No bright moon lightened the greenish night sky of Fasach-larran as Xanderian settled herself on a large flinty stone near the fire. Sheltered on three sides by the razor-like black obsidian cliffs that made travel in Angmar so difficult and slow, she was content with the campsite, but the sulfurous tang in the air so laden with memories kept her on her guard.
Looking through the traces of oily smoke being put out by the small campfire, the huntress smiled as Cyndwin of the Westfold sat cross legged on the ground, staring uncertainly at the haunch on the fire as she cut off a piece.
She laid the slice of roasted meat on her plate and gathered her loose, golden hair into an effortless knot at the base of her skull before looking up at her companion. “Rian…I still don’t understand why we couldn’t remain at the court of Crannog to feast as we were invited and we await Gretel at any rate. Will our allies not think it rude we refuse their hospitality?”
The elleth smiled, though a casual observer would have seen it more as a smirk. In the distance the barking cries of Hill-beasts echoed, though they both ignored them. “You have never had the dubious pleasure of taking a meal with the Trev Gallorg. I, however, HAVE and thought to spare you the…adventure. Now enjoy your Scara and consider yourself lucky no roasted grubs or rock serpent pies are involved.”
Shrugging, the Shieldmaiden bit into the meat and chewed hungrily, still speaking as she did so. “Looking at the mangy beasts you wouldn’t think they were edible, and while they are a bit…gamey….I have certainly eaten worse.”
Xanderian nodded, chewing a bit of Lembas as she watched her love eat with gusto despite her reservations, smiling lovingly. “I imagine the Scara would have said the same thing about us, my beloved. Now, as we departed from dusty Aughaire you said that you had questions?”
The blonde woman nodded vigorously. “Indeed my star…” she paused to swallow. “I know that we seek this Hildawyn of Thornhope. Crannog says she did indeed come through their village years ago, or he believes he remembers the name. That confirms to some degree what her little sister Ynna the harpist said, that she journeyed into Angmar three years back seeking some healer for an important man and never returned, but what does this Donark have to do with it? Is he the important man?” She took another bite of the meat, before throwing a bone out to the Hill-beasts just beyond the circle of firelight. She smiled as the barks and snarls grew louder then quieted for a time
“Donark is indeed important, but I hope no one would ever seek to heal his ills. If he lives, if he ever truly lived, his end should not be impeded.” Xanderian rose, circling the fire and set herself behind Cyndwin as she ate, gently unknotting her hair and braiding it properly, speaking softly as if telling a children's story. "Donark is a man of Angmar, a descendent of those same Black Numenoreans who destroyed the Northern Kingdoms in days of yore on Mordor's leash. He is the man who controls all the gold and goods that come in an out of the False King’s coffers in Carn Dum and is one of his strongest captains. What he has to do with this matter lies in my dream.... that vexing dream."
Xanderian paused in her tale, looking up at the rolling clouds of the sky, longing not the first time for the stars she loved before continuing. “In that vision I saw the girl Hildawyn traveling to Carn Dum alone, safe from all molestation by beasts or servants of shadow, carrying in her hands an empty scabbard and a pair of bronze scales. As she reached the gates, I heard the False King intone “That which you seek cannot be sought, that which you fight cannot be fought. You are without within, and under over. Change these things and things shall change”…a riddle to be sure whose meaning is slowly growing clearer to me.”
Cyndwin nodded. “I remember, but what made you think of this Donark if…”
The elleth cut her off. “The scales. They are the symbol of Donark, and he possesses an artifact of great power in the shape of such an instrument. They are called The Brazen Scales and they are the key to his power. Using them it is said, you might sell, or buy a soul for Gold, whatever the amount the scales weigh that soul as being worth. Legends amongst the wise speak of many powerful fools who bartered their soul’s eternal torment for the brief comforts Gold could give them.”
The blonde woman nodded, leaning back against the Huntress after she took more meat. “So you think she means to use these scales to…buy back someone’s soul?”
Xanderian smiled. “Just so my love…and to control such a dread instrument she would need someone wise in such matters and there are precious few of those…hence the Silken Witch.”
Cyndwin half turned, still chewing. “There, that was what I wanted to ask and had nearly forgotten…witch you said? Are there really such things? Isn’t that just a tale told by the old hens to frighten their chicks?”
The elleth paused...and with one fingertip wiped a bit of grease off the corner of the Shieldmaiden’s lips. “Do witches have magical power…will one turn you to a toad? No…most often those who are called witches are involved in one of two things. Necromancy, as is the Witch King of this fierce land, or the use of nature to change and shape the world. After all, your people do call mine Witches, but that is simply because we are more conversant in the ways of plant and animal, and can use these to predict what is to come, to heal illness and wounds, or to cause mischief amongst those less learned than ourselves.”
Cyndwin nodded again. “So is this Silken Witch evil then? Or is she one of the first born?”
Laughing, Xanderian rose and cut her companion more meat, the firelight casting deep shadows across her pale face. “Nay sweet one, neither. She is a woman of these lands and not evil per se, though I believe she remains neutral in the great struggle. Her heritage reaches back to the brave north men of Rhudaur, the first of the ranger kingdoms to fall to its own hubris and folly. They were overrun and destroyed by the dramatic and unexpected show of strength of newly born Angmar, a statement to the West that Sauron bore a new weapon in his iron fist. Hillmen, descended from cursed Ulfang, and corrupted Numenoreans made a potent and deadly army.
The elleth paused again, then shivered slightly, remembering the endless, heartbreaking accounts of those days she had studied, then nodding to herself she went on. "I know not her true name, for she is simply called the Silken Witch as her mother and her mother’s mother was...or perhaps they are all the same woman. She travels these lands and the North Downs and beyond, wandering as far as your own Riddermark I have been told, healing the sick and aiding difficult births and giving the simple folk what wards and protections she might. She also tells tales of ancient days and travels roads sane folk do not. How she does so is anyone's guess.”
The elleth served Cyndwin the last bit of roasted Scara, and stroked her hair. “As the new age of men unfolds in the coming age, I am sure that in time, just as my ancestors did you will develop arts and wonders that to you will simply be knowledge in use, but to the unversed will appear to be magic. I wonder what fears it will inspire…will they to be denounced as fearsome witches or will their arts be embraced as the boon and treasure it will be? I would suspect the latter.”
“That is a happy thought my love! To think of the tribes of men growing as wise and great as your kin. Perhaps we will yet see it?” The shieldmaiden laughed, and threw the last of the meat into the fire, finally sated. “How do you know of this Donark, have you met him? Did you fight him in an epic battle as Heartbreaker’s grace and your skill laid him low and caused him to flee into his evil tower? Did you? You must have my Rian!” As she spoke, the woman acted out the epic encounter she was envisioning, with appropriate sound effects dramatically portrayed.
The elleth paused as she opened her rucksack, and laughed for what seemed like ages. “No my dearest one..I have never fought Donark of the Vaults. I know of him only through his underling. He is the Master of Mans of Kheledul, slaver of the Dourhand.”
Cyndwin grew silent for a moment, her joy stilled by the revelation. “The dwarf that Xandilif and you seek…the one who killed those children and….”
Xanderian nodded, pulling out the bedding. “Yes…Mans. He serves Donark, and one day we will deprive the Paymaster of that useful thrall once and for all…but that is not a matter to discuss at night in Angmar my darling. We must sleep, for in the light of dawn we begin our search for the Silken Witch in earnest, to see if young Hildawyn ever found her and if so, what transpired between them.”
Cyndwin nodded, damping down the fire as she spoke, now more softly. “I have one more question then. This great man that Hildawyn sought to heal…who is he?”
Xanderian looked up as she began spreading out the bedroll for the night. “Isn’t that obvious my love? Theodan King of Rohan, she was seeking to heal his failing wits, and through doing that, heal all of the Riddermark. ‘Change these things and things shall change’ as the false King said. I wonder…what she thought she might pay for HIS soul’s return?”
Cyndwin simply stared, rendered speechless by the revelation...then slowly turned so her companion could help her out of her hauberk. "Who would have ever imagined...." she whispered then fell silent, letting the night swallow her wonder.
