Reaction Post (note): truth be told as I was gearing myself up I forgot to do this chapter first, because I hadn't read it yet and got mixed up. I didn't want to read it then write a reaction post for fear of not having the most genuine reaction, hence why the Seastrider's went first.
Inzilbeth rode far north. The woods fell away, and the river swung to the east, and the earth rose up from fair plains to high hills and down again ere the Misty Mountains rose white and cold on the horizon, snow-capped spines stabbing at the sky. There she found encamped in the foothills of the mountains the strange dwarven army, those who called themselves the Folk of Vâr. They were like no dwarves she had ever seen. They all wore armor of pitch-black, with great visored helms filigreed with silver, and underneath it all thick heavy tunics of shifting silver metal. Save for a few, their faces were all obscured, and some, she saw, wore their helmets even at rest or sleep. As she arrived at their camp, she called out to the guards in a tongue of the men of the east, announcing her name and her purpose, and to her surprise, they replied in Adunaic, the tongue of Westernesse.
"I thought your people knew not the speech of the West?", she questioned them.
"We did not, when first we met your kind," answered one of the guards. "We have since learned."
I suppose a people that have grown into a living military expedition of vengeance would have to adapt and learn to, well, learn quickly.
With that strange statement, they led her silently through a maze of dark tents to a wide-open grassy field where many of the dark-armored dwarves sat eating and talking in the khuzdul-speech. Even here, they still wore the great helms, only lifting them up as needed to pass food under the grilled visors. They led her through the mess-field to a great table that stood apart from the others, and where a single dwarf sat and ate alone. Only then did the dwarf-guard speak again, his voice a growl.
A real sign of being adapted entirely to life at war that they eat with armor in a secure location.
Pardon?
Their leader wore armor black as boiled pitch that caught the light strangely and shone at odd angles. Great runes were carved on it in the khuzdul-script of the dwarves, hard glossy black letters that seemed to move in the light of their own accord. Completing it all was a great visored helm with a golden crest, embossed with silver and gold, beneath which nothing could be seen of the wearer's face save two dark eyes glinting behind the grille. A strong-looking axe hung from the dwarf's hip, a large black thing with a head of wicked steel.
That sounds sick. Actually for half a second before I comprehended it fully I thought they carried their old leader's body around with them, festooned in regalia and all.
"I am Vâr," the dwarf-lord boomed. "Daughter of Vâr, son of Vâr, son of Vâr, who was a grandson of Vâr who was wronged. Name yourself, envoy."
Huh, ok that's...wow these people take their vengeance seriously. I suppose any children you have are also named Vâr?
Inzilbeth bowed. " I am Inzilbeth, Círhael's heir and Abrazân's daughter. Hail, my lady."
She paused a moment, choosing her words carefully. "I had heard it said that your people showed their women but rarely, and that almost never do they go garbed for war, or crowned in the halls of stone. In fact, it is recorded there were no queens among the dwarves."
I can just feel the lines she's carefully tiptoeing around for fear of unneccessary insult.
Vâr daughter of Vâr did not stir, but the eyes under the black visor gleamed. "Vâr's Folk do not enjoy the luxuries of the Longbeards, nor may we until Vâr's bones sit right in stone. We are dressed forever for war, and all of us who can bear arms from the day they may walk."
Makes me wonder about Dwarven fertility.
"And you have heard it said right, Númenórean. There are no queens among the Dwarves. Vâr's folk knew no king but Vâr, who is dead. Sit, and tell me why you have come.
Stranger and stranger.
Did we not tell the other all he needed to know?"
Uh, no. No you did not.
Inzilbeth eyed the rune-carved table where the chieftain reclined. It was large, for a table of the dwarves, and she had certainly had more unpleasant seats in her long life, but the tall woman did not relish the prospect of bending her knees quite that far.
Hah!
"I am an envoy from a newly-founded city of my people, far to the south of here where the river spills into the sea. We are new-arrived to these lands, and seek to make all who are strangers known to us."
"We are strangers to these lands ourselves," the dwarf-chief noted. "So it is curiosity that drives you hither, then?"
"To a point. We seek to know all that we can of the doings and dealings of Middle-Earth and it's folk, and strangers or no, you are counted among that number. And besides -- what finer friends could two strangers have in strange lands besides one another?""
The Dwarf-lady chuckled at that. "So you would be a friend to Vâr's folk, then?"
Well, maybe. There's the slight complication of Durin's folk being the ones we originally REALLY wanted friendship with.
"Perhaps. My lord merely wishes to have the measure of you. I myself must admit to some special curiosity, however. I have sailed the world from the ice-plains of the Helcaraxe to those burnt lands where the tide steams at the rising of the sun. I have heard in my travels tales of those black-armored dwarves who live under the sun. It is said you are a curious folk who do not live under the mountains, who have axes of cold steel, who go here and there a-wandering, for-ever masterless and inscrutable. Such things and stranger yet I have heard spoken in the sunless halls of Haben-Harâth, and darker deeds as well."
Would have been nice to know that
before you were sent out, lady.
And I'm betting the bolded is that continent in the far east, separated by water beyond the eastern ends of Middle Earth.
"Men say many things of Vâr's folk, few of them true. It is true we do not live under the stone, but we have had in our time many masters. Indeed, in the great wars of the east we have had too many masters to count, each richer than the last. Feared were the axes of the Blacklocks on the plains of Zagan-När, and death was upon our foes at the heights of Baralad. It pleases me to know that in distant Haben-Harâth the pale men bemoan still the name of Vâr. We have wandered far and wide in our days -- as, it seems, you have."
A mercenary clan perhaps?
Inzilbeth tilted her head in recognition. "It is said more graves grow on the plains of Zagan-När than stalks of grass."
A somber chuckle rang from the black helm. "And not a single one of them our own. Great indeed is our asking-price, but few indeed who have looked bitterly upon paying it."
Guess so! Fascinating. Theoretically the Dwarves would be most ideal for such. Presumably greater fertility than Elves, craftsmanship is in their blood and with an ample supply of gold and coin and no need to spend for a growing civilization set in stone, no pun intended, they could put all their wealth to outfitting even the meanest warrior with arms and artifacts worthy of kings, which would help to mitigate losses. They also have the stolidity and stubbornness to maintain such a lifestyle, compared to humans. The only thing left they would need is sufficient breeding to not lose out on their numbers in their endless wars.
"And which master, my lady Vâr, do your people now serve?"
Somehow I'm guessing their master has no name but death and vengeance.
The black helm shook as the head beneath moved in laughter. "None, save ourselves. No coin has sent us hither, and no amount could now persuade us to return, for the prize that draws us nigh outweighs all the gold in all the vaults of all the kings of the world. What think you of that, far-traveller?"
That at least is something that we got from our first contact with your folk.
Before Inzilbeth could make response, the Dwarf-chief slapped the table with a single gauntleted hand. "I have decided," she declared, "That I like you. Better than the last one, at least. Not many make the journey to the sunless halls and return -- and fewer yet who are not of the Unharim. There is a spine in you, at least. Speak whatever question you will, and I shall answer as I can."
Inzilbeth is really making inroads for us.
Inzilbeth smiles. "You honor me with praise, my lady. I would know one thing only: tell me of your people -- why you walk so armored, and what this oath is that you have sworn that binds you so."
And there is the question; well, questions, but the latter is more pertinent.
For a few moments, Vâr did not speak. Inzilbeth felt a shiver of unease in her bones, and then, looking around, she realized why. The black-helmed dwarves had fallen quiet, and every head in the place was swiveled towards the spot where she stood. An eerie silence lay over the whole great host.
"It began with the mountain. Gundabad." Vâr's voice was low and somber, like a drum in the dark, and the uneasy silence of the dwarves was amplified rather than broken by the somber voice of their chieftain.
Ugh. Now I really wish I'd read this update first!
"It lies in the North, beyond the Misty Mountains, near the crown of the world. It was where Durin woke and walked alone, first of our kind to stir from sleep when the world was new. For this the mountain was held sacred, even among those Houses who were no friends to Durin's Folk afterward. In years of strife, the chieftains of the seven kindreds would gather atop the peak, for all held it hallow, and no steel was ever drawn when they met there in peace."
It's easy to forget that in many ways Gundabad is even more important to Dwarven history than Khazad-dum. Too easy to assign it to "main goblin stronghold"
"The mountain lay for centuries unmarred...until those days when Mordor came with all it's power to the north. The dwarves defied that land and it's master then, though it was not their fight. For that crime, their Enemy stretched out his black hand in reproach, and his servants in their endless numbers fell upon Gundabad. They overran the mountain. The orcs threw down the statues of the fathers that had been carved when the moon was young, and trampled with filth the white stones that Durin named when he walked alone. They filled the first tunnels that the dwarves ever delved, and Gundabad the great became a dwelling of orcs and goblins and fouler things still. The stone wept."
Considering how far east the Dwarves stayed it's always interesting to hear what became of them in the First Age when they weren't migrating west.
But if so long ago was Gundabad lost, how is it only now we hear of it? How is it the Elves knew not? Have they been content to stay in the mountains?
The dwarf-chief's voice rose and fell almost like a chant, or a dirge. She had said this many times before, had heard it many times before.
"None among the seven houses of the seven fathers could sit idle at this. None among the khazad could know that Gundabad lay in darkness and sleep right in their beds, or feel ease in their days. From east to west to north the Dwarves came together and decided as one that we would as one make war on the orcs. A thousand years ago and two hundred more again, Vâr and all his sons and the sons of their sons left their great hall under the Red Mountains and went into the north.
Good for them, all for one and one for all. Now here comes the rub I imagine.
None were spared the call -- only their wives and their children remained. There was a war then, war such as the dwarves will never know again, for never again shall all the houses bear arms for common purpose. Many sons were slain."
Unfortunate but not unexpected, given how Morgoth was the lord of the north at the time it's easy to see there being much more pressure than than now, when the Enemy is to the south in Mordor where the shadows lie.
As one, the great black-helmed host broke their silence and echoed her, a rumbling chant that passed through the whole army, falling as a moaning wind from a thousand lips: "Many sons were slain!"
*blinks* ok, creepy.
The black visor gleams coldly, and the dark voice rasps out again. "Vâr did not come back. Nor his son. Nor the son of his son, or any of the host who followed him. Gundabad lies still in shadow. Their flesh is dust in the orc-halls, and their axes lie dull in the dark. Their bones are not right."
The united Dwarven clans failing in a task, when Morgoth wasn't even in Middle Earth, but Beleriand.
Can anyone tell me what year in the First Age that would have been, based on the accounts we're being given?
Another echo, this time a keening wail that rose into the sky, accusing and bitter, from a thousand black visors: "Their bones are not right!"
What is this a drama play?
"News did not return east to to those they had left behind for many years. But when Vâr's mother heard the terrible fate of her son, she tore her beard and beat her breast and wept. And when she had no tears left to her she took up her son's axe, and swore she would see his bones laid aright in stone, ere she ever dwelt again beneath the earth. And Vâr's wife swore with her, and his daughters too, and all Vâr's folk who still drew breath."
And you feel that Durin's line was responsible? Personally?
"But my lady," Inzilbeth pressed. "You have not told the whole of the tale. What was the fate of Vâr?"
"Of that I cannot speak, not til his bones are right. But know this: Vâr wore on his finger when he went west a mighty ring, a gift given to honor him in older days, which brought good fortunes untold to it's wearer. That selfsame ring burns now on the hand of Durin's heir. It shall be ours again."
A final echo, this one a roar from a thousand throats, like the bellowing of a dragon: "It shall be ours again!"
Why do I think there's more to this than meets the eye?
Over a thousand years ago, the doors of Khazad-Dum were shut. The Doors of Durin, the western doors to the dwarf-realm, which had once stood open to all friends of the dwarves, were sealed. To reach the East-Gate, more properly called the Great-Gate and the Dimrill Gate, one would have to travel through the mountains themselves, by the treacherous path known as the Redhorn Pass, or otherwise ride the long way around the mountains, through the land of Calenhardon and the elvish realm of Lorien.
Either route was risky and uncertain, and would by necessity pass through ways and lands long unmapped by Númenóreans. Furthermore, it was well known that the Great Gates too were sealed, and written with warnings and curses for all who came nigh without a summon from the lord of Khazad-Dum. Durin's Folk took no visitors.
Charming. A leftover from the wars with Sauron? The result of conflict with the Orcs of Gundabad?
Risk and uncertainty were not factors that Ûrîphêl favored -- and she had no desire either to traipse through snow and ice, nor to go cavorting pointlessly through elven lands. When Inzilbeth rode off to visit her faction of the dwarves, Ûrîphêl followed in her own turn, but did not swing north towards the mountains or east towards the Gap of Calenhardon. Instead, she headed for the wide and wild lands once known as Eregion.
There, she traveled for several days between the scattered villages of the Middle-Men, questioning them tersely in their own tongue. She, had, after all, recalled clearly from her studies in the Houses of Learning that the Dwarf-Kingdoms of old Beleriand did not produce most of their own food -- for how could one grow grain in halls of stone? -- but rather traded for supplies with the men living outside their mountain-homes.
How then did Khazad-dum function? The same?
Unless something drastic had changed in two thousand years, the dwarves, she surmised, still needed to eat.
So she questioned and cajoled and, on a few occasions, terrified -- which was more than easy enough. Her eyes shone like cold blue diamonds, and her hair was like that terrible fire which had been spun from the forges of Aule when the world was new-made. The Middle-Men trembled and boggled to see her in her sternness, and when she turned her eyes in that royal and piercing manner that had once made men hundreds of years old lower their eyes in shame, they could not help but tell her what she wished to know. There were, as she had suspected, secret ways in and out of the mountain-kingdom. Men knew them not, but every few fortnights dwarves would come out of the mountain-stone as if by magic, would trade in certain villages for grain and fresh foods, and then vanish into the rocks as suddenly as they had come.
Uh, I don't think they're gonna take well to you popping inside, so I'm assuming you mean to just wait outside one of these secret entrances.
The next time the dwarf-traders issued from their secret passages and made their way to the towns of the Middle-Men for the monthly market, Ûrîphêl was waiting for them. The coldness in her eyes was as unnerving to them as it had been to the Middle-Men, and when she proclaimed herself an envoy from the King of Númenór over the sea, they blanched and bowed and bid her wait. She stood awhile waiting amid the longhouses and hovels of the Middle-Men, and perhaps an hour later, the dwarf-lord came.
Oh you are, are you?
He was stout and ruddy-faced, with a high nose and a bright red beard bound all in brass bells that fell to his waist and jangled as he moved. A thick circlet of iron sat about his head, though it fitted him ill. He whistled as he walked.
"Ullo there," he started in slow, halting Adunaic. "I'm Froin. Captain of the Gate."
She pulled herself up to her great height. "Hail, dwarf. I am Ûrîphêl, Razanaur's daughter and Núnadië's child. I come over the western seas in the name of Tar-Calmacil the King, and my voice is the voice of the Land of the Star."
The Dwarf whistled appreciatively. "Well...as I said, I'm Froin."
Hah!
Ûrîphêl glowered down at him and set her eyes with imperious steel. He did not seem to notice.
"Captain of the Gate," he pitched in helpfully, as if she had maybe forgotten. "And my voice is none but Froin's. The traders said there was one of the tall folk making noise outside the gate, and now I'm here. What d'you want?"
"I would break words with your king."
"Well then, I'm afraid you've come a long way for nothing. The gates are shut. And 'tis not my place to speak for the King, but I dare imagine that Durin's heir does not oft running for every Man who knocks at his door."
Ûrîphêl frowned. This was growing frustrating. "I come on behalf of Númenór, and the King of the Men of the West."
Froin glanced about pointedly, the bells on his beard jangling. "I do not see a king anywhere, do you? And since you are not your king, and I am not mine, what say you tell me what you came to ask, and I shall see if it's worth his time."
Ûrîphêl had had enough. Her mouth was a thin line of impatience. "I am the second-born of Razanaur the Golden, who was Lord of Orrostar in a line unmingled from Tazayâr the First, who was a Prince of the Star and himself the blood of Elros Tar-Minyatur. I am a Lord Shaper and a holder of one of the seventeen Rods of Making, and I am counted thus among the Zimrailai. I come in the name of the Lords of the West. I am worth your time, dwarf."
"And I," the dwarf repeated slowly and with patience, as if to a child, "am Froin. Ori's son, if you wish, though he was a coppersmith and bit of a fool. I am Captain of the Gate. And the Gate is shut. None may pass, and certainly not you, unless you speak your business."
I
like him.
Ûrîphêl stared for a long moment, her jaw tight as a spring. Froin son of Ori whistled a light tune.
"Very well then," Ûrîphêl failed not to hiss. "I am come to bear word from our new colony on the shores of the Angren. We wish to open communications with Durin's Folk, and to seek, if it is possible, a friendship with the Dwarrowdelf and it's king."
Froin smiled and clapped his hands. "Now, was that so difficult? I'm afraid, though, that won't be possible. The king takes no visitors without invite, and he parlays not with those who are no friends of Khazad-Dum."
Ah. Now there we go. Ûrîphêl smiled -- a problem. She could handle a problem. "And how might one make friends of Khazad-Dum?"
"Many have tried to answer that question while I held the gate, and far and few are those who succeeded. I wish you luck at it. The gate will remain shut until you find an answer."
She clicked her tongue as she often did when her mind was at a task. "Perhaps we could offer you aid? Weapons? Arms? Supplies?"
The dwarf raised a bushy eyebrow. "Whatever for?"
"Why, your war, of course."
"War? I fear Razanaur's daughter has been ill-informed. There is no war in Khazad-Dum."
"Come now. Armies in black march about the mountains. The land is torn with signs of battle. All can see plainly that war is come to Khazad-Dum."
Froin snorted. "Oh, you mean our unwelcome visitors. Nay, that affair is no war, and they know it well as we. They beat at our walls above and below, but they have not the numbers or the means to overcome them. The Gate-Guard alone holds them at bay. It is well-fought, I will give them that -- and honor on the folk of Vâr that even their daughters are so fierce -- but it is no war by the reckoning of the Longbeards."
You're embarrassing us Ûrîphêl
Ûrîphêl narrowed her eyes. "There are scars on the mountains. The earth is rent up for many leagues, and fires smoke under the earth. And you tell me that the invaders have not stepped a foot into Khazad-Dum? That all of this is -- what, them beating upon your doors?"
Froin son of Ori, Captain of the Gate of Khazad-Dum, rolled his shoulders. The bells on his bright beard danced in the sun. Something proud glinted in the stone-grey eyes.
"Do not mistake me," he growled,"The Blacklocks are fearsome indeed. Were we elves, or tall men out of the sea who put our strength in ships and wooden things, we might perhaps tremble and wail to see them at our door, and gird all our kin for battle. But our doors are of dwarf-make, and their stones were laid by Durin's hand. The sun itself might fall from the sky before the first of the walls of Khazad-dum fell. There is no power above the earth that could bring them down. The West-wall holds. The Gate is shut. None may pass who are not friends."
Now that's how you exercise pride in one's folk without turning it into arrogance.
Ûrîphêl wondered for a moment on the violent things she had seen in the Houses of Learning and smiled a soft and mirthless smile. Nothing above the earth, indeed. The dwarves, buried these long centuries in their halls of stone, did not --nay, could not-- imagine the powers which the Land of the Star could now bring to bear, power that might give even Durin pause.
I don't think she's a King's Man, but she is a Numenorean supremacist.
But she did not say this, and instead tilted her head perhaps a centimeter -- for her, a sign of humility. "Great indeed are the defenses of your realm, master dwarf. Is there however nothing we might ply you with to begin winning the friendship of your people? "
Was that so hard? If Froin wasn't Froin, captain of the Gate, we'd probably have been losing diplomacy points by now.
Froin fingered his belled beard again. "Well-llll. The merchants have been mighty sore of late. Many of the towns in these parts have had less and less to trade these past years -- near half of what they make is sent downriver to some new lord of theirs. They must roam further and further. It is no matter to the city herself, as the traders out of the east-gate gather more than needed from the elves and travelers down the Great River. But on our side of the mountain the Guard have had to tighten our belts a few winters, it is true. We could use something to fill our bellies. And..."
Dwarven towns and merchants? It's odd to imagine that it's Dwarven towns given that one would think the Blacklocks would be ripping them apart.
The Dwarf thought a moment on what he was about to say, then shrugged. "Perhaps it is my old age, but I remember the men of these parts being fatter in my youth, and greater in number. It is a painful tribute indeed that this lord wrings from them, I suspect, and were I younger and bolder, I might march down the river and have words with him myself. But alas, I am the Captain of the Gate. I cannot forsake the post, even for mercy's sake."
Maybe it is human towns, than.
Ûrîphêl grimaced. The dwarf could be speaking of none but the halfbreeds of Tharbad. Perhaps they were not so innocent as they pretended -- no tribute came from Tharbad to the King, and none had been ordered. Still, she would not speak ill of Numenoreans (no matter how thin the blood) to a dwarf. Especially not one so insolent.
She bent her head a sliver once more. "Your words are noted. Thank you for the audience, Master Froin."
The dwarf-lord bowed stiffly, then turned and walked away, whistling in time to the jingling of his beard.
Diplomatic Opportunity Unlocked
The Doors of the Dwarves: As they have been for ten centuries, the Doors of Durin are sealed. None may enter the Dwarrowdelf. The westward gate of Khazad-Dum is shut. But it is guarded. You have made the acquaintance of that guard: Froin, Captain of the Gate, Lord of the Western Wall, who with his Gate-Guard holds back all foes of Durin's Folk. He denies entrance or words with the king to all who are not proven friends of the Dwarves. He has suggested you could begin to earn this friendship by filling the bellies of his Guard, or by some means easing the hardships of the men living in Eregion, of whom he has grown fond.
Or maybe it's both?
You ride out from Târ Nîlon along the now-familiar northwest path to Tharbad. You cross over plain and fen and dell, and quick is your time, for in perhaps two days you are come to the rushing river Gwathlo, called the Greyflood in the mannish tongues, and to the tower which stands black upon the ford. With your own eyes you see the burgeoning industry of the Baradhrim, their mills churning and their fisheries grinding. Tharbad grows and stretches outward with every passing day, and greater and greater seems it's need. Wooden ships come paddling down the river, packed high with dark black bags of grain, and you wonder briefly at their source, for the news from the mouth of Froin has reached your ears.
Nice to know these actions we take aren't in a vacuum.
Through the town you go, the eyes of the Baradhrim upon you, and past the crumbled walls and up the high tower over the river running. There the Lord of the Tower waits for you, as tall and fair of eye as Inzilbeth reported. His armor gleams golden, and his face is bright as he bows before you in the ancient greeting of the Men of West. He names himself and his parents, and you do the same in turn, and then the two of you straighten.
"Hail, Sea-Lord. You pay us great favor with your presence. The garrison is heartened indeed to recieve two such noble visitors in so short a time."
"The honor is mine, to come as guest to such a storied place. Númenór first reckoned with the Dark Lord upon these very banks, in the days when the siege lay on Imladris and all between the mountains and the sea fell under the shadow."
Hazrabân nodded. "My father would often tell me the story. It is a noble duty that was set on our shoulders all those years ago. In their darkest hour, the elves called, and we came. We broke Zigûrun* upon the ford, and the Enemy fled horseless and friendless to his Dark Land with not even an honor-guard about him, so great were his losses at this place." The day he speaks of is nary a thousand years gone, but he smiles to speak of it as if he had seen the ancient flight of Sauron with his own eyes. "Many years have we seen since then, and many battles, but the duty that was laid on us then has not failed. The tower stands. The ford is held."
"Long the duty, and long the service," you agree. "But was it perhaps too long?"
Hazrabân tilts his head. "I am sorry, my Lord?"
"I have heard reports out of the wilds. The men who dwell between the Greyflood and the Isen have much to say of Tharbad and it's master."
An unreadable expression crosses the Warden's face. "Of that I have no doubt."
"They claim they are hard-pressed. That their daughters are made slaves and their sons are slain. That blood and sweat and more are given in tribute to the river-tower, and that all the lands about the Greyflood know the terror of the Tall Men."
Hazrabân's mouth turns. "So you have come not in friendship, but to peddle the whisperings and malcontents of urchins and wildlings. I had imagined a Sea-Lord to be above such things."
"A Sea-Lord I am, and by that right I query as to the suffering of my neighbors."
"Your neighbors?" Hazrabân sounds half incredulous.
"Aye, my neighbors, as we were neighbors to the elves in Elder Days, when we too were urchins and wildlings, and lived in fear of what came in the dark. What comes in the dark now for the Middle-Men, I wonder?"
Mmm...it's hard to imagine our Men calling back to ancient times as opposed to the present. Humbling in a way.
Hazrabân seems almost struck by your words. His jaw works silently for a few rigid moments, confusion dancing in his eyes. "Forgive me, my lord," he says at last. "I suppose I did not truly appreciate the...depth of your feelings on the matter from my previous audiences with your emissaries. Give me leave to voice my own telling of events."
And it looks like it struck a chord.
He heaves a long breath. Clearly, he did not expect the audience to take this turn. "There was need."
Your mind is drawn back, for a moment, to trees whispering mouthless in darkened woods, and glinting eyes like starlight. Need.
"A little under a century ago, in my father's day, there came a winter like none we had ever before seen. The fields died. The river froze. From the mountain to the sea was snow, and ice, and death. We were more then, but we managed. My father was foresighted. There were long, lean weeks, but we had enough to make do, and even when our stores ran thin, we were hardy enough to bear it. But the Baradhrim...they suffered. The graves outnnumbered the homes. Many were lost. Even when the thaw came, there were not enough to make the harvest. More starved. More wept. They called for aid and beat with thin hands upon the walls."
I wonder if this fell winter was natural...
You see where this is going, and the corner of your mouth tightens. "There was need."
Either Hazrabân does not hear your tone, or he does not care, for he continues. "We asked at first, and they sent food. But the winter had been hard. It had hardened hearts. They did not send enough, or as much as they could. They still believed we horded great treasures in the tower. So my father sent out bands to take. It was not easy work...or rather, it was too easy. Food we took first, then cattle and lumber. But the harvests were still tight, and we needed more hands. So we took...more."
This is not reflecting well on you, lord of Tharbad.
He sees the look in your face and sneers defensively. "They did not want to leave, once they came. We gave them food and shelter and high walls -- better lives than they would ever have known, out there in the mud. My father stopped taking...well, he stopped certain forms of tribute once the harvests came in high, but it was not enough. They did not forgive, and they did not forget. Short lives they have, but longer memories. When we loosened our fist, they would come in the night to plunder and burn. So we squeezed instead."
"And you have not stopped squeezing for a century hence."
The Warden's voice was an icicle now. "It is better this way. The tribute feeds all who live along the river. Tharbad thrives. We could see ten winters like the one that came in my youth and not lose a soul -- the Guard grows, for the first time since my grandfather was a boy. We are not unkind, either -- we guard them from orcs and wolves and worse things yet. Who would sleep quiet in their hovels at night, what roads would simple men dare to tread, what safety would there be from the mountain to the sea, were the Númenóreans of the Tower gone to the grave?"
Fair arguments, but...
"Indeed," you echo darkly. "What safety would there be?"
Hazrabân continues. "I do what I do not for my sake, but for those in my care, and for the duty that was laid on me. You would do what what you needed for your colony, of that I cannot doubt. But you are of high birth, and the Gift was under your feet, and so you imagine you can wander in over the sea and cast aspersions upon the duty that I hold. My mother's people will not starve again -- this I swear."
"And so you bind them in thrall instead."
His mouth is a thin rude line now, and his fair eyes are dark. When he speaks again, frost drips from each syllable. "I apologize, my lord, for decieving your envoys before. I did not wish to answer to the King for tribute unsent -- word has reached us even here of the great tithes they pay to the crown in the southern lands, where they have bound many Men of Darkness in service, and I did not want to suffer my people such a heavy price."
"Your people?"
His mouth works a moment, and then he nods, and the green eyes flash bright. "Yes. Yes, my people. I am Lord of the Tower and master of the Greyflood. I have done the duty."
A complicated situation, but, not necessarily putting you in a good light.
"So it seems, and more besides."
Hazrabân taps a gauntleted hand on the carved table, running a finger over the illustrations of ancient warriors cutting down orcs. "I am not foolish enough to refuse to admit that we may have overextended our remit, even for good cause. You sit upon the Isen, so then let the lands north of the Isen and south of the Gwathlo go in tribute to you and yours -- should you wish it." He speaks with the languid confidence of a man for a moment startled who has now remembered that he sits behind the mightest walls on this side of the continent, with the greatest Númenórean force for a thousand leagues.
"mightiest"
And yet...
You have heard many arrogant men in your long years, and many foolish men too, and lies without count. You notice a tenseness in his voice, behind the self-righteousness and the ice. He knows more than he dares say, you gather, of the attitudes of the King and his Men. But his offhanded comment about the tribute has revealed his hand -- that is the root of the fear, you would guess. Ar-Belzagar the Conqueror does not frown on tribute, so long as the greater share of it ends in his hand. For nearly a hundred years, one could well argue, Hazrabân and his father have stolen from the crown. High are the walls of Tharbad, and sharp the spears of the Baradhrim, but here at least is a chink in the armor. The Lord of Tharbad is very, very afraid.
Hmm...
He bows in the rite of farewell, though with considerably less deference than he did in greeting. "Fare thee well, Sea-Lord. Think on my offer, and for your people's sake choose well."
Indeed.
On your order, the people of the city are divided up by their places of dwelling and apportioned into groups of roughly two hundred, then given leave to select from among themselves one to speak for all of them -- a Bêthan, or a Speaker. The issues your people most desire to see dealt with are filtered through them, from land disputes to territorial claims to their feelings on the city's future. From the moment they are gathered, you find yourself more in tune with the desires of the populace. Where once you had been forced to guess or assume the wishes and wills of most folk, these Speakers present to you clearly the general moods among those for whom they stand. You will have a finger on the pulse of your city for all future decisions. (Votes will now make explicit the desires of your people.)
Should be useful.
As your city coalesces, you find it important to turn an eye towards future growth. You send messengers on your swiftest ships down south towards the Anduin and the cities that dot the fields of southern Middle-Earth like stars. They travel far and wide among the Faithful that Târ Nîlon seeks new colonists, spreading word of the city all along the southern shores. It will be difficult, you know, to attract many living in the south to a newly founded colony -- it is inviting them to trade the relative safety and security of the cities of the Faithful for uncertainty and hardship.
Some weeks after you send out the messengers, a single ship returns from the South to drop off what is (you hope) merely the first in a wave of arrivals. The ship brings five families, their skins tanned by the southern sun, who speak in a lilting, airy tongue -- Sindarin, the elf-tongue of the west and the chief speech used among the cities of the Faithful, which for all other Númenóreans has been relegated to a second tongue.
They are disheveled, and few, but they are the first new arrivals since your colony's founding, and your people welcome them with open arms. You, however, keep your eyes fixed upon the southern shore, hoping for more to come -- and maybe they will. Perhaps, you wonder, the results would be more impressive had you the means to send out more messengers, or something besides proximity to the elves alone to draw prospective dwellers.
It's a start.
On this matter, you do two things: first, you send a messenger to the Shapers in Numenor, summoning their envoy forth. If they are pleased with your progress thus far, they may foist great rewards upon you, or even aid you in recruiting more colonists. (The envoy will arrive in approximately two turns. Be ready.)
Hmm, gaining their favor will likely require Shaper-specific actions, not just doing good in general.
When you have a few spare moments, you begin to pry into the matter of the branded orcs. Dead they may be now, but you know well that where one orc goes, many more are soon to follow. The branding suggests a greater cohesion to their actions beyond warbands and raiding parties. It smacks of loyalty, of organization, of heirarchy, of planning and command structures -- all dangerous things for orcs to have. You are wise and much-learned, but you do not speak or read the language of Mordor, and so the going is difficult. You consult with Shapers, root through old scrolls brought with you from over the sea, and puzzle through rhymes of lore. Finally, you cross-reference an oblique statement in a research paper with a testimonial of the mouth from a veteran of the southern wars, who saw the Black Speech written and spoken aloud in his youth, when he was for a time a prisoner of Mordor.
It is interesting to think about the hierarchy and organization of Orcs outside of the direct influence of the Nine or Sauron. Are Black Numenoreans yet a thing?
The sigil burned upon their skulls is Burzagh -- in the mirthless tongue of the Black Land, which was devised by the Dark Lord himself and is spoken aloud by none save his servants, it means Black Mountain. This confirms what you and some of your advisors had feared, but dared not say: these were no wild orcs or stragglers of a roaming band. These were scouts, for the only permanent settlement of Orcs west of the Anduin, the greatest bastion of the shadow between the mountains and the sea:
Gundabad.
It sits at the crown of the Misty Mountains, a black blot upon the spine of Eriador. There, orcs beyond number or imagining dwell in the dark as they have dwelt a thousand years since the Mountain of the Dwarves fell to the Dark Lord.
So, the wording here...was this known before or after our talks with the Dwarves?
It sits at the crown of the Misty Mountains, a black blot upon the spine of Eriador. There, orcs beyond number or imagining dwell in the dark as they have dwelt a thousand years since the Mountain of the Dwarves fell to the Dark Lord. Whispers have filtered in from the settlements and towns of the Middle-Men, and even from far Tharbad -- the branded orcs were rare upon a time, and many believed them contained by the dwarves, who's ire has not dimmed in ten centuries. But in recent years orcs bearing the black brand have been seen further and further afield, and now it seems they have passed beyond the Ford by some secret means, and that their influence has spread from their northern stronghold across all the westlands.
Very troubling. The result of the Blacklocks distracting the Longbeards, perhaps? Or just a natural progression of time?
Many mutter that this can only be the work of the Enemy, but you have your doubts. If it is him, it can only be indirectly -- a thousand leagues and more lie between Mordor and Gundabad, and all the power of Pelargir and Lorien between them. All Middle-Earth is to some extent under the Shadow, but messengers of the Dark Lord still cannot travel so freely or so far in any great number. Nay, your learning and wisdom suggests to you that whatever power has begun to rally the orcs of Gundabad, it is a local evil, one perhaps in ultimate service to the Enemy but nonetheless located within the Mountain itself.
In this Second Age, any number of foul beings leftover or apart from the War of Wrath might be available to harness the chaff of Angband...
There is little more you can learn through guesses and suppositions, however. If you wish to learn more, you will need intelligence of your own. Perhaps they may know something of Gundabad in Imladris or Khazad-Dum.
With orcs and rumors of orcs about the land, you begin to inquire into the matter of the bold young hunter who so recently led the hunt for the branded orcs. Barazîr is his name, you learn, a man some sixty-three years old, lean and lanky with muscle, yet short for a Númenórean -- just under six feet. Dark of skin and hair with a sharp face, he seems as one born to flit through the forests sight unseen, wing-footed and wood-sure. When you question him on where he learned his skill with the bow, he shrugs simply and tells you that there are still wolves in the forests of Hyarrostar, and many are the herds of his people which need safeguarding. But still, there is something strange about him, something you cannot quite place, at least not until you look into his eyes.
I don't blame you for this Telamon given it's a VERY recent reveal, but according to
The Nature of Middle Earth, "As for the major animals, it is clear that there were none of the canine or related kinds. There were certainly no hounds or dogs (all of which were imported. There were no wolves. There were wild cats, the most hostile and untameable of the animals; but no large felines."
A Man may change in terrible ways over a hundred years of war, something your people have learned well. Some break, some fail, some go mad and suffer worse fates yet. Precious few last more than a century on the front lines, and it is said of these oldest veterans (who have survived horror and fear and fire for three lifetimes of lesser men), that there is a certain cold stillness to their eyes. It is known to soldiers as the Eyes of Mandos -- the grim look of one who fears neither doom nor death, but seeks only to bring them to their foes. You have seen that gaze but twice in your life: once in the eyes of a two-hundred and ninety-seven year old captain who had seen exactly a thousand battles in her day, and was readying for her thousand-and-first...
Sounds like a born killer.
...and again, here and now, in the eyes of this shephard turned hunter.
Hero Unlocked!
Barazîr, the First-Ranger: A small man with cold eyes and dark hair. He hunts, and he hunts well. He leads the rangers.
Excellent!
One bright morning, Inzilbeth comes to you with a hungry gleam in her eye. The colony's very first harvest has just come in, and though it is not great by any measure, it is enough. Enough to fill the holds of the great ship that has for nearly a year sat basking like a titan at the mouth of the Isen. The Pillar of Heaven, she tells you with undisguised joy, may sail again. It might deprive the colony of fifty good men, (and Inzilbeth herself) for a time, but the benefits of the great ship taking to the water again are almost too many to name. The captain is willing to trade, to make friends, to explore distant horizons -- whatever you will her to do, she will, so long as she may sail upon the sea once more.
'tis like a prologue to what I read before.
