((For Achazia, who inspired me with her wonderful music))
Gondor, Anórien
City of Legelinn
Late Summer, T.A. 3017
Five-hundred farmers, day-workers and other simple folk of the surrounding had worked for one week to hang up flags, banners and garlands, along the great streets of the city. Another hundred had been occupied to have the alleys and smaller path-ways in their best condition. Every so little sign of dirt or filth was removed, Legelinn wanted to show itself from its best side when the nobles and persons of high consequences would pass through on their way to the chapel.
An edict prohibited the otherwise usual emptying of the bedpans out the window until after the festivities; no ill smell was allowed to disturb the sensitive noses, no splash was to land on one of the carriages.
The cobblestone paths had been improved as quickly as possible by an additional troop of stonecutters, holes and loose stones disappeared. Constantly were new consignments of groceries brought into the city-palace, day for day, new guests arrived who wanted to witness the act.
The entire city prepared itself to the outside for the festival.
Within the people sat however an uncertainty.
Until now, no one had yet seen the new lord. The few servants in the palace who returned to their homes at the evenings told either hardly anything or spoke of things that were contradicting. Certainty would only bring the up-coming ceremony. The chapel would hardly be able to hold all the folk that wanted inside, of that the people were sure.
Finally the day had come. The day of the ceremony had arrived and because the building never closed its portals, a few had decided to stay the night within the chapel and to secure themselves the best spot. At the arriving of dawn, they were thrown out by the guards however, so that the race for the best place had began anew.
Already in the early hours of the morning, the people of Legelinn and of its surrounding were found crowded before the chapel, that began to fill itself more and more, until not even the smallest mouse could have scurried through the rooms. Every guest was inspected for any weapons.
Outside those had gathered who had come too late, eager to be able to throw a quick glance on their new lord. Facades were climbed, to five or more the people hung on the windows of the near-by houses. Even unto the roofs some of the most brave had dared to walk.
Three-hundred guards attended to peace and order within the chapel, two-hundred more pushed the mass of folk so far away from the plaza that at least the carriages could make hold. The monks of Ilúvatar served drinks to those who waited, while in the meanwhile the first invited guests arrived.
After one another, the most important lords and nobles of the city appeared.
As soon as all the visitors had gathered, the Secret Council of Ilúvatar entered and made for the gallery high above the simple folk, who had gotten hardly a chance to have a look on the figures in their golden robes.
Now the braziers were lit, monks threw handful of incense unto the glowing coal-pieces and instantly a sweet-mild fragrance was spread within the entire chapel.
Round about the sanctuary gathered over a hundred monks, who began a chorus to Ilúvatar the Just. As soon as the last tone was gone, the double-doors of the heavy portal were opened.
Banner-men carried the standard of the country and then of the city, formed a row in the front, through which the lord was supposed to walk. But first entered the military music ensemble, playing the traditional march of Gondor, behind them followed twenty guards.
Then he came, Rantsila of Lake-Town.
The chapel was entered by a young man with a blond beard, open worn, thin blond hair, which tips fell unto his shoulders. His posture appeared in the dark-grey, with silver embroidery adorned, uniform without any flaw. In comparison to the most other nobles' almost overbearing clothes, the star of Elendil on his chest made an accent, which was illuminated like by an inner fire, reflecting every light that met it a thousand times. His hands were covered in white gloves, the expensive fur-mantle of ermine, with velvet and silk edges was a symbol of the sovereignty of the man. On his side he wore a heavy, unusual looking sword in a black sheath with silver symbols. His blue eyes looked around the mass of people attentively, then the lord smiled and nodded at a few, who did not quite know what to do with that honor they had been bestowed upon.
Directly behind him walked his friends, his adviser Olaf and the warrior Ragnar, in their wake a large number of elected servants and another thirty guards.
Secretly, the fighter with the bold head and the grey eyes looked up. In the height over the visitor's heads, he had positioned the best of his crossbow-men. They had order to fire on their own judgment if they thought to have discovered an assassin.
Ragnar was impinging with that decision against the will of his friend and lord, who would have declined such a strategy, for the possibility was there, that innocent could get hurt. But the bodyguard could apologize always later. Important was that his fosterling remained alive and well, everything else vanished for the faithful Ragnar into the background of his consciousness. Still he felt unwell, as he saw the number of people. He estimated that five-thousand had gathered alone within the chapel.
»At least a murderer would have no chance in here«, whispered Olaf to him. »Unless he can fly.«
»Against that I have my hunters sitting up there«, growled Ragnar. »I fear at the moment the pressure of the mass rather than a single person. If it should come to a panic, we will have little success in bringing the lord out unhurt.«
»Can't you think positive for once?«, sighed the adviser. »Ilúvatar protects him.«
»I know«, the fighter nodded. »But I do not rely on a single god. Not in these uncertain times.«
»And we want to the entrance there?«, asked Yngdin unbelieving and leaned forward on his saddle. »We should have gotten up earlier.«
»Yes, we should have«, said Torfrid laconically and pressed his heels into the sides of his horse that obediently made its way through the gathered mass of people towards the chapel. His men followed him.
The knights earned evil looks, some called curses after them, who however were instantly silenced as soon as one of the squires turned around. While the last men of the guard entered the chapel through the main-entrance, the knights arrived at the secluded side-portal.
The door was protected by five men with halberds, who threw disapproving looks at the armed men on their horses. Their leader stepped forward to Torfrid.
»Milord, you must be mistaken. The entrance is to the front. I must ask you, to ride back along with your followers. If you do not have an invitation then your weapons are to be left in the keeping of the city-guard.«
Torfrid gave the sign to dismount. After each other, the warriors and squires stepped down from their saddles and came to the front.
»Milord, did you not ...«, the man tried to protest.
»We are sadly a little late, soldier«, the order-knight interrupted him. »And before we have to suffer the simple folk on our way, we thought to gain faster entrance here.« The squires spread as visual cover in a half-circle around the happening at the portal.
The commander of the small company of guards shook bravely his head, although his men were surrounded more and more with each passing second.
»Milord, if you would go, please. I fear you have no invitation that permits you to carry a weapon during the ceremony, am I not right? Although you belong to the order of Oromë, this enables you not the right of passage.«
Desperately he tried to look past the warriors of Torfrid, but the broad stature of the knight hindered him. »I will have to call for reinforcements if you do not go.«
»Good. Let's go.« The armored fist of the knight shot forth and hit the man right on the middle of his forehead. »Do not thank me for my kindness.«
The other halberd-men were dealt with quite similar. After a short but pointless resistance they sank to the ground.
»I said, we would go«, Torfrid smiled and took the keys for the portal. A quick clicking noise, then the way was open and the passage free.
Quickly they disappeared, overwhelmed the remaining five guards who had stood on the other side, more or less unbloody and closed the door behind them. The men outside they had placed so against the wall, that it appeared as if they would sleep.
Instead of finding themselves within the inner of the chapel, the warriors stood in a long hall-way where many doors could be found.
»Damn it!«, hissed Yngdin and looked at the into sleep fallen soldiers. »What now? We should not have trashed them all into unconsciousness.«
Warning, his lord rose the hand and listened. From the foremost door came mumbling as if someone would be praying. »There we are right.«
They began to move and had almost reached their destination as the mumbling ended. Steps came closer to the exit, that was opened only a moment later.
Torfrid looked into the surprised eyes of Matuk, who had intended to make his way along with ten other monks of his order.
»What are you doing here?«, the monk asked.
»You said we should be in your near. We are here«, said the knight quietly. »Do not worry, we are a delegation of the Order of Oromë's Swords«, he said a bit louder to the other monks. »We were told that all order-members are gathering in this part of the chapel in order to be at the ceremony together.«
»Oromë's Swords? With us by the ceremony?« one of the monks asked. »By all due respect to Oromë, but that has to be a joke. Brother Matuk, do you know these people?«
»We, err, have met, yes. They will of course not take part in the consecration«, replied Matuk quickly. »They told me that they simply should be present, as sign, that also Oromë grants his blessing to the new lord. Is that not so, milord knight?«
Torfrid smiled without real joy. »You have kept it well in memory. We are here to show the good will of the god of honor. And now we should go. Who would want that the lord would have to wait because of us for his scepter and stewardship.«
»Let me go first«, said the former provost. »I do not want that the guards of the lord think that you are here to kill him. But only the knights will follow into the chapel, everyone else stays here.«
»We would be the most rich assassins that Middle-Earth had ever seen«, Yngdin laughed and knocked on his armor. »The loudest and most stupid to that. Alone that makes a devious intent completely impossible.«
»Deviousness can have many costumes«, said Matuk and began to move.
The eleven monks and four knights were striding through the hall-way and stepped in the protection of a column out into the chapel. The melody of the gondorian march was ringing with multiple echoes and unlike to their visit the other day, the house of worship was now comfortably warm.
From here one could see the huge statue of Ilúvatar about which stood a large number of monks and also the happenings of the at the farther end of the room could be observed.
»You are waiting behind the column until you see that I might be in need of your aid«, told Matuk to Torfrid and made a seemingly pointless movement of his hand. »You remember the words that free you out of the duty bestowed by your god?«
»Oromë be thanked for the aid«, repeated the knight the words that the monk had spoken to him at the shores of the river. »How could I ever forget them? But with what are you counting? And what is to happen?«
»I do not know. That is also not of interest now. The ceremony awaits me«, Matuk evaded and walked together with his followers of ten monks towards the sanctuary where they formed up and waited.
»Milord, you have to see that«, whispered Yngdin, who had looked past the column. »Everything is full of people. Half of Middle-Earth must be gathered here.«
»Rather look around and try to spot something unusual.« He raised his head and understood what the gesture of the monk had meant. »I see for instance five crossbow-men up there on the gallery. They have seen and taken us into their aim already. That they do not shoot, we have to thank brother Redwine for.«
If I make one step forward, I stand next to him. And could thrust without being hindered, Matuk thought and starred at the lord, who looked up at the statue of Ilúvatar and had little attention for his surrounding. The young man appeared a bit bored even.
The monk felt the dagger, which he had bound to his lower arm with the help of strips of leather and which was now hidden by the robe. It was the filigree, poisoned knife that Ælbdís had given to him. Now he had gotten a second opportunity to kill the supposed traitor and to save Dale and most likely Gondor too, from the wrath of the Easterlings and the Dark Time.
But it was not as easy for the monk. Doubt was gnawing on him, still he was not convinced of the interpretation that the secret council had offered to him. If I kill him now and fulfill with that the prophecy, all fault and evil that will lie before Middle-Earth will lie on my shoulders, it went though his mind.
One of the member of the secret council had gotten down by now and stood before Matuk and his brothers. The singing halted.
The gong of the size of a windmill-wheel was hit and caused a deep tone that went through each and everyone's bone. Another metal-plate was being hit, until the entire inside of the chapel was filled with an orgiastic wall of sounds. During that time, most of the monks walked up and gathered on the gallery. While the waves of the tones began to disappear, a solitary singer began a new choral, into which others followed. It began a replying singing between the brothers on the ground and on the gallery and it seemed as if earth and sky would speak with one another.
After a seemingly unending time, the wonderful singing ended. It was so quiet in the hall that one could hear the quiet whistling of the wind that was blowing around the towers of the chapel.
The member of the council gestured to the young lord to come up the stairs.
Almost stubborn, the young man came forward, closer and closer into the reach of Matuk. Would he have stretched out his arm, he could have touched the shoulder of this fated man.
»Ilúvatar the Just keeps watch over us. As he had held his protecting hand above all stewards of this city, so will he also hold his hand over this young man«, he said carried. »May those who doubt be taught a better and may the liars be punished for their lies. Ilúvatar the Just will strike those who spread what is wrong with their own weaponry and will bring them with their own words to silence.« Another monk brought the scepter of stewardship of Legelinn, a precious piece of woven gold and mithril, adorned with glimmering gems and carbuncles. Matuk received it and weighed it carefully in his hands.
»Will you, Rantsila son of Blafjoll, swear to do best for land and people, to honor and obey the law and Denethor, steward of Gondor and to follow always the dictation of Ilúvatar?«
The young man was silent for a while, before he answered loud and clearly. »I swear to do best for land and people, to honor and obey the laws and the steward of Gondor and to lead others back to the laws.« Only the eyes of the leader of the secret council, who sat up on the gallery, where speaking clearly, that something was happening, which was unlikely to the usual protocol. Angered he stared down at the young lord, who spoke on. »I swear that more justice will find its way into Legelinn and that I will protect the poor from all despotism that they are faced with. I swear that with me a new time will begin which will lead all people to the better. For that I ask for the aid of Ilúvatar the Just, whose advice I hope for.«
He altered the oath, it shot through Matuk's head. This boy has dared to alter the ancient oath to Ilúvatar. He saw exactly how the member of the secret council had peered up to the gallery, inquiring quietly if they should continue with the ceremony. His leader nodded hardly noticeable as sign to proceed.
»So I plead in the names of all people of Gondor for the blessing and mercy of Ilúvatar the Just, that he may stand by your side«, said the cleric. »Kneel, Rantsila, son of Blafjoll and receive the scepter of stewardship over Legelinn from my hand, representative to Ilúvatar the Just, who with great love and great mercy cares for his world. We are all his children and of his making. Remember this when you lead this land.«
Rantsila let himself very slowly down on his left knee and looked challenging up at the monk. Again was that an alteration of the ceremony, for the protocol demanded that the man would go down on both knees in sign of humbleness to the order.
And again the cleric made sure if he should proceed. With a quick movement, he grasped the scepter from Matuk and held it in his open hands before the young man.
»When you rise up again, Rantsila, you will no longer be a mere noble, but the lord and steward, the keeper of the city of Legelinn. May you prove to be fortunate. Take the blessings of ...«
»Thank you.« Rantsila stood up, before the cleric could have spoken to the end.
Matuk saw the attempt to dodge, but the young man had been too quick and took the scepter from the hands of the monk.
The former provost thought that the member of the secret council would try to tear the scepter out from the fingers of the new lord, so angry was the man. But an energetic gesture from the gallery prevented the affront.
Rantsila turned with a triumphing expression around, then all the gongs were hit and began with their loud sounds to greet the new lord of Legelinn, while its people began to applause in great exultation.
»I admire the bravery of the new lord«, said Torfrid amused. »With the open disrespect towards the usual ceremony he would have earned that scepter already.«
»And the Ilúvatar parson almost explodes out of his yellow robe«, said Yngdin and put demonstratively a finger into each ear. »These metal-plates make a noise that could wake up the dead. And the stinking smoke bites my nose. I feel as if I were a piece of warm butter.«
»You do not have the true faith then, else you would know to value that sound«, the order-knight grinned. »And a certain doubt also the new lord seems to have.«
A quiet noise midst the thundering waves, as if a needle would fall on stone caused Torfrid to become serious at once, although it became harder and harder for him to hold up his attention and wits. The incense seemed really to paralyze the senses.
»Did you hear that too?«, he inquired by all his men who shook their heads however.
Attentively, Torfrid let his gaze wander over the jubilant mass of people but he couldn't make out anything unusual. The lord let himself be celebrated and stood midst his triumph to have won over the order of Ilúvatar.
»Long live Gondor!«, called the man out and raised his hands up.
In this very moment, the knight heard the clinging again. The bright ringing of falling stones or gravel. Next to the feet of the statue he discovered a small piece of marble. Then he heard a loud and high cracking noise and suddenly the entire sanctuary of Ilúvatar was covered with hairline thick rifts.
As if an invisible fist would hammer down with an unreal power, from above, down unto the statue, the sanctuary burst to all sides. Small and big stone splinters shot like projectiles through the air and hit a few of the people, who stared paralyzed unto the terrible spectacle.
The right hand of the statue with the book of wisdom broke away and buried the cleric of the secret council beneath it, the blood of the squashed man splashed far through the chapel.
The young lord and turned around again, did not move midst the hail of stone one step.
»Onwards, friends. You must save the life of the lord!« called Torfrid and went for a run. And I must save the life of this old drinker.
Matuk heard the splintering of the statue and noted the confusion around him. He interpreted it as a sign of Ilúvatar and took action.
He took the dagger, let it come out of its sheath and assaulted the distracted lord, who like through a wonder, was not hit by a single shard of the sanctuary, while the people were hit by the sharp splinters and went wounded and bleeding to the ground.
A shadow fell over him in his movement forward and something terrible hard hit his back. Through the impact he lost the dagger, with power he was thrown to the front against the young man, who was stumbling backwards. Instead of hurting the man with his weapon, Matuk had merely pushed him aside. Matuk's legs were pressed down and a stinging pain from his hip down let him scream up.
Then three bright shimmering figures jumped past and over him, taking the lord into their midst and taking him away.
»Kill him!«, called Matuk weakly and had to cough because of the stone-dust. »Kill the lord or we will all die. He brings back the Dark Time.« So close at last, so close. Failed, Ælbdís. I have failed.
Vaguely he could make out a fourth shimmering figure, that his, by pain dimmed conscious recognized as Torfrid.
»The words, old man«, he shouted at him. »Am I free of my duty?«
Slowly the monk shook his head.
»Damn it!«, said the knight and the drew elvish sword. »I must do it, else you will fade into death. Be strong, Brother Redwine.«
Then the blade cut whistling through the air and Matuk's vision became black.
