will be able to
convince the Master to allow them to depart. Rard points out that the
Fellowship had better have an idea of what they are going to tell Golaric by
then. “We have to tell Golaric something. I suggest we tell
him the truth: that there are still four more shards somewhere out there. We
suspect that they are in the wilds. We are going to try and retrieve the.
It could take us several months to get them all, but we are going to get
them.”
"No!”
Frolin cautions emphatically. “We cannot mention any other shards
to Golaric. Just say that Baldur seeks ancient treasures." The
hobbit quickly relents and nods in agreement.
The
companions leave the chamber in the town hall and walk out the front
entrance. The town guards assigned to watch them instruct the visitors
that they are at liberty to wander the town but will not be allowed
egress. Given the flood of refugees in Marsburg, there are no available
lodgings. The guards find a clear space near the town hall stables where
the Fellowship may set up camp and sleep in the open, a condition shared by
hundreds of poor souls in this town. At least the companions may slumber
within sight of their animals. Grimmód, Hildwyn, Cúroch, and the little
mule Barion are resting peacefully on the bare stable floor; they are not being
mistreated in the stable, and water is set out for them, but no fodder or straw
whatsoever is available to give them. Bergalad sets up camp in the lee of
the stable while Frolin starts a little contained fire, and Rard
surreptitiously cooks the rest of the day’s trail rations as dinner,
taking care not to attract the attention of hungry refugees whom the Fellowship
lack the means to feed.
When
the humble meal is consumed, the companions set out upon individual tasks until
night falls. Frolin readies himself for the arduous study of spellcraft,
and as the sun begins to set walks back into the town hall to meet privately
with Dáma. Bergalad slips into the gloomy stable to groom the
party’s poor animals and give them what conform he may. Rard thinks
he would like to take a stroll away from the town hall and investigate the
gates in Marsburg’s wall, just in case the Fellowship has need to sneak out of the town. However, the stares of
the people he encounters and the squalid conditions inside the town discomfort
him, and he retreats back to the stable campsite where he spends a restless
night.
Finbor
is not so dissuaded, and the warrior walks back to the main gate in the
palisade and climbs up atop the battlements. Scores of guards stand
watch, but so assured in the young captain’s air of command that the
soldiers dare not question him so long as he does not approach the gate.
Finbor gazes out across the southern horizon filled with the Easterling
bivouacs, watch posts, and patrols. He seeks in vain for a glimpse of
Éogar, for no sign is visible anywhere of his captive friend. With heavy
heart Finbor climbs down from the palisade and walks among the guards standing
watch by the gate. He converses with them as best he can in his limited
Dorwinion-speech, talking of the Fellowship’s victory in the southern
countryside and trying to raise their morale. [Language: Dorwinion test,
TN 10, failure] Unfortunately, Finbor’s slow and broken speech is too
difficult for the guards to follow without great effort; the men listen only as
long to be polite and then return to their duty, saying little in response to
Finbor. Disappointed, the Gondorian warrior
returns to the stable campsite and awaits nightfall. Eventually the
companions drift off to sleep under the watch of Bergalad, for whom a few hours
dreaming under the stars is sufficient to rest his mind and body. Frolin
does not come to the camp at all that night – he remains cloistered in
Dáma’s chamber in the town hall, catching what little sleep he may in
between the many hours of instruction needed to begin learning the spell of
detection.
Rard,
Bergalad, and Finbor rouse themselves a couple hours after dawn on the morning
of the 14th, by which time hundreds of refugees are awake and
scrounging the town for what food they can find. The only good fortune is
that Marsburg is on a river, and plentiful clean fresh water is brought in
through cisterns. Rard begins to prepare a cold breakfast from the dry
rations packed away in his mule’s bags. By the time the meal is
ready Frolin has emerged from the town hall, weary from a long night’s
work but now somewhat refreshed after falling asleep on Dáma’s floor for
a few hours. Frolin and his friends quickly eat the prepared breakfast,
and then confront the challenge of how the Fellowship (except for Frolin) is to
get out of Marsburg before nightfall. After a short debate, it is decided
to march back into the town hall and try to persuade the council or at least
the Master of the town to permit them to leave.
It
is late morning before the Master and his advisors are once again assembled in
the main chamber and will to admit the visitors to speak with them.
Captain Harin’s men guard the hall and keep careful watch over the
travelers, holding them in the crowded entry foyer until receiving permission
from the council to let them through. Only Bergalad, for whom time is an
endless river, bears the delay with good grace. Finbor leads his friends
into the main chamber, where they find the Master, Dáma, and the other advisors
seated at the large table. Dáma looks sadly at the companions, shaking
his head faintly; it is not a good sign. The Master rises from his seat
and intones, “If you have come to inquire whether we shall accept
Golaric’s terms, you must be patient a while longer.”
Finbor
steps forward, addressing the council with his full majestic bearing fully
display. "As a lord of Gondor, I understand the duties and
responsibilities of rank all too well,” he states grimly, “but just
as you are concerned with your people, so am I concerned about my men. The Man
whom you so easily condemn to death is of the Tower Guard of Minas Tirith, a
bold knight whose name alone is worth more than a company of your
militia.” The Gondorian captain’s steely gaze bears down upon
the counselors, choking any objection they might voice to his words. He
continues in his powerful voice, “The agreement we made with Golaric
concerned only his stolen totem and the thief Baldur. I give you my word that
we will not reveal anything else, especially concerning the defence of
Marsburg. Just as I will honor my word to you, allow me to honor our
agreement with Golaric.”
Frolin
has walked into the room murmuring strange words under his breath, infusing his
speech with the subtle magic of Middle-earth. When Finbor finishes his
speech the Dwarf walk to his side, spreading his arms in an arcane gesture only
Dáma might recognize and uttering speech that sounds fair and persuasive:
“Heed the words of Finbor Angbor’s son. Our party is no
danger to Marsburg, but keeping us here will stop us from finding Golaric’s
crystal and ending this war. If it will comfort you, I shall stay among
you for two more days as a guest of Dáma. Any fate that befalls your town
will also befall me. What say you?”
[Finbor’s
Persuade (Oratory) combined test, +1 for Intimidate affinity = extraordinary
success, +3]
[Frolin’s
Persuade (Oratory) test, +3 Finbor’s test, +8 Voice of Suasion = superior
success]
The
assembled council listens in stunned silence, their doubt and hostility subdued
by Finbor’s noble bearing and utterly swept away by Frolin’s
persuasive plea. The argumentative counselors hang their heads or look to
the Master for guidance. The Master nods slowly and says, “I think
the counsel of Dáma seems more fair to-day than it did
before. In our helpless anger did we blame your company for our woes and
demand you remain among us. We have no just right to hold you here
against your will, you who have risked war and hardship to bring us news and
hope. Go, return to Golaric and report what you will. Frolin shall
stay here until you come back for him, and we hope that Golaric will not do you
any harm.” The Master gives an order to one of the guards to run
ahead to Captain Harin, ordering the watchmen to permit the Fellowship to exit
through the front gate.
Finbor
and Frolin bow their heads respectfully to the Master, thanking him and his
council for their trust. The companions leave the council chamber,
allowing the dazzled counselors to return to debating whether to accept
Golaric’s demands. Once they are out of the town hall, Rard grasps
Frolin’s sleeve and asks in surprise, “Why did you not try to
convince the council to pay the tribute to Golaric? You and Finbor had
them eating out of your hand, they would have done anything you asked!”
The
Dwarven loremaster smiles slightly and says, “A sage’s spell is
best used to help free people to choose what is right and just, not to dominate
their will and make for them decisions that are rightly theirs.”
The Hobbit sighs, and decides the ways of magicians are not for him to
understand.
The
companions lead their steeds out of the town stable, tying on their packs and
readying their saddles. Finbor mounts up on Grimmód, and Bergalad leaps
atop Cúroch; the Elf reaches down and lifts his little Hobbit friend up in front
of him. Bergalad holds Hildwyn’s rein, pulling the horse along in
tow. Frolin holds up his arm to bid his friends farewell for now, and
then turns back into the town hall where he will spend the rest of the day and
the next studying Dáma’s ancient spell…
* * *
It
is a long and fitful night for Éogar, trapped inside an Easterling tent without
weapon or shield. His rude guards are ever-present outside the flap, and
his one-eyed keeper makes only a few tense visits to bring him bread and
water. Éogar is along awake by the time the sun rises on the 14th
of July, and he is kept in the tent waiting for many
hours. The guards ignore his inquiries, rudely thrusting their
spear-blades into his tent to force him back and keep him silent. They do
not even bring him in water to wash, but after a while his keeper delivers a
bowl of gruel and a cup of mead. Éogar quickly comes to miss the cooking
of his little Hobbit companion!
Finally,
some time around the
Éogar
is surrounded by a dozen warriors on foot with their long, curved lances.
Golaric and his four life-guards ride upon horses, taking up positions in front
of him. The one-eyed translator hisses to him, “Hold your tongue and
say nothing until bidden, or we will cut your tongue from you.” Off
to the side stands a servant holding Éogar’s spear and buckler, though
the Rohirric warrior is certain they will not be willingly returned to him
unless the chieftain is well-pleased.
As
Finbor and the others come within twenty yards on Golaric, the Easterling
chieftain holds up his hand to halt them. He thunders a rough greeting,
which is quickly translated by the one-eyed man: “So you have returned,
and with six hours to spare. Four of you entered the town but only three
of you come out – what means this?” The fierce barbarian king
then adds a more assertive challenge: “Fulfill your pledge and tell us
all that you learned in Marsburg. Where is my crystal, and when shall the
Men of Marsburg deliver my tribute? Your friend stands among us, and
whether we return his person or his head to you depends upon your answer.
Now speak!”
Scene 10: Unpleasant
Prospects
It
is the early afternoon of July the 14th, and three of the Fellowship
who rode into Marsburg through the Easterling siege lines have
returned to claim their captive friend Éogar. The chieftain Golaric and a
company of his warriors has gathered on the open sward
between siege camps, waiting to receive the Man, Hobbit, and Elf riding out
from the town. Éogar stands among them silent but defiant, putting his
trust in his approaching friends. As the companions draw closer to the
Easterling gathering, Rard examines them with a worried gaze. He tugs on
Bergalad’s arm, cautioning him not to lower his guard among these
treacherous folk. “We should ride him down if something goes
amiss,” Rard whispers to his Elf companion, gesturing to Golaric.
“That would lead Éogar’s horse right by him, and he could mount
up.” Bergalad nods once, resting his celeritous Elven-fingers upon
his bowstrong.
Finbor,
riding high upon Grimmód, walks his horse to the fore as he listens to
Golaric’s haughty questions. "Do not forget who stands before
you, Golaric!” Finbor retorts in a lordly voice. “Treat your
lackeys as you will, but you threaten the envoys of King Elessar Telcontar at
your own peril."
There
is some angry murmuring among the Easterling warriors when Finbor’s words
are translated, but a sharply frowning Golaric silences the protest with a
single gesture of his hand.
“Perhaps
we should have brought Master Frolin…” Rard sighs.
“We could have used his magicks!"
Finbor
continues with his unflinching response to the Bolcoth king. "Your
tribe's totem remains in the possession of the cunning thief Baldur, an enemy
of many, for he stole from the Dorwinions and King Elessar as well. Where he is
right now, we do no know for certain. For with the Great Raven as his
steed, distance means little to him; but we assume he has entered into the
Great Wood."
When
Finbor’s final words are translated, there is a foreboding consternation
among the Easterling warriors. It is clear that they consider the Great
Wood an ominous and accursed place. Golaric turns to face his men,
berating them sharply. He then says something to his one-eyed translator,
who calls out: “Say on! What of our king’s demand for
tribute?”
"We
have delivered your terms to the leaders of Marsburg, who are debating your
terms and counting their silvers even now,” Finbor answers
boldly. “Our companion we left behind to urge the men of Marsburg
to accept your terms, and to learn more about the thief Baldur."
“That
is well,” is the reply that comes from the Easterling camp.
Raising
his voice, Finbor once more addresses Golaric: "As you said we have
returned with six hours to spare, we have shared with you where we think Baldur
is and we have conveyed your terms to the Master of Marsburg. We have fulfilled
our part of the agreement, now fulfill yours. Release our friend and let us
ride out of here."
[Finbor’s
Debate (Parley) test, TN 15: 6 roll +3 skill +1 affinity for Persuade (Oratory)
+1 affinity for Intimidate +6 Courage (2 points spent) = 17, complete success]
There
is a lengthy pause while Golaric contemplates Finbor’s words, and weighs
his options. Finally, he nods once and gestures to his servants.
The man next to Éogar hands the warrior his spear and his buckler, and steps
away. Golaric’s life-guards stand to the side, allowing Éogar to
walk through the Easterling ranks and rejoin his friends. The Rohirric
warrior, looking unkempt but otherwise unharmed,
flashes a smile to his comrades, happy to be in their company again.
“Your
friend has been released,” the one-eyed translator calls out, conveying a
message from his master. “Yet it is not our will that you ride from
this place. One of your company remains in the town, and it is to there
that you all must return. You may ride out again when the Men of Marsburg
carry out our demanded tribute.”
The
companions of the Fellowship exchange knowing glances: it was too good to hope
that Golaric would comply with the agreement so readily and without condition.
“We
cannot tarry here,” Finbor shouts back, attempting to salvage the
situation. “The thief Baldur has surely already reached the Great
Wood, and we must pursue him in our king’s name.”
“Then
if you seek the thief, it is foolish for you to ride after him,” is the
response from Golaric. “To reach the Great Wood by land you must
cross the river, and there are no fords within twenty leagues and no bridges;
and then it is forty leagues across the desolate northlands. The Great
Wood is a cursed place, and none who enter it from west, north, or east lives
to speak of it. Those who trade by sea know that the Great Wood may be
entered only by the southern shore. If you wish to serve your king and
reclaim what was taken from him, then you should heed my proposal…”
“And
what do you propose?” Finbor asks warily.
Golaric
says something in his own tongue, and his one-eyed translator immediately
protests. At first the man merely tries to dissuade his king, but finally
it is clear that he is pleading for something. Golaric is not to be
gainsaid, however, and he castigates his man. With a furious expression
on his scarred face, then one-eyed man conveys Golaric’s proposal.
“My king offers one of his barges to sail you across the sea to the Great
Wood. And since I speak your tongue, he has ordered that I accompany
you…” the man says. “King Golaric bids you return to
the town and see to the collection of his tribute. When the town is ready
to pay, you may bring out the treasure. If all is in order, a barge shall
be readied to take you east across the sea.” Confident that neither
his master nor fellows can understand him, the one-eyed translator adds a final
comment: “It gives me no joy to contemplate this journey with you,
Outlanders. But the king will not be dissuaded. You have no choice
but to accept his proposal, and I have no choice but
to submit to his command.”
When
it is revealed that the translator may accompany us to the elves Eogar laughs
deeply. "Perhaps these elves can
fix your other eye?" he shouts derisively to the barbarian.
"Tell your master that we only need his help crossing the river. I
have already told him of our dispatch of the giant spiders of Mirkwood.
We will not fall prey to such beasts. If he wishes you
to be our guest on the journey, so much the better." The one-eyed man sneers at the Rohirric
warrior, but says nothing to his king.
Rard
rubs his chin and ponders, "Ask him why noone has returned from the Great
Wood? And what does he know of the beasts that inhabit it? Does he
know from whence they came, any rumors or the like?"
When
the hobbit’s question is translated to Golaric, the Easterling scoffs,
“We do not know why no one has returned. We have not had the
opportunity to ask any of them!” He laughs rudely, and his men
quickly join in. When the chieftain thinks he has mocked the strange
little foreigner sufficiently he adds, “It has been many years since any
of our race has entered the Great Wood. Since the time of the father of
my father’s father, Bolcoth traders have only sailed to the southern
shore and awaited the Wood-folk to come forth. Stories have spread across
our land of the beasts of the wood, spiders as large as horses, and their
Mother who stalks the land like a shadow, but these tales may be only
legend. At times as we have sailed past the shore away from the
Wood-folk, we have heard the Singer: a solitary voice of dreadful might that
haunts the western wood. If the thief Baldur has gone to the Great Wood,
he would not dare to brave the cursed western wood. He surely has fled to
the Wood-folk in the eastern wood. Perhaps the Wood-folk are sheltering
him, or perhaps he is one of them; the Wood-folk are cunning conjurers and can
throw shapes, it is said.”
“I
will need to think on your proposal,” Finbor states to the
Easterlings. “Before we come to a
new agreement, I need to be sure that you will lead your men back south to your
own lands upon payment. What assurances can you give us?” the Gondorian
captain asks Golaric.
“I
give no assurances beyond that I am Baldur’s truest victim,”
Golaric replies in a wrathful tone.
“I have come to this land for revenge, and once I am paid tribute
I have no desire to remain in this foreign land. Baldur has fled to the Wood-folk, and it is
to there that my hunters will pursue him.
By sea my hunters shall descend upon him in a third part of the time
required to reach the eastern forest by land, even at a hard ride. You know this Baldur well and can sight him
more readily than we can, so it would do my men well to have you come with
them. It is a fair partnership, for we
shall each of us reclaim what he has taken.”
When
the parley is complete, the Easterlings gesture for the Fellowship to return to
Marsburg. Their siege lines are full of armed men, spearmen and bowmen,
and in broad daylight exposed to a concentration of so many men it would be
impossible for the companions to ride through the enemy even at full
speed. With no other options against an entrenched, prepared, and vastly
more numerous foe, the Fellowship must comply.
Rard lets out a depressed sigh. “I never get to have any
fun,” he murmurs. “Nasty Easterlings, they won’t even
let a little hobbit into their camp for a song, a dance, and a few games of
chance.”
The
horses turn about and canter toward Marsburg’s southern gate.
Captain Harin’s men hail the returning travelers and order the gate
quickly opened for them, and shut just as quickly as soon as they are back
inside. Finbor leads the cavalcade back to the town hall, the milling
crowds of desperate refugees, unaware of what transpired beyond the gate, gaze
at the returning stranger in wonder. Word is carried into the town hall
that the visitors have returned, and after a short while Frolin emerges from
the building. The Dwarf, looking weary from many hours of labor, says in
greeting: “I did not think to see you all so soon again, but I take it
that Golaric did not wish to let you back through his siege lines yet.
Master Dáma says I still need a good deal more instruction and practice, but he
has given me an hour’s break so that I may speak with you.”
His companions relate to him their encounter with Golaric and the Bolcoth
chieftain’s proposal. Frolin frowns and growls, “It seems
this Easterling warlord wishes to use us to compel the Men of Marsburg to pay him
tribute. I do not think he will let us leave otherwise…”
Scene 11: Strange
Bedfellows
As
the afternoon of July 14th wears on, the reunited Fellowship meets
outside the
Frolin
nods approvingly to Finbor. "It sounds as if you handled Golaric
very well,” he says. “And you, Éogar, seem to have made the
most of your visit with the Easterlings."
"Hardly
much to make of it," Éogar says with a frown, still rumpled from his stay
with the barbarians. "Golaric was tight lipped and only revealed
what we could have surmised ourselves. His translator was nothing but a
jailor, and a rude one at that." The Rohirric warrior spits on the
ground, grumbling that he would not look forward to any voyage in that
man’s company.
It
is next the Dwarven loremaster’s turn. He explains to Éogar what
the companions learned from Dáma. "There are eight shards of the Angril,”
Frolin concludes. “Baldur has four, and four remain
unclaimed. Three have become somehow merged with beasts of the wild,
giving the creatures great and evil power. The
fourth shard is in the Great Wood possessed by an unknown ancient
power.” Talk next turns to the next course of action, and whether
the Fellowship should accept Golaric’s proposal. "If the
Council of Marsburg accepts Golaric's demands and pays tribute, we should
accept his offer and sail to the Great Wood,” says Frolin.
“Yes,
I think that’s all we can do,” Finbor replies sternly, “for
Golaric will not let us go alone, I fear. I expect that if we decline his
offer, the siege will continue. There are a few practical problems. First, what
do we do with the horses?”
Both
Rard and Frolin, who already have a hard enough time keeping pace with the
long-striding Men without being encumbered with heavy loads, urge that the
horses be brought along. “We cannot carry the food and water
ourselves!” Rard protests. Frolin also
cautions, “After recovering the crystal shards,it
would be very dangerous to put ourselves back into Golaric's power by getting
back on one of his boats. We may need to ride back from the wood."
Finbor
nods once. He adds, “And secondly, we will need to keep a constant
eye on this one-eyed Easterling.”
"He
is beyond his years as a great warrior,” Éogar notes, “but he did
fight with Sauron in the War of the Ring. That he survived and still
holds a place near his Chieftain means he is cunning at the least. You
are right that we must watch him."
"He
fought with Sauron?” says Rard, aghast. “Then we will
watch him very closely!" He does his best to keep a fierce
expression on his face, as fierceness does not come naturally to the heart of a
hobbit.
When
the discussion concludes, Rard digs out the remaining rations for the day and
readies a solid meal for the companions to enjoy together. It feels odd
having to survive on dry rations inside a normally rich town, but the friends
are grateful to have even such poor victuals when so many refugees crowding the
town streets and alleys are going hungry. It is a sad situation that they
hope will change soon, if the town pays tribute to the Easterlings. In
the late afternoon Frolin returns to Dáma in the town hall to continue his long
and demanding studies. Finbor and silent Bergalad remain by the town hall’s
stables, taking care of the horses and the mule. Éogar decides to stretch
his legs by walking around the town, talking to the crowds of sullen people and
seeing what they know of the Wood-elves who lie to the northeast. Rard
tags along, hoping the curiosity he provokes may
loosen some lips. Indeed, the sight of little Rard next to the tall Éogar
draws plenty of attention and many are willing to talk. However,
Éogar’s aptitude for converting his native Rohirric tongue into
Dorwinion-speech is quite limited, and Rard possesses no ability with the
language whatsoever; most of the conversations are short and confused.
Even when they manage a comprehensible talk with some of the locals, all the
get are a mash of local myths. Elves are ten feet tall with eyes of fire.
Elves are made of shadow and can walk into one tree and appear out of another a
great distance away. Elves work horrid spells that can turn a man into a
frog or curse him with an unbreakable hex. Elves hunt Men lost in their
woods for sport and eat the quarry they catch. The superstitions of a
rural people who have probably never seen an Elf for themselves before Bergalad
arrived. Éogar and Rard return to the makeshift campsite by the stable
shortly before nightfall, disappointed.
*
* *
With
little else to do but wait, most of the companions sleep well into the late
morning of July 15th. Frolin emerges from the town hall after
another long night of mental discipline and intermittent sleep. The Dwarf
joins his friends for breakfast, a kind of cram-gruel
whipped up by Rard and seasoned with some of the hobbit’s hidden stash of
spices. When Frolin returns to the town hall after his
meal, his companions accompany him. The Dwarf breaks away from the
crowd to return to Dáma’s upstairs chamber, but the rest of the
Fellowship files into the foyer to get a glimpse of the town council. It
appears the men are still deliberating, and Finbor grows impatient. He
strides up to the guards and tells them to announce him – he must speak
with the council!
To
his irritation, the council makes him wait several minutes before he is
admitted. Finbor strides into the assembly hall, drawn up to his full
height and bearing. The Master rises from his chair, a haggard and sad
expression on his face. “You have come to hear our decision,”
the Master states knowingly. Finbor nods once, his gaze shifting from man
to man at the table. The Master shakes his head and says, “We have
long debated the terms that you brought us, Lord Finbor. The council is
divided, but more vote in opposition to surrender than in favor. The war
will go on…”
One
of the counselors announces, “The terms you brought us are more than we
can bear.”
Finbor
levels his powerful gaze on the assembled men. He says in a firm, persuasive
voice, “I know you think that it’s easy for me to give away your
wine and silver, but consider this: grapes will grow again next year, silver
can be mined, or earned again. When your children are dead, they remain dead
for ever.”
A
growing murmur rises among the counselors, as the dissenting minority knocks on
the table and voices agreement with Finbor. A few in the majority
opposing paying tribute begin to waver. “If we pay tribute now,
what will stop the Bolcoth from returning next season to rob us again?”
one of them asks.
Finbor
answers, “Once the Bolcoth have gone you can forge new and stronger
alliances with the other towns, or perhaps Dale or Erebor. You can set up watch
towers, so you will be warned the next time they come, you can strengthen the
fleet, so you can defend your shores. Make sure this will never happen
again.”
The
Master himself knocks on the table, urging the wavering majority to reconsider
their vote. Discussion flares up again, and soon all those who voted
against surrender are wavering, uncertain. One of the last hold-outs
complains, “Marsburg is left to suffer this burden alone. Once
tribute is paid and peace secured, there will be no incentive for Winburg or
Dunburg to pay their portion. Surrender shall leave us in penury.”
Finbor
smiles gently and adds in a reassuring tone, “It is said that at the
height of her power, Gondor’s influence could be felt as far east as
Dorwinion. I cannot promise any aid from Gondor or Arnor but I can
promise to speak to King Elessar on your behalf upon our return and tell him of
your plight.”
[Finbor’s
Persuade (Oratory) test, TN 15: 8 roll +5 skill modifier +1 affinity from
Debate (Parley) +3 from Courage = 17, complete success (1 Courage spent)]
Finbor’s generous words and skillful diplomacy hold great sway over the
assembly, and most of the men break out in applause, the Master joining
them. The Master calls for a new vote, and all but one vote to accept
Golaric’s terms; the lone hold-out abstains, saying that he cannot bear
the shame of voting for surrender. The Master dismisses the counselors
from the assembly, ordering them to set out into the town to gather the twenty
casks of wine and twenty talents of silver needed to pay the tribute.
“Golaric’s patience will not last,” he warns, “thus, we must have the tribute to pay by tomorrow
morning.” The counselors nods respectfully
to their Master, and to Finbor, and then file out of the town hall on their
business. The Master strides over to Finbor, extending his hand in gratitude.
“My authority as Master is limited,” he explains, “for I am
only elected from among the town elders for a term of one year. It was
your voice from outside these walls that waked the Assemblymen from their dream
that we could survive this war. Surrender is a bitter draught to stomach,
and this tribute is high, but it will buy us peace and time to strengthen
ourselves. I thank you for the role you played in this, Lord
Finbor. I will have the tribute gathered on the morrow, and you may take
it to Golaric and fulfill your agreement. Wherever your journeys take you
next, may fortune smile upon you.”
Finbor
rejoins his other companions waiting out in the foyer. They have
witnessed the council’s vote and already word is spreading that tribute
must be gathered. Normally such a bitter tax surely would be resented,
but after three weeks of siege it is clear that the crowds in the town are
hungry for peace and happy to pay for it. The companions return to the
stable to wait for Frolin to come down from his studies with Dáma. At
best the Dwarf will emerge sometime during the night, and it is hoped the
Fellowship will be able to depart Marsburg, with the gathered tribute, sometime
on the morning of July 16th.
While
the tribute is being collected, Frolin approaches one of the guards.
He reaches into a pouch at his
belt and withdraws five heavy
silver coins. "Here. Take this," he says to the man gruffly. The dwarf hands over the coins, quickly turns around, and returns to his studies with Dáma. The guards express surprise at such
a generous donation, far more than any resident of the town has been asked
– or would be able – to pay.
The guard captain carries word of Frolin’s kindness throughout the
town. That a Dwarf, whose kind is hardly
known for excessive generosity with treasure, would freely make such a donation
reconciles the residents more willingly to pay the tribute. Frolin smiles inwardly, a rare Dwarven heart
that is free from the lure of precious metal.
[Frolin gains a +2 bonus on his next Corruption test]
As
the day draws on, Rard is already thinking about what is needed for the next
leg of the journey. He sees to the water barrel, making sure it is topped
off. He contemplates the need for rations, but it is painfully obvious
there is no food to be had anywhere in Marsburg even for ready money. The
calculating hobbit also suggests to Finbor and Éogar that torches and tools
would be useful to acquire for the voyage. They wander into the dirty,
chaotic town market crowded with hopeful refugees and celebrating townsmen, all
cheering the peace they believe is close at hand. It soon becomes clear
that torches are as scare in Marsburg as food –
every piece of cut wood has already been used as fuel for the crowd of
refugees, and even fire is now in short supply in the town. But, with the
foreseen departure of the Easterlings, tools and even weapons are suddenly
available for sale and trade. Stashes and hoards set aside for the militia in case of a desperate fight are brought out by
merchants hoping for a return to a semblance of normalcy. However, due to
the strain of the siege all asking prices are surprisingly high: 6 silver
pennies for a shovel, 4 silver pennies for a five-pound net, 36 silver pennies
for a hatchet, and 44 silver pennies for a spear! Perhaps the merchants
could be bartered down, but this is a face-to-face negotiation that would have
to be done personally and carefully.
*
* *
Sometime
during the night Frolin stumbles out of the town hall, weary after finally completing
his training with Dáma. It has been three grueling days for the Dwarf,
but worth the effort. Through careful concentration and meditation, he
can cast the spell that allows him to sense the power of magic around
him. In most cases the duration is brief and the range less than an
arrow’s fall, but using Dáma’s incantation he can extend the range
from a hundred-some feet to a hundred-some leagues! And rather than a
brief minute, he can maintain the spell of detection for as long as he
concentrates, though such prolonged concentration makes it harder for him to
cast other spells. Dáma’s improved spell also is principally
attuned to great magical powers not veiled by the incantations of another
strong will – with it he can feel the shards and other great acts of
sorcery, though small and minor feats of wizardry are too faint to be felt over
great distances.
The
Fellowship is awakened shortly after dawn on the 16th of July by the
sound of carts rolling through the cobble-stoned streets outside the town
hall. Soldiers have completed the collection: twenty men loaded with bags
of silver one by one deposit their burden in a brace of carts, and two other
hefty wagons are nearby holding ten big casks apiece. Draft horses are
fixed to the carts, and the animals huff
impatiently. The companions quickly strike their makeshift camp, gobbling
down a hurried breakfast tossed together by Rard: 60 man-days of dry rations
remain in the party’s packs. The horses and the mule are readied,
and all the Fellowship’s belongings are packed away. The travelers
mount up and ride over to the town’s carts. Captain Harin and a
handful of his men stand at the ready. “The Master told us you
would be here,” Harin says with a smile, “and I am glad to have you
accompany us in this delivery. A sad duty, but better than a fight we
cannot win.” At the Fellowship’s biding, Harin gives the word
for the convoy to move out. The cavalcade snakes through the town streets
in the faint light of the early morning, and weary refugees open their eyes to
watch the horsemen pass by. Within a few minute the convoy reaches the
south wall; the gate is opened for the convoy as it passes, and a man atop the
wall blows a loud clarion to alert the Easterlings. Finbor rides to the
fore, leading the caravan onto the flat plain just outside the gate, waiting for the Bolcoth to assemble.
Easterling
pickets hold positions all throughout the no-man’s land between the
trenches and the town palisade, and they shout reports to the camps. A
few minutes later a troop emerges from the center camp: King Golaric, his
life-guard, and a squad of a dozen archers and spearmen. They stop about
fifty yards away, and through his one-eyed translator Golaric has his message
conveyed: “It is well that you have convinced the men of this town to pay
us tribute, Finbor of Gondor. Tell the Dorwinions with you to return
behind their walls. We shall inspect the indemnity, and if it meets our
demand we shall accept it and depart.” Finbor explains the
instructions to Captain Harin, who nods once and leads his men back into
Marsburg. The Easterlings then come forward, take possession of the
caravan, and haul it back to their main bivouac, the wary Fellowship following
at a safe distance. It takes the better part of an hour, but the
Easterlings eventually ascertain that the Men of Marsburg have provided the
appropriate tribute. Golaric says something, and his runners immediately
fan out among the encampments to spread the announcement. A crier walks
into the no-man’s land where the Fellowship awaits word. The
Easterling herald says in Dorwinion-speech, “My king accepts this
tribute.” He then lifts his voice high and shouts to the men on the
town’s wall, “Golaric, King of the Bolcoth, and the warriors of his
tribe find the offered tribute acceptable! Your town is spared, this
siege is lifted, and we shall depart!” As the crier returns to the
camp, a loud cheer erupts from behind the walls: Marsburg is saved, the war is
over!
"It certainly looks as if our decision to parley with the Easterlings was the right one," Frolin says to
the rest of the Fellowship, with a slightly smug expression on his bearded face.
Finbor
sighs as he hears Frolin… “Just focus on finding those
demon-beasts, Dwarf, at least we’ve gained that in the past days.”
The
Easterling pickets abandoned their positions and return to the bivouacs; the
Easterlings greedily gather to look upon their plunder acquired without even a
battle. Golaric’s chiefs distribute a portion of silver to every
warrior, and a cask is instantly broken open and drained in celebration.
Slowly, the Easterling camps are struck and the hundreds of warriors prepare to
return to their ships and across the sea from whence they came. Golaric
and his life-guards ride up to the travelers from the West, who still hold their ground in the sward between the old siege lines
and the town. “You are ready for your new journey,” is
Golaric’s boisterous greeting to the Fellowship. “You will
march with my army to the shore, where a barge awaits you.” He
gestures to the dour one-eyed translator and says, “Morlach will board
with you and guide the ship to the south shore of the Great Wood. You
will lead my hunters to Baldur. You may reclaim from him what he took
from your king, and then return to your homes in the West.”
Soon
the entire host of Easterlings is formed up and marching to the sea, with
Golaric and his guard at their head and the Fellowship caught up in
between. Morlach rides at the Fellowship’s side, casting a
disdainful sneer at Éogar.
Frolin looks to Morlach. "How did
you lose your eye, Morlach? Did you leave it behind in my homeland?"
The old
Bolcoth warrior bores a hateful gaze at Frolin and spits on the ground. “May I have the chance to return for it
one day, and take many Dwarven eyes in recompense,” he hisses.
As
the Bolcoth army passes by, more cheers can be heard from inside the
town. The Fellowship bids farewell to Marsburg and makes its way along
with the Easterlings to the River Carnen’s mouth flowing into the
When
confronted by the presence of so many Easterling warriors, Rard says warily to
his companions: "I thought we just had to take Morlach, not lead all his
hunters…" As the company
boards the barge, the hobbit insists on asking for some concessions from Morlach. "Perhaps we can gain some tools from the
army? Or perhaps, more rations and some arrows?" he hints.
At the very least, Rard demands, these Easterlings should share their
food!
Morlach
flatly refuses to give any tools or arrows to the hobbit.
“You are hear to guide my hunters, little
manling, you do not need to fight or hunt or labor,” he says. “As for food, you will eat what we
eat. Much food is not needed. The distance is not far, less than seventy
leagues over the sea. With a decent
wind, we will reach the southern shore of the Wood-folk before tomorrow is
out.” Rard tries to inquire from
Morlach what skills he brings to the hunt for Baldur [Inquire (Converse) test,
TN 15, complete failure]. Morlach shrugs
off the curious hobbit and merely says, “I can speak to you and command
these warriors, and that is enough.”
Hundreds
of Easterlings remain nearby, and it is sure that Golaric will not give the
order to depart until his barge with its “hunters” is safely
underway to the Great Wood. Morlach stares wrathfully at the Fellowship,
ordering them to board the ship so we can begin his undesired voyage –
the sooner started the sooner over, he says. Another dirty look at Éogar
is close on the heels of his words. The next part of the
Fellowship’s quest is at hand, and what lies ahead none can say…
The story continues
in Part II (click here)
