It did not feel like a welcome home.
Zorzimril sat in her saddle, the grey horse under her was new, given to her by Gorlakon as the black she rode in on never recovered from the long run and had been slaughtered to feed the troops. The journey back to Angmar had been slower, there was a greater number of troops now that the Creoth under Yisabelle had joined the mix. The warriors had tested each other in Garth Agarwen and seemed to accept each others presence but the doubts each side had about one another would not be resolved until tested in the fires of battle. Abrazir rode by her side once again, her cousin holding the banner of the Duvardain. The dull red cloth fluttered in the breeze, the black Iron Crown markings visible to anyone watching. This was a time of caution, for any orc or Angmarim spies would note that the Duvardain and Creoth loyal to Carn Dum were riding right into the territory of the rebellious Gallorg. Their assumptions might be that the tribes were making a final push to destroy the smaller faction and Zorzimril hoped that was so.
The ashen dust billowed among the hundreds of marching boots. Warriors carrying their shields, archers and slingers with their weapons, blood dancers carrying their bags of herbs and their amulets hung from their necks. The tribes had no real cavalry, there was not enough fodder on the ground to feed a multitude of horses but then neither did the Iron Crown. What the Iron Crown did have was Orcs, and a lot of them. Battle hardened and strong, tribes like the Ongburz that they had fought along side would be now opposed. The black haired woman wore a helm with a high crown and bronze aventail that hung down to protect the sides and back of her neck. Her armor was made of iron and leather, with a bronzed chest plate, also a gift from her husband for their wedding. As the troops approached the designated neutral ground in Fail-a-Kro, a hunting ground once used by a united tribe but taken over by force by the Duvardain. Now it hosted dozens of campfires and the banners of the Gallorg were staked outside the ancient ruins.
Zorzimril halted looking down at the Gallorg guards, "I've come to unite once more with the Trev Gallorg under the wise chief Crannog, who would be your commander now?"
She waited, still mounted to keep her edge of height on the strapping warriors who guarded the main entrance. A long sword slung next to her hip on her saddle and a shield and shorter sword, more practical on the battlefield hung from the other side. Her deep grey eyes scanned the cluster of dark haired men until one taller than the rest stepped forward. Her breath caught in her chest as she met the deep gaze of Talorc. The man was grown and scarred from battle with a rather mistrustful expression on his face. This was not the boy she had known so many years ago and yet she could recognize him anywhere. They had managed not to kill each other on the battlefield but that had been luck more than lack of effort. Zorzimril straightened her shoulders, tilting her chin proudly as she looked down at him. The chainmail of her skirt clinked softly as she dismounted to speak with the heir to Crannog.
Talorc waited in front of his tent, a large voluminous thing made of aurochs hides it had room enough inside for a small campfire, the smoke rising to the top and slipping from the vent flaps. Within were piles of furs and woven blankets dyed with muted colors and a small long wooden table. Talorc watched her approach. The set angle of his head not daring to move or show emotion as his men stood beside him. Perhaps in his dark eyes was the only flicker of resignation when she looked down at him. "Come inside, daughter of the Duvardians," he said, not using her name. Lifting the flaps, he let her pass beneath his arm. "It's been a long time, Zorzimirl," he said softer, yet the grumble of his voice still bore nothing but suppressed respect.
Turning to Abrazir as Talorc dismissed his men, she told him, "Wait for me here." Unsheathing her sword and handing it to him, clearly showing her trust in the truce between the tribes. She stepped through the tent flap, turning her head slightly when he spoke her name, her iron grey eyes glinting for a brief moment, "That it has, Talorc."
She passed him, removing her helmet, and looked around the tent, the wooden table with the map spread out, held down with a dagger and the Gallorg banner draped along one tent wall. The mail made a soft chinking sound as she moved slowly, her fingers touched the table, dragging along the rough wood. The tent smelled of smoke, roast meat, and sweat, nothing particularly unpleasant to a nose unused to perfumes or flowers.
Talorc quietly had a quick council with one of the guards blocking the tent, their spears dug determinedly into the ground before he watched her move about the smoke-clouded confines of the tent.
"I hear you took to the East, to lead your people," He said, dark eyes watching her. "It does not surprise me. Not the least. You always followed your father's ways. How fares the traitors?" he scoffed, even though he knew he shouldn't. His thick boots crunched over the powdery and grey earth when he step to the otherside of the tent.
Unsheathing his blade, he rested it slowly upon a chest.
Zorzimril tilted her head, looking at him for a long moment before speaking, "Ah, Talorc, diplomacy was never your strong point."
Her full lips turned up slightly at the corners, "My father is well enough and my uncle hale as ever, but you know this you've seen Domongart." She glossed over the fact her father had still not joined either the embassy or the troops. "And your father, he is rather advanced in age but it is good that he still rules."
Talorc lowered his head and looked at her from under thick, dark eyebrows. His beard was frayed and taken ill care of, hanging loosely against the furs that covered his chest, slightly swaying as he moved. "No, actions holds firmer truths, Zorzimril. And you are right, your concern is appreciated. My father is getting old, lived his years. And none made easier by yours. It's going to take a bit of persuading for him to truly trust the Duvardians," his mouth turning up in a slightly cautious smile. "Shall we continue the pleasantries?" he smirked, resting his hands upon the table, he leaned forward, looking down on the map.
Zorzimril stood straight, her bronze chestplate glowing in the firelight and the crimson leather deepening to the shade of blood. She fingered the polished mottled red stone on her breast. "More pleasantries? Can I be open and honest with you, then, old friend?"
Talorc lifted his eyes to look at her, a dark gaze immediately focusing on her fingers and the precious stone she was touching. Lifting himself to his full height, he stood in front of her, chest splayed out wide many of his scars would be visible in the orange glow of the flames. "Of course you can be honest with me, and I hoped you would be," he said, letting his fingertips grace the table below him.
Zorzimril twisted the silver chain around her finger, "You look like shit."
A small smirk appeared on her lips and she moved closer to him, "Have you no wife to tend you?" She tilted her head, looking down at the map but her eyes shift to peer at him sideways. "I would think you'd have a handful of future chieftains running around by now."
Talorc laughed, shaking his head, dark eyes momentarily lightening up. He grinned, "There's a few in the making. Got a good number of able fighters amongst my brood," he said proudly.
"But you, Zorzimril, after what happened," he said a bit hesitantly. "You changed, like all of them. You lost the old ways, my friend. But let us not dwell upon a past neither of us want to think the future looks so much more promising." As he spoke, his great frame relaxed, his broad shoulders losing some of their tension. "My men look up to me now, as well as your do with you. So much has changed."
Nodding once, she said, "I am glad to hear it. I figured from the look of you that your heart dwelled only in a black place."
She moved a little closer, "Joining with the Iron Crown was perhaps a mistake but the reasons were not. We deserve better than this, our people do."
Zorzimril placed both hands on the table, leaning over the map, looking at the familiar landmarks, "Gorlakon says we are all one tribe, the men of Rhudaur and we will get our place back." Her grey eyes lit up as she smacked her hand on the map, over Aughaire, "No longer scraping a living from this poisoned ground, Talorc. I've seen the lands that lie to the south, they are open for the taking."
She raised her eyebrow, with a challenging look in her eyes, "They just need to be taken."
Talorc glanced up from where her palm slapped down upon the table. He tried to keep the slight slant of his mouth set into the hollow smirked he offered her. "Where my heart and from where my brood sprouts from is of little importance. We do what is expected of us. You know that," he calloused glare bore into hers for a moment. "We are not always afforded those luxuries," he snorted impatiently.
"What can you tell me of this Gorlakon? Your bannerman has great praise for his leadership and the respect he has of his men. Yet, why does he want to stand beside us, so far from Rhuduar? I'm weary to trust such promises, you do understand, don't you?" he asked.
Zorzimril touched the bronze breast plate, a lovely crafted Creoth design, "This was a wedding gift from Gorlakon." She looked at him in the eyes, getting closer, her steel colored gaze boring into his, "From the man who would be king if we win."
She gave him a slight knowing smile, "Gorlakon is a man of the Creoth, he has brought all the fractious tribes within them together with force and will. He believes all of the hillmen to be of one large tribe of Rhuduar and we've only become reduced do to the treachery by those would would oppose us and those who used us. Right now, he is with his men, marching through the frozen Forodwaith to knock on Carn Dum's backdoor. That is where our job comes in, we attack here and keep the attention of the Iron Crown on us until he can hit them, then we will close in together and fight as one."
Talorc flared his nostrils as she spoke of her husband, hard and shadowed eyes fleetingly taking on the unmistakable glint of green jealously. That glare quickly danced over the riches that adorned her body. "In Forodwaith?" he asked cautiously, angling his head slightly, beard shifting upon his matted fur armor. "And when does he plan on finishing up there to center his forces more directly to where the Trev Gallorg can find relief?"
His eyes wandered behind her towards the flaps of the quiet tent. "I see you have brought the warriors of the Creoth as well as those of the Trev Duvardians together here. A sizable amount of spear points, I admit, but enough to dent the attention of the Crown? And for how long?" he asked. His back arched as she approached, lifting his chest out, as he looked down at her.
Zorzimril did not miss the reaction he had, pressing her lips together to keep from smiling a satisfied smirk. The armor was a mixture of gifts from Gorlakon and the Iron Crown though the necklace was not. She fingered it, rubbing the smooth bloodstone. "It's a surprise," she replied, "You know how well those betrayals work against the morale of the troops." She looked up at him from under her long dark lashes, "Now we make it work against the Iron Crown."
Talorc noded slightly a few times, still glaring down at her. "And you should know about treachery, don't you" he said, not helping the scorn that oozed out of his thick lips. "I don't like surprises, Zorzimirl," he spoke softer now that she was close, meat and ale stained breath flowing down at her.
She raised one eyebrow and canted her head, "Of course not, regretfully you've had the worst of suprises." Reaching up she flicked a dried bit of meat from his beard, "I am not ashamed of how I have fought nor my men but...I do regret it was against y- our own kin. No longer though, we will be one tribe again." She gazed up at him, "United once more."
Talorc groaned, breathing heavily through his nose, lips set securely. His eyes softened slightly though, his voice gruff voice taking on the faint taint of regret. "It was a deep cut the Trev Gallorg received, and that from their own brothers. Zorzimril, the last place I thought I'd meet you again was at the other side of my sword," he said, taking slight step closer, letting his finger trail beside him on the table, dark eyes completely focused on hers.
Zorzimril dipped her head slightly, a brief crack in her proud mask, "I would not have had it so but for my loyalty to my blood." She touched the bloodstone once more, holding it between two fingers. "I would have been cursed and lost my family, even if I lost everything else. My father is a prideful man, he would have rather seen me dead than to betray him."
Talorc nodded, "I know. I know and I don't blame you. Your father and uncle had the curse of greed whispered to them from the Iron Mouth. Believed the scourge of orcs and wargs, the legions of the Witch King could afford them the fortune they sought. I can't say I'd not have done the same, but to kill your own tribesmen," he sighed, shaking his head. "It was hard to face you out there, and it still is," he said, eyes flicking once more back towards the door. His large hand reached up to rest comforting upon the gold of her shoulder, "You had little choice. Though, not all worked out for the worse"
Zorzimril listened thoughtfully and then glanced at his hand on her shoulder, "I half expected you to spit in my face once we met again. No swords between us this time, just the ghosts and the past."
He snorted, "I've killed many of Trev Duvardians, many of my men hate you worse than the orcs or the White Hand. Yet, old rivalries should end for a new beginning to sprout from the cracked earth we need rise from" he said, looking down at her quickly. "I've had to lead fast and with what I had, Zorzimril. The past... The past is the past - the future brings hope"
Zorzimril licked her lips and looked away, furrowing her brow as she gazed that the pale Gallorg banner, "Of course they do, no hatred burns brighter than that of love betrayed. And that is what it was."
She looked back at him, her fingers still on the bloodstone. "Not all of my fine things were gifts, this belonged to one of your warriors. A man called Massen. I killed him. He was a distant kin of mine." The woman removed it, tossing her long dark hair to free it of the silver chain, "See that his widow gets it."
She held it up and put it in his hand, folding his fingers over it. "It is still worth some sentimental value as well as coin to the widow, see that she gets it."
Talorc folded his hand over hers, taking the necklace, the stone hanging from his palm. He lifted it to the light of the fire, inspecting the crimson glow of flames dance about its many layered composition. "I've thought much about this past, about our rivalry... even about you, Zorzi," he smirked, eyes glancing towards her as he folded, then, the silver strands of the jewelry in his large calloused paws. "We don't need coin. We need to stand together as a united tribe once more. Let us bury the hatchets of past transgressions and focus upon a time when both our people, as well as that of the Creoth, can take their rightful place," he said, taking a slight step closer.
"This Gorlakon you speak of. What makes him so strong? What strength does he possess in the east? His power must be of some significance if he so caught your eye," Talorc smirked slightly, burying the bloodstone in a worn leather pouch by by his side.
