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Reddwyn’s Tale – Part 2

January 22, 2011 — mealinda

Later that night, Reddwyn had a fitful, nightmare filled sleep. In her feverish vision she saw a beautiful white crystal of elven make upon a fillet of dwarfish silver, awash and lost upon a roaring sea, only to be cast ashore upon a river bank. The beautiful circlet was then crushed under a black tower rising out of the mud, wreathed in smoke and ash. Children fled before the charge of a quartet of dark armored cavalry upon black chargers, whose hooves were soaked with blood and had eyes the color of molten steel. They boys fled across a river of blood on a raft and sought shelter in a stable that housed a dancing horse, where they hid shivering in fright from the ominous advance of the four riders. Out of the darkness strode a knight in shining white, wielding a broken sword in one hand and a burning torch of white wood in another. His defense of the youths was epic, driving back the black knights before him until he was blinded by the light of a burning orb that floated in mid-air. The four dark myrmidons raised their swords in unison to strike down the defenseless champion when the orb swiveled towards Reddwyn and the flames parted to reveal a lidless reptilian eye wreathed in fire. “YOU! WHERE!”, commanded a sinister voice in the darkness of the minstrel’s nightmare.

Reddwyn bolted upright, woken from her restless sleep with a silent scream, her voice stolen by the terror of her vision, invaded by a malice long thought banished. Tears streaming from her eyes, she wretched repeatedly over the side of her bed. The room was too hot and stifling for her, even though a cold rain beat outside and she flung the windows of her dark room open, the chill of the night clearing her head.

A flash of lightning revealed four dark robed figures slinking through the courtyard of the Prancing Pony heading for the guest house. Gripped with terror, she bolted into the corner of her small room and curled up into a ball, shuddering and rocking back and forth in shock and horror, stunned by the realization of the true identity of the dark brooding Ranger. My king! I have betrayed him!

One of the four, Kahmul, the Dark Easterling, the Second of the Nine Ring Wraiths, looked up at the open window and sniffed, then chuckled evilly to himself and led his three terrible companions into the Inn. Now there was nothing to stand in his way to retrieving the Ring, how maddening it was to have the Ring almost in his grasp, only to have that Hobbit escape over the waters of the Brandywine. Yes, the horses could have swam the river but there was no way that a Ringwraith would cross running water, not even to face the wrath of their dark lord Sauron himself, because not even he would tempt the power of Ulmo, Lord of Waters, no matter how feeble his strength might be in Middle Earth after the dark terror of Morgoth.

Instead, it was north to the Brandywine bridge and at every pace and turn they were delayed and harried by snares, pitfalls, caltrops and all manner of devious invention to keep them from the Ring. Precious were the hours lost chasing the giggling red-headed shadow: swift as a deer and silent as a whisper. Neither Man nor Elf was this mischievous spirit, and when finally trapped and surrounded it cursed at him in some ancient Elfling tongue, “Neener, Neener, NEE-ner” and lost itself in the Old Forest of Buckland. Again, the Ringwraiths were thwarted by a power older and greater than they and Khamul hurled the darkest of curses at the streaming yellow ribbons round the sprite’s head.

But that nuisance was not here, the Hobbits’ maddening escort was lost in the deepest boughs of the Old Forest. Wordlessly, Khamul threw another pox upon the not-quite-a-woman’s pointy ears and silently and effortlessly he and his fell companions moved through the empty common room until they arrived at the guest house. The black captain reached for a door then tilted his head to the side as if listening to some far away summons.

Above him in her room, Reddwyn Merriweather sang softly to herself the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Ballad of the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, the fateful battle of the First Age in which the flower of the Noldor Elves were cut down before the gates of Angband and the Second King of the Noldor, Fingon son of Fingolfin was slain by Gothmog, Lord of the Balrogs. The bloody event marked a dark time in the First Age and the beginning of the end of the golden age of Beleriand, but it also foretold the prophecy of the line of Kings begun through Elros son of Earendil.

Half a world away, on the banks of the Imladris, Glorfindel, Captain of Gondolin, who himself was present at the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, heard the faintest of strains of that lament in the quietest zephyrs of the pre-dawn and raised his voice in mournful song. Even though that bloody war was thousands of years in the distant past, to an ancient elf such as Glorfindel, the Golden-haired, the sorrows of those dark times never heal nor are forgotten and the heartfelt whispered dirge of a minstrel many leagues distant still struck a sorrowful chord in the elf-lord’s heart. His voice was joined by many others in Rivendell and soon the Valley of Imladris echoed with the collective anguish of an ancient people.

Back in Bree, the dread Khamul shook his head and hesitated. He and his brethren had to strike swiftly, for if they did not, the slippery Ranger would elude capture. The Nazgul reached for the door, confident that the King and his charges slept behind it. Soundlessly they moved into position above the beds and raised their blades as one, but their assassins’ blows were for naught as they struck nothing but pillows, victims of the guile of a Ranger.

The Black Easterling led his comrades out of the inn to continue his pursuit when he felt from that open window the Power of the Noldor flowing from Glorfindel and channeled through the song of the minstrel. “The Elf-lord? Here?”, thought the Nazgul lieutenant. Powerful though he was, the Dark Easterling was under no delusion that he and his three minions were even close to a match of one of the oldest and most powerful of the Noldor Elf-Lords. “Elf trickery! A trap!”, screaming in frustration, Khamul lead the Nazgul out of Bree, for if the Ring was not here, they would not be able to pick up its trace again in the presence of the Elf-Lord, who surely used it as a lure to smite them down so the four fled eastwards before the rising of the sun.

After sunrise, Reddwyn rushed downstairs to the common room, still disheveled and soiled from the previous night, “Bartleman! Bartleman! Where is the Strider?” Looking frightened and spent the owner of the Inn answered, “I rightly don’t know. That Strider fellow paid his tab in full before he arrived. I honestly am amazed why with his rent paid for the night he took Mister Underhill and his party to stay the night at Opal Goodbody’s. It’s not as if he didn’t have a good room in the guest house, but I reckon that Underhill chap has a bit of ill luck about him or ran afoul of some folks with a serious mind for violence. Good for him he had that Ranger about … have you seen their guest room? What a frightful bit of work last night was! Maybe that hobbit and his lot had business in Staddle or beyond, dangerous folk have been milling about those parts recently, why else would they have needs of a Ranger. Anyhow, good riddance to them wee-folk and let them take their foul troubles with them.” Butterburr harrumphed with indignation and then shuddered at the memory of that frightening night and went about his business cleaning up.

Reddwyn returned to her room, and shortly thereafter, having washed and gathered her belongings bade Bartleman and Lilly farewell and set off to follow in the footsteps of her King.

Moments later, an unseen figure in the corner, cloaked in gray sprung lightly to her feet, her hood falling back to reveal a shaggy mop of red hair feebly held in check by a yellow silk ribbon and bounded by pointy elvish ears. Brushing some unseen dirt off garish yellow boots she stretched and lightly skipped out of the Prancing Pony Inn, “Ha-HAH! The game’s a-feets! I’m gonna hafta make hurry hurry to catch up with my ‘Lil Cuz, but first … time to have one last heart to heart with old Uncle Bill.” Unfortunately for Bartleman Butterburr, he caught a glimpse of the madness and mayhem dancing in the glittering green eyes of Francess Thurlowe Pulver, unawares that what little passed for sanity in the half-elf had fled the light of day the prior evening when she confronted Khamul on the Brandywine bridge. Shuddering, the portly barkeep thought to himself that Bill Ferny was going to wish he were anywhere else but Bree in the next few hours.

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