Hellrien stood in the gloom, listening to the noises. In a way they drew her like a candlelight draws a moth. There was life there, violence, strong emotion beating in almost terrifying rhythm. She did not like the austere stone palace of Tinnudir Keep nor those sad, crumbling walls surrounding the larger camp behind her back.
She had used rental horses to travel from Thorin's Gate to Oatbarton; the journey had taken four days through endless forests and fields. The horse she crossed the inhabited areas of northern Shire with snorted every time it smelled a blackbear or some other beast lurking nearby when. Farther up north - when she had reached Dwaling - the scenery changed. The landscape turned hillier and soon the forested grasslands were replaced by the white sand dunes of Barandalf as the road followed the mighty Brandywine River glittering in the sun. Soon the first ruins of ancient Arnor came to view; tall white structures with their pillars, crumbling battlements and towers with their tall pinnacles, so typical for Dúnedain architecture. There was something strangely grand, appalling and hostile in these ruins, Hellrien thought. They were like ghosts from thousands of years ago, when Isildur reigned over Arnor. She could almost see the proud mounted warriors in their shining armors and hear the trumpets calling for war. But all that had ended ages ago. Salamanders, silt-crawlers and looting tomb-robbers had taken over the remnants of that once great civilization.
It was almost completely dark. The noises from the tent town were getting rowdier. Hellrien didn't stand out much from the crowd here - wearing a worn, black traveler's cloak over a faded shirt and a dark vest. She had thrown her saddlebags on her left shoulder, and they were just as worn and drab as her clothing. She had received no instructions where she ought to be dwelling, so she had decided to settle into the skirmish camp. She wanted to feel it's frenetic beat.
She started walking towards the tents. She could feel the repulsive stink of waste and fecal matter in her nostrils. In the flickering campfire lights she could discern silhouettes of people moving restlessly about. Every now and then she had had to step aside to avoid collision with somebody wandering around the camp. Once she saw a red-bearded man wearing a hauberk and heavy boots. He was lying on the ground, resting his head on the lap of a raven-haired girl. The girl sat down leaning on the tent canvas, skirt wrapped up on her waist, baring her imposing thighs. They both reeked of booze.
Hellrien chuckled to herself while she walked past them.
The soldier raised his head. ”Hey girl, wanna join the party? I'm man enough for two girls!”
”No thanks.”
”Come a long way, lass? I've got booze too, for the three of us! Don't be such a prude now - have fun with us.”
”You got wax in your ears? I said no.”
”Whoooot?”
Hellrien moved along and quickly slipped between tents. She walked past another campfire. A redheaded woman and an elf were sitting around it, staring blankly to the fire. The woman shot Hellrien a sharp glance as she passed by.
Finally she saw an officer who seemed like he was in charge of things. He was standing near the shoreline, conversing with another soldier. Both looked relatively clean when compared to the other occupants of the tent town.
She approached the officer and cleared her throat. He turned and looked at her from head to toe.
”Evening, ma'am”, said the officer. ”Come to sign up?”
”Yes, thank you. Do you have room?”
”You didn't bring your own tent?” He dug up a parchment and set it on a pile of boxes nearby. ”Name here. You're in luck today. You get one of the big tents all to yourself, at least for now. Somebody else comes tonight, you have to share it with them, no matter what sex or race, okay? You got a problem with that, you can buy a tent from one of the vendors, but that'll cost you.”
Hellrien scribbled something illegible in the bottom of the document.
”Thank you ma'am. Calenglad will come to screen the new recruits tomorrow, or maybe a day after that. Or maybe next week - who knows? In the meanwhile you can do as you please but don't wander outside of the camp area. Is there anything I can do for you?”
Hellrien shook her head. ”Well, I'd be grateful for some hot water. I haven't had a chance to wash up for a while.”
”I can understand that. I'll have somebody bring a bucket to you. That's your tent over there. Good night.”
Hellrien walked over to the tent that had been pointed out to her. She had to hunch her head a little as she walked below the flap, but it was one of the bigger tents in the camp. She closed the flap behind her, dropped her saddlebags on the ground and looked around her. There was nothing there except two mattresses with moldy blankets, bedsheets and pillows. But it was close enough to the waterline so she could smell the breeze of fresher air coming from the lake, and Hellrien was pleased she had been lucky enough to get a tent like this. Maybe the nights here would be tolerable after all.
She opened her saddlebags and took out some clothes she had packed. Then she removed her cloak. Two sword blades glimmered ominously in the flickering light of campfire outside. She begun to loosening up a scabbard belt, but then she reconsidered and left them as they were. Then she took out her pipe and loaded it with pipe-weed while waiting for the hot water. She felt dirty and sweaty.
She heard footsteps outside, heavy and slow footsteps. Whoever was bringing the water was putting a lot of effort in carrying it, Hellrien thought and pondered if she should open the flap.
”Open the flap, please”, said a voice outside.
Hellrien smiled and opened the flap. She stood there, watching the young woman outside the tent. Her face had reddened with effort. She was holding an enormous wooden bucket filled with steaming hot water.
”I'll take that”, Hellrien said hastily.
”Thank you.”
The woman turned to leave, and Hellrien said quickly: ”Hold on, wait a minute.” When she turned around, Hellrien took note of the hard lines around her mouth and her alert expression.
”I just want to make a couple of questions to you”, Helrien said in a friendly tone.
”About what?” The woman seemed aversive and suspicious.
Hellrien sat down on the mattress, hoping it might make the woman feel more relaxed about her.
”I'm a stranger here”, Hellrien carried on, talking slowly in Ost Forod accent. Different accents were one of the things she had been trained in the Sworn Brotherhood Stronghold to emulate, but she had no idea how authentic she sounded to someone who met people from Ost Forod on a regular basis. ”I'm looking for some information.”
”About what?”
”About my cousin, who got himself killed over here.”
The woman turned to leave. Hellrien bounced up like a cat. She grabbed the woman by her arm - but not too roughly. ”It's very important for me to find out what happened. Please, help me!”
The woman opened her mouth to scream, but Hellrien's tone and expression quited her down. She looked at Hellrien's comely but tough-looking features ponderously.
”I don't know everything that goes around in this camp”, she said, insecure.
”But you must have heard of this incident”, Hellrien said. ”My cousin had quite a temper, he got into fights sometimes. He died in a brawl here about a month ago.”
”I think you're one of those Rangers still dredging up this old crap”, she almost spat out.
”I'm not”, Hellrien said, sounding almost affable again. ”I just want some information on account of my old aunt.”
”I don't know. Let me go.”
Hellrien released her arm. ”I will pay twenty silver coins for that information.”
A greedy glint lit up in the woman's eyes. ”Let me see the money.”
She stared at the purse Hellrien had dug up. ”I don't know”, she hesitated.
”You will get the money in any case.”
”There's been three brawls like that in recent months here.”
Hellrien handed the purse over to her. She quickly pushed it down her neckline. ”Thank you, ma'am.”
”Do you know anything about these fights?” Hellrien asked while she hunched down to lift the bucket in the corner.
The woman stood hesitantly by the flap of the tent. From the corner of her eye Hellrien noticed her peeking out of the crack as if to make sure nobody was listening outside. Hellrien smiled cynically.
”Well - one always hears rumors”, the woman said.
”Do you know who have been killed?”
”I have heard two names. The first one must be your cousin because the other one died only two days ago.”
”Was it Stewart Sturm?”
”That's him! Stewart was awfully liked here... he always had money.”
Hellrien nodded, remembering what Ranesora had told her.
”The family always wondered where all that money came from”, Hellrien said. ”Stewart was a reserved type... never talked about his business. It was almost like he was ashamed of where he got it.”
”Yeah, I understand your meaning. I can't say anything definite - I only met him once.”
”Where?”
”Here.”
”In the camp?”
”Yeah. He lived here.”
”Where was his tent?”
”Over there.” The woman pointed with her finger. ”Opposite from here.” She glanced at Hellrien. ”He was quite quick with his moves, that cousin of yours. I almost had to whack him with a bucket of water to get out of his tent.”
Hellrien smiled, almost apologetically. The woman looked at her interrogatively.
”You don't know who killed him?”
”No.”
The answer came too quickly, Hellrien thought. She said: ”Somebody must have seen it.”
”So ask around.”
”Alright. Thanks for your help, miss...?”
”Thilda. Thilda Stiven.”
”Thank you, miss Stiven.”
The flap of the tent fell back down and then she was gone.
Hellrien washed up, changed her shirt and put her cloak back on. She dug up a bottle of brandy from her saddle bag and drank down a couple of mouthfuls. Then she inspected her swords, cleaned up the blades and stepped outside.
Hellrien wandered to the other side of the camp, where she heard music of someone playing a lute or similar instrument. There was a bigger campfire there, and a small group of men sitting or standing around it. The flickering flames threw shadows on the dirty, muddy ground as if dancing to the tune.
Unusually large man with a broken nose glanced at Hellrien when he saw her standing nearby.
”Come and sit down”, he said.
Hellrien nodded and sat down on a log. The hulk of a man leaned over to her direction, holding out a bottle. ”Take a sip of brandy, miss.”
”Thanks”, said Hellrien. ”Looks lively here.”
”It sure is. You're new, I take it?”
”Yeah. From Ost Forod.”
”You will love it here, miss”, the man bragged. ”There's everything you can desire in this camp - booze and merry company.”
Hellrien looked around her. ”Does the merry company ever get too frisky?”
The man took her question seriously. ”The captain doesn't like fist play. It brings about trouble. The Rangers will come down to snoop around.”
Hellrien spotted a few broad-shouldered men with hauberks and wooden clubs, and nodded at their direction.
”Those fellows over there are overseeing that the peace is kept, I take it. Can they keep all the troublemakers at bay?”
”Most people who come up here to sell their wares or sign up for an adventure are no trouble. They will get themselves stinking drunk, yell and holler and sometimes wrestle a bit. None of them are really skilled fighters. But sometimes people come from the north or east - unsavory characters. They are after the Dúnedain treasures and think they can scout for information here. They can cause a lot of disturbances.”
Hellrien asked the man to pass the bottle. She figured it wiser not to ask more questions.
”There's been three incidents lately”, the man said unexpectedly. It seemed like he liked Hellrien and appreciated her company. ”They happened so fast nobody could do anything to prevent it.”
”Was there anyone from Ost Forod involved in any of these incidents?”
”Umm... let me think... Hankin Cinneide - the Rangers drowned him, by the way - killed someone nobody knew. With a knife. Stewart Sturm got killed by somebody here as I recall. But he was defending himself against Sturm, so he walked free.”
Hellrien looked down at the bottle. ”It's a neat trick, appealing to self-defense”, she said dryly.
”It was no trick, miss. Sturm came at him with a sword, he was unarmed at the time. He was very lucky to survive. Killed Sturm with his own sword. Plenty of people saw that.”
”It's so strange such things would happen here”, Hellrien remarked. ”The camp's so small - one would think the Rangers could keep piece here.”
”Don't get me wrong, miss! It's not like such incidents are commonplace. Usually it's peaceful here.”
”This Sturm character, was he any good with a sword?”
”I didn't see it myself”, the man said, taking a chug of brandy. ”But a pal of mine who did told me he was quite proficient with it.”
”Is that so?”
”I mean, better than average”, he added.
”Well, in that case the other fellow must have been really lucky indeed”, Hellrien remarked.
”He sure was!”
”Does he still reside in this camp?”
”No, he left. I don't remember his name.”
Hellrien smiled. ”I was only being curious.”
The man looked at her. ”Do you have something in mind, miss?”
Hellrien had to think carefully before responding.
”Yes, you see, I have always been intrigued by warriors and swordsmen.” She smiled. ”That's why I came here. I had heard of the troubles with Angmarim and that the Rangers were recruiting common folk in Tinnudir, and I heard people talking of this place - where men and women who wanted to do something could lend a sword. I may not be much of a warrior yet, but I have practiced a lot”, Hellrien said with an apologetic smile. It was a plausible story - and not that far from the truth.
The man stared at her pensively for a long time.
”His name is Tripper. Bill Tripper. A peculiar name if I ever heard one. Have you ever heard of him, miss?”
”Never”, said Hellrien.
