Highday, 24th of Rethe, Year 1418 Shire-reckoning
The Refuge of Gath Forthnir, Somewhere in the Land of Angmar
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| Skullyg the goblin |
I tore my eyes away from the corpse and started to rapidly scan the area. My first instinct was to search for footprints, but here the ground was little more than cold stone. Still, from the slowly spreading pool of blood before us I knew whoever had slain Areneth was likely very close by -- they might even be lying in wait for us.
Dusk was not yet come, and in the dimming light I spotted a strange-looking hump further up the path. I think Lagodir must have noticed it too, because just as I was about to say something to him, he strode toward it. The hump moved -- it was coming closer with an odd shuffling gait. As it separated itself from the cliffside I could see it was of goblin-kind. I gritted my teeth and prepared to fire, but Lagodir signed for me to wait. The goblin raised its head and regarded us with a single bright red eye. It appeared to me the other had been darkened as if from a burn injury, along with that entire side of its face.
"Master!" it squeaked. "Guloth! You have returned to us! I knew the witch was wrong! I knew, but she would not listen. O, Master!"
My mind was racing with confusion, but then I remembered how Lagodir had fooled the Lossoth-assassin Wenhair back in Ered Luin by pretending to be Guloth resurrected at the hands of Wenhair following a dark necromantic ritual. Apparently this goblin was in league with her and still believed Lagodir to be his master, the wraith Guloth, returned to the world. I saw Lagodir straighten himself and throw his head back in an arrogant sneer.
"Yes, it is I, Guloth, your master," he said. Lagodir was trying to alter his voice to sound something like the fallen wraith, but it was not much more than a gravelly and strangled version of his own speech. I doubted the ruse would work a second time, but then goblins are not known for their intelligence -- and this particular goblin seemed a bit... disturbed... in any case.
"Yes! Yes, great Guloth," the goblin went on as it cowered and scraped at the ground. "See! I, Skullyg, your humble servant am here to do your bidding. But who are these others? Are they not enemies?"
"Silence, cur!" Lagodir shouted. "Thinkest thou to question my judgment? These two I have... turned to my service with... using... the dark arts. Touch them not, or surely thou shalt feel my wrath." Skullyg grovelled and whined pitiably.
"Of course not, master!" it croaked. "Skullyg would never, never question, O no! Not even when the witch claimed the ritual was a failure; not even when she told Skullyg that great Master had not truly returned! Skullyg never doubted great Master."
"Thou art wise to do so," said Lagodir in his most imposing voice. "So! The witch doubts my return, does she?"
"Yes! Yes, she does," replied the goblin, "But not loyal Skullyg! Skullyg always stays loyal, yes. Methinks the witch is plotting behind Master's back -- plotting with the Oakheart woman, yes, but Skullyg would not go with them to the tower, scary tower with many doors, for Skullyg knows generous Master rewards his servants." The goblin dared to raise his head slightly and his one good eye burned with an avaricious lust. I wondered how long Lagodir's falsehood would last and whether the goblin was truly so dense as to not recognize that Guloth was indeed gone from the earth forever.
"Well do you serve and remember," Lagodir said in answer to Skullyg. "And so it shall be with you, slave, for I am pleased by your loyalty. But first, tell me this: how came you here?"
"Skullyg is lost, lost!" the goblin wailed as it clutched its head in sorrow. "We would not follow the witch and the Oakheart into the tower of many doors. We wanted to go home, so home we tried to go, but Skullyg got lost and ended up here. Then a terrible Man came creeping, creeping and looking for Skullyg, but Skullyg hid and stabbed his neck from behind."
"Well done," said Lagodir imperiously. "Approach and receive your reward."
The goblin's head jerked upright and that same lustful gleam flashed in its eye again. It loped itself up to Lagodir, constantly grovelling and snivelling "Great Master," over and over. When it was within roughly four feet of Lagodir, it gazed up expectantly and its eyes suddenly became wide with fright.
"You! You're not --" But the words remain unfinished: in a single motion, Lagodir had unsheathed his sword and swung! The goblin's head thunked to the ground, then rolled a few feet before coming to a rest, the eyes and fanged mouth still gaping in disbelief. I sighed.
"So ends another of our conspirators," I said. "Although I'm still not sure how this one fits into the picture."
"Skullyg was the name mentioned in that letter we found in Sarnur -- Wenhair had dropped it," said Padryc thoughtfully. "Remember? The one we had translated by that kooky old Dwarf at Gondamon just before the Dourhands attacked the place? He was the one who had informed Wenhair's mother that Guloth was defeated, and that's when this whole crazy business began. It's a pity you didn't think to find out from it where the witch and Wenhair are now, Lagodir, before you helped him lose a little weight."
"Yes, that is regrettable," Lagodir agreed as he prodded the body of Skullyg with distaste. "Still, what is done is done, and not without profit. We begin at last to learn a little something about our mysterious Lossoth adversaries and where they fit into the larger political landscape of Angmar. We would do well to think through this new information."
"Er, righto, but first: hadn't we better move on?" the hobbit asked as he looked around nervously. "It sounds to me as if the secret of Gath Forthnir is still safe -- at least for now -- and we're all grateful for it, but reckon we ought to get out of plain sight, you know, just in case anyone else might be prowling about."
"You bring us back to practical matters as ever, friend Padryc," I said, "And yet we cannot simply leave this wreckage here: such a gruesome picture would incite anyone to search the area for the source of all this violence."
"Aye, and we must do honour by Areneth's memory as well," said Lagodir. "Come, let us dispose of the bodies."
There was a short discussion of how best to do this. In the end, we strapped a large rock onto Skullyg's remains using strips of cloth torn from his own smelly garments, then plunked the corpse into the nearby pool. The body of Areneth we cleaned as best we could and bore it to the farther side of the water, where we buried him and raised a small stone over the site in his memory. It was well-hidden under a dry and scraggly bush and behind a sizeable boulder, so as to not attract attention. Then we filled Lagodir's helm with water from the pool and did our best to wash the blood away from the stones in the area. We had done a decent job, I think, but about that time Padryc had begun to sweat and reported feeling a bit faint.
"It has been an exhausting day," I told him. "Come, let us ascend to Gath Forthnir: we must tell Maerchiniath what has become of his doorward, and you look like you could use some rest."
We reached the Ranger-camp without incident, although Padryc seemed to be getting progressively worse. By the time we arrived at the entrance he appeared to be having trouble staying on his feet. I sent Lagodir to go and deal with informing Maerchiniath of Areneth's fate while I escorted the hobbit to the infirmary and examined his wound.
It was worse than some I had seen, but not nearly so bad as many others, including a few I had borne myself. My field-dressing was holding up well, but there was no question that stitches would be required to stop the bleeding and allow it to heal properly. Padryc didn't seemed overly concerned about his arm-wound at all; instead he kept complaining about his stomach and how his head was spinning. I became very worried that perhaps he had lost more blood than was good for him during our prolonged return from Carn Dum, and I set myself to work faster.
"Padryc," I said in my best comforting tone, " Go ahead and lie down, please. Have you ever had stitches before?"
"Of course not!" he said as he lay down on one of the beds, which was rather too large for him. "Do I look like the sort? Even back on the farm I never had enough of an accident to warrant stitches. Do you think they are needed now?"
"I should think so, yes," I said, trying to sound casual. "But it's not bad -- you will probably need no more than two or three."
"I would have thought nine or ten," said Lagodir unhelpfully as he returned from his council with the Ranger-captain. I cleared my throat loudly at the interruption and the Gondorian took the hint. Typical man...
"How did Maerchiniath take the news about Areneth?" I asked him. I was both genuinely interested to know and also eager to turn the subject to something else, for Padryc's eyes had grown to the size of dinner plates at the mention of receiving ten stitches. I started cleaning the wound anew.
"About as well as one would expect," came Lagodir's reply. "He was a good Man, though we ourselves knew him all too briefly. Maerchiniath was pleased that we had done honourably by his remains and assured me his grave-site will be well-protected."
"I am glad to hear it," I said as I carefully threaded my needle. "It is but one more soul for which the Enemy shall be made to answer, but for the moment we must be grateful that Gath Forthnir's location has not been betrayed. Now, Padryc, I need you to hold still."
"Surely," the hobbit said. "Is it warm in here?"
I noticed for the first time beads of sweat forming on the hobbit's forehead. I felt a wave of fear strike me, but it was necessary to focus on the task at hand.
"I think it is, a bit," I lied. "Here, open wide." Padryc complied as I stuffed a clean, rolled-up cloth into his mouth.
"Now, if this hurts, just bite down on the cloth," I told him. The hobbit nodded.
"If woo weewy fink ith nethetharee," he said through the towel. I started to sew.
"OW!!!" Padryc must have jumped three feet into the air. "That hurt!" he cried. Lagodir and I had to force him back onto the bed.
"Hold still!" I scolded him. "It will be over much faster if you don't squirm." By now some of the other healers and leeches of Gath Forthnir had figured out we had an injured companion and had come over to offer their assistance. They helped to secure Padryc's limbs while I continued with my work and one of them got him to drink a little ale and eat a calming herb to help things along. I was able to finish the job, then I tied off the thread, wiped up the blood, and applied a new bandage along with a cloth sling.
"There you are," I said, "Nine stitches."
"Nine?!" he echoed. "Dear me! I hope it doesn't scar."
"I wouldn't worry about that," said Lagodir. "It probably will, but scars can be quite stylish." I stomped hard on the Gondorian's toes. I know it hurt him, but he did a good job to not show it.
"You'll want to be very careful with that arm for several days, Padryc," I said. "How do you feel?"
The hobbit raised himself up slowly, taking great care to not move his injured arm, and sat on the edge of the bed.
"Well, the arm feels much better," he said as his legs dangled over the side. "But I wonder if I should get some water in me? My head feels all queer and my stomach --"
Suddenly he vomited with a force that startled us all. The healers cried out and began rushing around. I looked at Padryc and noticed for the first time that, though we had just wiped him down and cleaned him up after administering his stitches, he was already drenched again with sweat. His face at once became pale and sunken.
"Oh no," I breathed. "No, no..."
"Poison!" shouted one of the leeches. "Poison of Carn Dum! Make haste, healers of Gath Forthnir!"
"The cowards!" roared Lagodir in his distress. "Honourless wretches! I swear my blade shall drink the blood of Angmar's slaves in rivers ere I leave this place."
"Later!" I snapped at him, though I too was nearly sick with worry for our friend. Padryc had slumped back onto the bed, the pillow quickly becoming stained from his perspiration. I turned to one of the healers. "You! You speak as if you have encountered this malady before. What can be done for him?"
"We are going to the store-room to collect some milkthistle; when used as a compress the herb is highly effective at absorbing the venom. It is an excellent remedy, but it must be applied quickly enough to counteract the poison before it can travel far from the entry site. When did the Halfling suffer his wound?"
"It happened on the outskirts of Carn Dum," I replied. "We made all haste back here once he was injured, but we did encounter some delay in the process. So it may have been four hours ago -- possibly five."
"That is ill news," the healer said to me. "We will do what we can, of course, but I, Lunathron, chief of the healers in Gath Forthnir, have seen many strong Men fall to these poisons. What hope we have is in speed. Remove the bandages."
I did so at once. Shortly thereafter another healer came running with a bundle of dank-smelling leaves. These were treated and folded into a compress, then applied to the wound under a whole new dressing and sling. Lagodir and I sat to one side and allowed the Rangers to do their work, but it was all I could manage to not interfere. Padryc had slipped into a terrible fever and would sometimes murmur while he slept, but he made no other signs. The healers did everything their leech-craft had taught them, but eventually they moved on to other patients while Lagodir and I were left alone to keep vigil over our little friend.
Time crawled by. I watched Padryc's breathing with the intensity of a she-bear guarding her cub, always looking for anything that might speak of improvement -- or worsening. Lagodir wrung his hands now and then, but aside from that he was both motionless and silent. I began to feel as if I was passively waiting for my friend to die, and I couldn't stand it. I thought about how the hobbit had always stuck by us, even far out into these inhospitable lands, and how he deserved so much better. I thought about all the times he had lifted our spirits, kept us from despair, or given us cause to continue our fight. I thought, too, about the time not so long ago when Padryc had kept vigil over a mortally wounded Lagodir in the ruins of Ost Forod while Gaelira, Drodie, and I had ventured out to collect the price of the brigand-merchant Enro Smuin in exchange for the trace of athelas which would end up saving him. I wondered if this was how Padryc had felt as he watched over the Gondorian while his life slowly drained away, and I wondered too what Padruc must have done during that time, for he himself had never said, nor had Lagodir told any tale about those hours. Suddenly I turned to the man.
"Lagodir," I asked in a quiet voice, "Can you sing?"
He turned his head to me in surprise, but his expression quickly changed.
"Are you asking me whether 'tis possible, or whether I am any good at it?" he asked with a sheepish smile.
"Both, I suppose," I said. There was a short pause, then he began to chant softly:
Gondor! Gondor!
Between the Mountains and the Sea!
West Wind blew there, the light upon the Silver Tree!
Fell like bright rain in gardens of the Kings of Old.
O proud walls! White towers! O wing-ed crown and throne of gold!
O Gondor, Gondor! Shall Men behold the Silver Tree,
Or West Wind blow again, between the Mountains and the Sea?
"That was lovely, thank you," I said after a time. For the briefest instant, it seemed to me a faint smile flickered on Padryc's lips, but now I think it was only a trick of my own mind. There was a long silence.
"What is this Silver Tree of which the song speaks?" I finally asked him.
"It is the Tree of the Kings," he answered. "It once bloomed in the Citadel of Minas Tirith with beautiful silver flowers. But that was in the days of Gondor's Kings, which are now long past."
"Silver flowers? That sounds like a sight to behold," I said.
"It must be, but no living Man has ever seen it in bloom. It is the hope of Gondor that it will do so again -- when the King returns to Minas Tirith. Many doubt that day will ever come."
"And what do you believe?" I asked him. There was a pause.
"I hold out hope," he said. "But whatever hope Gondor still has will come to it from out of the West, the same direction from whence came the White Tree itself. The Tree of Kings is said to be a scion of the Eldest of Trees, and that was brought from the Uttermost West, where lies Elvenhome."
"Elvenhome?" I echoed. "I wish Gaelira were here -- perhaps she could do something."
A short while later Lagodir rose to get some food from the mess-hall, but I refused to move from my place at Padryc's bedside. I thanked him but declined when he offered to bring something back to me and instead continued my vigil. I suddenly realized it must be well into the early morning hours and the hobbit would have normally written down the day's adventures by now. Eager to do something productive, I fished this book out of his pack. I did not feel bad about reading it since this journal belongs to all of us -- it is a record of The Adventures of Elladan's Outriders, after all. I was very impressed with what I found herein and marvelled at the hobbit's gift for relating a tale.
So imagine my surprise when a loose leaflet fell from the book and I opened it to discover -- well, I suppose anyone reading this knows exactly what I discovered. I thought my heart was going to stop.
Padryc, you have invaded my privacy, nearly to the very core of my being! You've laid my life bare for virtually anyone to see. This is my history, dearly sought and earnestly desired almost from my infancy! You cannot just take it like this.
And yet... now I find myself wishing I had not written those words in ink, for I cannot take them back. I do not doubt your intentions: I know you meant well, but I wish you would have told me -- there should be no secrets between us now. When I was ready I would have told you anything you wished to know, and I would have done so in gladness, knowing I had a friend in whom I could freely confide. But you have robbed me of that moment and robbed me too of the chance to decide when and how I would finally tell my story. I will be keeping this leaflet for the time being; time will tell if I shall give it back.
Please know that I am not angry with you; I don't think I could be angry with you right now anyway, even if I wanted to be, given your present condition. At the moment you are quite feverish, but you don't appear to be getting any worse, as far as I can tell. I didn't have the chance to say so at the time, but you did rather well for those being your first set of stitches. Perhaps when you are better you'll be able to write all about it using what I can see is your typical hobbitish flair for the dramatic. I've read several of your other entries and I wonder at the adventure we've had already. By the way, I'm glad you find my motherly qualities so endearing... better endearing than overbearing, which is what I always fear they are. Anyway, I doubt you will see an end to my mothering ways until we are out of this wretched land for good and all.
But I'll tell you this: if we lose you, then Mordirith is going to wish I was out of his land. And he's going to keep on wishing it right up until I dump his head into the lake to rest alongside that goblin's.
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