Word had reached Duramarth through various informants of all that had transpired over the last several weeks. He seldom needed to leave the solitude of the Scholar’s Hall, as his reach extended far across Eriador, and very little that came to pass regarding his Order was unknown to him.
On instinct, the grandmaster had emptied the kin house several weeks ago. A move that proved fortuitous after the recent massacre at Arrowhaven. Still, collateral damage to the townsfolk was on him. It was he and his kin that were the intended target, and reparation and justice would need to be exacted. Eventually.
Duramarth fastened the last buckle on his steed Ün’s satchel. He had enough provisions for a week’s journey. The rest of what he needed, he would acquire along the way. He had also left instructions for the dwarves. If they could keep their red noses out of the ale house, and away from picking fights with greybeards long enough to read them. For a moment, a small grin slipped past his otherwise stoic expression as he pondered with amusement, the tale he had been told of the Dwarves and the Iron Shoe.
Shaking off the thought and getting back to more pressing matters, the grandmaster pulled the sword from its sheath one last time before the journey to admire the ancient weapon. He caressed the spiral cross guard, coiled ominously around the base of its blade, like a gold viper threatening to strike.
In his youth, he had acquired the sword as payment for a gambling debt owed to him and he had named the abhorrent beauty, Thaurmól in the ancient tongue, meaning wretched-labor. For it had been obtained through ill-gotten gains and he meant for it to carry out his dirty-work without objection.
He had not drawn Thaurmól from its sheath for some time, as these days he had little use for swords, but more often a dagger. It wasn’t until recently, when the old crone had come skulking around the Scholar’s Hall, that she claimed to reveal the blade’s true name. Thlinghâdh, the Spider-Cleaver.
It was unclear how she had come across this knowledge or even its significance. For as long as Duramarth could remember he had not known the old crone to have ever laid eyes upon the blade, nor had he spoken of it to her. Nevertheless, he knew it was unwise to tempt fate against the divinations of the old woman. For though he knew her to be cunning, and one only a fool would bargain with, her words came true all too often to gamble with them.
The autumn-aged warrior swung his leg up and over the back of Ün, settling into the saddle of his old friend. The horse stiffened, shaking her head and kicking a leg in defiance as if protesting the journey ahead.
“Shhhh…it’s alright old girl. Ride with me once more and I promise, I will ask no more of you after the deed is done. You’ll be free of me,” the grandmaster vowed, patting Ün gently on her neck.
And with those words, the horse could hold no quarrel and her demeanor appeared to soften. Duramarth gave pause for a moment, as if to offer his old friend a chance to change her mind.
The horse held no objection to the bargain struck and with a whinny and a snort as confirmation, Ün trotted off, carrying her master reluctantly through the southern gate of Bree. The two companions headed East, past the Chetwood South, and onward.
