(The events of this story take place several months before the events of A Dream of Moonlight, or A Dirge in Red - The humble chronicler of the Stranded Sisters)
Xandilif sat on a stone bench at the edge of the Pier in Minas Tirith the evening after meeting with the Tide of Destiny and Larol, their Captain. She was relaxing, looking out at the Pellanor. The sunset had just begun and the sky was alight with orange and blue rays, blending with the ever-present smoke from nearby villages, burning. The war never seemed terribly far away from Minas Tirith.
She sighed and took another bite of her supper. Spicy sausage and cabbage on a hard roll, the specialty of a vendor named Talbot, his pushcart just a few feet back along the broad promenade of the Pier. He did good business with the soldiers on leave and curious sightseers who still flocked to “The Most Stirring View in Gondor”.
She took another bite as the sun sank lower. Of course, she had first bought this exact same supper from the current vendor’s grandfather a century ago, also named Talbot, and then from the current vendor’s father, also named Talbot. The family may lack creativity in names, but grilled a nice sausage and she always made a point to have one when she was in the White City.
A few children darted past, as their young mother, or perhaps older sister, tried in vain to keep them further from the perilous drop. A man behind her laughed too loudly as his companion shushed him, afraid he would frighten off their dates, as this was their last day of leave and he was hoping to get lucky. Xandilif the Banshee, Champion of the Azure Faithful smirked to herself, ate the last bite and took a long pull of her tankard of ale, musing out loud. “Pity none of this can last much longer….”
A voice broke into her thoughts, “That is the problem with the first born…always such fatalists.” She looked up to nod at Gareth, Captain of the Hounds of Anarion, now with one foot up on the other end of her bench. Beyond his imposing, silver armored figure a few more of the Hounds stood watch, keeping the curious back from the great man.
Lif shrugged. “I assumed you would look me up eventually…any news?”
Gareth drew his cobalt blue cloak closer, the sunset bringing an unseasonable chill. “Well, I would have sought you out if for no other reason then you drove my cousin Larol quite to distraction. If you weren’t already drinking I’d buy you a drink for that.”
The Elleth drained her tankard. “Not drinking no more. So now what’s stopping you?”
The Knight cleared his throat as a third figure glided up to the two. “Business..I am here as escort to my Lord of Deployment.”
The spare, ascetic figure of Ashe, the Lord Commander of the Office of Deployment of Minas Tirith moved forward as if he were not walking at all beneath the rich, dark clerical robes he wore, denoting his powerful office. In fact, some said that in practical terms only the Steward himself wielded more responsibility. His hair was steel gray, worn long around his sharp, bird-like features. Tall and stooped, hands always slightly bent from a lifetime with a pen spent over ledgers and documents, some rashly called him “The Vulture”, but only behind his back.
Xandilif set her tankard down. “Well…what brings my Lord Vulture down from his nest in the great tree? Some new bones to pick?” Rash did not even begin to describe Xandilif the Banshee.
Gareth rolled his eyes and Ashe made a sound in the back of his throat that may have been a laugh, may have been a snort…it was hard to tell. “You are a long way from Dol Amroth, Maiden of Madness. I trust my dear cousin Lothiriel abides well without either her doting father or her favorite live doll close at hand?”
The champion started to stand but Ashe moved around the edge of the bench, and sat down himself. “There, there Champion…I…I am sorry, I did not come to spar. Not this time. I wish to speak of that prisoner who died on the road from the Bay…what was his name? Gwyddion? Garion?”
Xandilif stayed where she was and looked back out at the dying sunset…somewhere near the horizon there was a flare of fire as an orcish catapult was triggered far away. “Gwaelion…Gwaelion of Ost Lontir was his name…and he didn’t just die, he was murdered on YOUR watch, ya fecking wretch.”
Ashe licked his thin lips. “Well, the watch of Captain Gareth technically, but I admit the fact that his orders were changed somewhere along the line is...disturbing…most disturbing. If the common rabble knew such a thing was possible, if our forces were given reason to question their orders…chaos and destruction would soon hold sway.
Ashe paused, also looking out at the fading sunset, and continued. “The Office of Deployment regrets the oversight, as does the Office of Justice and Punishment. I fear that both bodies were…used in some game which seems to go beyond the normal politics and civil defense that the White City thrives on. However, some good has come from the debacle as I understand that Agdarom the Viper, long a thorn in the side of this city, was slain by your sister, the Monk of Osgilliath.”
Xandiif spat. “Ya gonna tell me something I don’t know or you just here for a long drop?”
Ashe smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. Ashe never smiled pleasantly. “If only you had been so eager as the Argent Lions died around you, Kinsla…”
Gareth cleared his throat. “My lord…”
The older man recovered himself and nodded. “Again, I am sorry, being out in the air has given me high spirits….as for what you do not know we have no time to even begin such a vast and far ranging topic. Suffice it to say, Gareth had his Hounds roll up those criminal associates who worked with the Viper. As he felt thwarted, I doubt his men were especially gentle, and they found that Agdarom had been hired to make this mischief by a man named Tarlangon. He seems tied to Dol Amroth some how but I doubt he is a native of that city…there is a…foreign feel about him, if you understand me.”
Xandilif looked at Ashe, her eyes remaining cold and impassive. “I’ve heard the name…that was all they squeezed out of the Viper’s boys?”
Gareth shook his head. “No…as they squeezed very hard. Word is this Tarlangon was involved with the Withered Tree. He was apparently a connection between that bunch of traitors and some kind of religious cult, the Servants of the Crimson Eye I think. Seems they are mainly running about the Riddermark but are connected to some of the remnants of the Kingsmen, which it seems Tarlangon is descended from.”
The Champion nodded slowly in the failing light. “Black Numenoreans. I HATE Black Numenoreans. That would make a lot of sense…but what is a Rohan cult of feckin' Sauron worshippers doing in Minas Tirith?”
Ashe broke in, clearly wishing to speed this process up. “I will use smaller words. The cult was providing arms and relics to the Withered Tree…seems our local rebels felt stealing from the local armories would be too easy to trace so they sought arms from elsewhere. The cult’s man in charge of arms smuggling had some connection to a Company of Riders, similar to our own Knights, called the Elfword or some such. Barbaric language, Rohirric. Alfara his name was. Apparently there was a falling out among thieves recently and he is dead, sparing us hunting him.”
The elleth startled at the name. “Alfara? Are you sure about that?”
“The questioned filth seemed to be sure, but of course they were not the brightest candles on the hearth and I doubt the Viper or his master Tarlangon kept them well briefed, so who knows.” Ashe shrugged and rose. “As for Targlangon, they say he has departed in all haste, headed for the Morgul Vale it seems. Perhaps he has retired to live out his old age beside the burning swamp? Either way, the filth seemed to think he was unhappy with how things turned out, was in quite a temper about it. Perhaps the death of your little friend did not gain him what he had hoped for?”
Ashe paused for a moment in the now torchlit darkness, Gareth and the Hounds moving to follow him. “As for how the orders to the Hounds were changed, perhaps this cult used black magic, perhaps there are more secrets yet to be uncovered….either way, it is OUR concern, not yours Champion of the Azure Faithful, so for you the matter ends HERE. Stop distracting the Companies about it and return to Dol Amroth…or perhaps to the Morgul Vale, I am told you have done good service in such places in the past. Do NOT make me bar you from the White City. Enjoy your evening before riding forth. That is all.”
Gareth shrugged gently to Xandilif as Ashe moved away, the common folk still out on the Pier bowing to the oblivious Lord Commander as he passed. The Knights fell into step behind him, pennants raised in the breeze.
Xandilif kicked the bench as they tromped away and slipped SilverWand back onto her back. “Well, at least we found out something…and the feckless goons who run this city are on notice. Not sure what to do about that news of the cult and Rohan. Wasn't Eduwiges old man named Alfara or something like it? Gonna have to run all that past Rian, eventually.”
Nodding farewell and returning the tankard to Talbot, she began walking back into the city proper from the Pier. Ashe had made it clear that she would need a damn good reason to still be here at dawn…not that she wanted to be anyway. The longer she was away, the more foolishness Finchley could get into…
..and Finchley could get into a LOT of foolishness.
