From: part IIII ->https://laurelinarchives.org/node/58906
Waking on the same stone floor upon which he had been kicked into a stupor, Jaesper's left forearm had been badly hurt, possibly beyond repair. The pain was still searing but he caught his breath and made his mind focus, rolling onto his back. He thanked merciful fate he was alone. He was also unbound, though his wrists ached from the strappado he had endured as they beat him. He considered his situation. It was clear Ahmo had either been caught or killed. He couldn't see that she-wolf being brought to ground without sending some of her pursuers to hell. As to the others, there was no way of knowing. The Prince? He had last departed Eniran in the dead king's chambers. It would be sorry indeed if they got hold of him. But Jaesper's first loyalty was to his own survival. The idea of being burnt alive as an offering to what he knew as Sauron had no appeal. He had once mused about the relative merit of the local religion. Did the locals really believe as fervently as they professed? Turning in neighbors and relations for imagined heresies and insuffiient faith? Belief seemed to him to be most fervent the greater ones' proximity to power and chances to enhance one's own. Much like Gondor, where the faith in the greatness of the power of gods who dwelt across the vast deeps of the Ocean Belegaer was greatest amongst the nobles who claimed descent from them or relation to the elusive elves.
His own experience with elves was limited chiefly to the dangerous female Ahmo who seemed to have a limitless supply of gold and was possessed of a singular ability to charm those around. Maybe the dark priests of Dakat were right about them, he thought a bit angrily. He had denounced her as the heart of the scheme and said she had used her body and her sorcery to lead the poor Prince Eniran astray. He knew that the Prince had a voracious appetite for exploring other people's bodies, with no discernable preference as to sex. so it was plausible enough. Perhaps, he thought as they laid on blows, he could somehow save both himself and perhaps join the Prince in exile. But as he painfully lifted his naked and bloodied form to standing, he remembered things he had heard about Mordor, the land here revered as 'the land of cleansing flame'. What he'd heard from people he had reason to trust was not at all pleasant.
Looking around the room, his ears perked up and his body cringed momentarily as he heard footsteps pass the little cell. Keys rattled at th door. Then as silence returned, he felt the walls. The only light came from dim glow filtering round the badly fitted wooden door. He presumed the door was locked or barred and was astonished to find that as he pushed a bit at it it was not. Listening hard, he eased the door open a bit to peep his head out and saw an empty hall lined with other cells. Three oil lamps provided a dim light.
Jaesper slid out of the cell and found a barrel filled with clothing from which he quickly found his own. Feeling protected against the chill at the least, he took hold of a branding iron which had been left in a bucket of water and made his way painfully up the stairs to the the suddenly familiar environs of the barracks where he draped himself in the cloak of a palace guard and girt himself with a good sword and spear, mingling briefly with a number of other soldiers who loitered about checking harness. Suddenly he felt as though he might slip way into the night cleanly and be shut of this whole catastrophe.
It was only then that a familiar voice was heard behind him, causing his heart to leap into his mouth for fear.
“You'll forgive me for missing my appointment,” said Prince Eniran, appearing behind him, similarly attired in guardsman's livery. “I was held up by unforeseen difficulty. Our hour has come, my friend.” He realized quickly that with Eniran was the big blonde elf and the bearded giant from Stanich's. All at once it was clear that the entire company of guardsmen were bound together in the conspiracy.
Jaesper was incredulous. “How?” he stammered. Grimhearth spun him round, looking down at him. “This half-assed disguise of yours will never do. There's a surcoat for you to go with that cloak.” The giant's big open hand slapped his back hard as he turned. “Be quick. We haven't much time.” Hrangach the elf of Mirkwood wrapped his flowing locks in a bandanna and pulled on a guardsman's helmet, testing the fit carefully as he peeked out an arrow slit window at the array below where Demasjyt was going through the formalities of vestiture and enthronement under the gibbous moon. Impaled prisoners and spear weilding soldiers lined the city's somewhat dingy central plaza, providing a grim reminder of the solemnity of the occasion. Jeasper took in the view with a shudder, feeling he would probably have been trussed up like that as well had he not managed to withhold one vital piece of information. He had not revealed Ahmo's name or their meeting place at Stanich's, lying that he did not know the former and that the latter was the city necropolis in the hills outside the city proper. It had become obvious by the line of questioning that Eriall was desperate to discover who his true adversary was.
Hrangach motioned to Jaesper. “Once the ceremonial is completed, they'll be sending for you. We infiltrated the palace guard most thoroughly. A number of prisoners, eager for revenge are arrayed below waiting for our signal to strike. Watch for that dozen behind Demasjyt. Those are Mordor's men, if men they be. Sent to mind our boy Demasjyt.
“What am I to do?” asked the bard.
“Mostly stay out of the way. If you're up for a fight, by all means join in.”
“I think I'll be up for this one. What are the odds?”
“fitfty-fifty so long as we can keep the gate sealed. Demasjyt has a camp of black uruks of Mordor out in the hills outside town. I hear tell of a troll as well.
“Only one?”
“One can be enough in a close in fight, friend,” the elf muttered. “The sun was out yesterday so I don't believe about the troll...”
“I'll deal with the troll,” Grimhearth chimed in.
“If there is one,” laughed the elf. “I fear you'll have to settle for lesser victims, old friend.”
A rather desultory and flat outburst of applause sounded from the plaza.
“It is done,” announced one of the men.
“Eriall is coming for you, Jeasper,” said Hrangach flatly. “I fear you may miss exacting fair payment.”
“It's on the house,” Jaesper retorted, flashing a characteristic smile. “Just kill the pig.”
The elf was watching in another direction and suddenly held up his hand. “The signal. Let's move.” The 'guards' filed rapidly down the passages back into the bowels of the palace, led by the towering figure of Grimhearth. Hrangach took a different path, clambering up a ladder onto the roof of the corner tower. Jeasper was momentarily baffled until the elf beckoned. “Follow. And keep quiet for now.”
On top of one of the two towers overlooking the plaza upon which a throng of citizens summoned to display a desultory enthusiasm for a king whom had been whisked off to th faraway and largely fabled land of Arakat and his fires was a large ballista which had been emplaced to shoot at approaching siege towers. A wooden crate contained a supply of iron tipped projectiles.
“Help me by winding that windlass there, old chap,” said the elf. In lieu of any other way to be of help, Jaesper cranked gamely away and Hrangach fitted a bolt into the oversied crossbow. “Can you shoot that bow?” the elf asked. Jeasper nodded sharply.
“Are we shooting their king?” Jeasper thought to ask.
“Maybe... I”m holding it in case bigger game appears.” Hrangach took up a longbow which appeared to have been smuggled up earlier and scanned the skies in studied silence.
The plaza grew quiet as well. Some petty criminals and heretics were led to a scaffold and amidst the muttering of priests in crimson robes were put to screaming torments with hooks and pincers and flaming brands. An atmosphere of tension swirled round Jaesper, peeking down at the unbelievable scene on the plaza as Demsjyt sat on his throne amidst scenes of horror. Which provoked a general cheering. Where the people cheering of their own volition? Or did they enthusiastically applaud the evisceration of any who did not do obeisance to their dark god? The propensity of his fellow man to gawp at hangings and take secret joy in others' suffering had always struck the bard as a peculiar flaw.
A strange screech came at one point from the sky followed by a distinct sense of dread and foreboding. His companion on the tower exchanged glances with him and put him somewhat at ease. Hrangach put a finger to his lips. “As I expected. Bigger game.”
After what seemed an unbearably tense interval, Jeas jumped nearly out of his skin as the trapdoor was flung open. Hrangach's bow lowered as one of the conspirators tossed a long stick with a bulbous end onto the wooden floor.
The elf fixed the thing into a torch sconce and used an oil lamp to light a bit of cord, which sputtered and sparked furiously until at last the rocket flew up into the sky to burst like a glorious flower of pink and purple sparks. After a second a colossal bang sounded.
Peering down around the crenellations, Jeasper noted something was going wrong with the coronation party. The usurper's companion guard had not so subtly formed a loose phalanx around the reviewing stand upon which Demasjyt and his throne sat.
The city gate was the site of a sudden melee. A pack of soldiers could be seen being shot down by a cloud of arrows and reeling back in small packs. Anther rocket shot up from the gate house.
“The gate is ours. Now comes our moment,” shouted Hrangach, tossing off his guardsman's cloak, revealing the elven mail. “Take up that bow, Jeasper.”
The earlier wave of dread swept back upon the bard as he nocked an arrow and looked about, wondering what was about.
A vast shape general shape of a bat or bird winged by, talons outstretched. A man in tattered black raiment seemed to be riding on its back, carrying a sort of cavalry bow. As it swept past, an arrow clattered against the stone battlement of the tower.
Flinging himself to the ground in fear, he heard a big popping sound and a metallic rattle.
“Perdition! I missed! Help me load another.” Jeasper conquered his terror and shot to his feet, cranking madly at the windlass once more, realizing what the elf was doing.
“What is that?!” he shouted as a general din rose from below, though he dared not look.
The two conspirators who had been posted to the other of the two towers had disappeared. Jeasper assumed the thing had caused them to flee. Why the elf seemed singularly unaffected he could only guess but the other's calm professionalism gave him heart. The shape wheeled round and he imagined for second he glimpsed two points of red fire where eyes should be on the rider in the black corpse-shroud as it came at them again.
Hrangach swing the big weapon around on its pintle, tracking his mark until it was nearly upon them like an eagle stooping on a mouse. Jeasper felt he might lose control of his bladder as the fear came on before it. The ballista twanged again, but the big bat thing veered up suddenly and overshot them. A fantastic shriek sounded as it twisted and spun down down out of their sight. “Good shot old man!” shouted Hrangach. The big broad hand slapping his back.
Jeasper realized only then that he had let fly the arrow in his longbow.
Don't miss the thrilling conclusion! https://laurelinarchives.org/node/58931
