Oc-tober Day 17 - Legend - Lastadron
It was perhaps impolite to barge into a person's private rooms without permission, and even downright stupid to do so with an Elf-lord's private rooms. Lastadron would like to think that this was a special occasion.
"What do you know about Angmar's champion?"
Laerdan didn't jump (not that Lastadron had really thought he would) but rather looked up with a mildly surprised expression, which quickly turned to concern.
"What on earth happened to you?" For anyone else, it might have been an emphatic, the hell?
“Yesterday--- you said something about Angmar having a champion. What do you know about her?
Laerdan didn’t react right away--- which was fair, considering Lastadron’s appearance.
He hadn’t been conscious when the blood-sworn had dragged him from Minas Deloth and dumped him in the wilds of Himbar, but they or their mistress apparently had something of a sense of humor. He’d been dressed in what was either Angmarim ceremonial robes or perhaps a demented bedsheet. It was long, tattered, blood-red, and did not in the least fit.
His own clothes had been nowhere to be seen, and as he hadn’t crossed paths with any Ranger besides Areneth on his breakneck trek through Gath Forthnír, he was still dressed in them.
After only a moment, however, Laerdan focused, and a crease appeared in his brow as he concidered Lastadron’s words.
“I know much of her, my friend, but what has happened to you? Those are the robes of acolytes in the service of Angmar.”
Lastadron sighed. His blood was still fizzling from the horrific spectacal he had been witness to, and his mind had not yet fully cleared of the strange fog.
It was only nearly an hour later, dressed in spare clothes of the Rangers’, that Lastadron was at last able to tell his tale in full. Of the strange, winding journey into that dread tower, he said little, but spoke in length of the meeting hall, the rows of fell spirits, the palantír, and at last the uncloaking of Sara Oakheart and the conference with the Lidless Eye.
When at last he fell silent, his throat was dry and the room dead silent. Only Golodir, Laerdan, and two of the most senior Rangers of the Second were present here in Golodir’s own chambers, and every one focused entirely on him. Lastadron self-consciously took a sip of the water he had been supplied with, and his jiggling hands stilled somewhat.
One of the Rangers, Maerchiniath, at last spoke up. “If this is the same Amarthiel of which our legends speak, at the battle of Fornost---”
“It is.” Laerdan’s face was pale, and tense.
“Fell news,” Golodir, of them all, looked the least affected, still as grimly determined as ever. “She has a palantír, you saw? The same Mordirith kept?”
Lastadron nodded, and turned once more to Laerdan. “You said you knew much of this Amarthiel, and the rest of you know her name. Who is she?”
“She was Angmar’s champion, in the days of its rising.” Laerdan’s voice came slow, and his gaze directed into the fire. “All through the Witch-king’s conquest of Eriador, she marched with his forces, fought with his minions, and before her, the good people of the North quailed. The armies of Angmar marched behind her on Fornost, and Fornost fell.
“Yet Eärnur came out of the South, and Glorfindel from the East, and together their forces retook that great city. History records that she was defeated upon the fields of battle that day, by an unknown Elf, and I had thought her dead. But now, you say she has arisen again in might.” he fell silent, staring into the fiery depths of the hearth.
“This Sara Oakheart,” Golodir spoke again, “She has shed her guise at last, but why did she bear it at all? She was there, that day, when Mordirith was felled, but she did not come to his aid, nor even appeared before the palantír was unguarded. ...Is she allied with him, or isn’t she? And if she is as mighty as you recall, Laerdan, then why has she not risen to strike us all down, here in her own land where none might know?”
A faint shudder passed around the small room, and the fire, the only light to be had this deep in the caverns, sent ominous shadows scurrying about the corners. The two Rangers, Brúnfair and Maerchiniath, regarded their captain warily, but he heeded them not, fierce gaze levelled solely on Laerdan until the Elf at last looked up.
“The majority of Amarthiel’s power, they say, came from a mighty ring: Narchuil, forged by the Gwaith-i-Mírdain in their days under Antheron. Few alive still remember this, and most pass it off as fantasical horror-story. Still, the tale has the right of it. Not a Ring, as Sauron himself helped to forge, and still not one of the Three Rings of Elves, that Celebrimbor himself wrought in secret. A lesser ring, by all account, but evil, and one that could lend devestating power to its bearer.”
“Could? Did she lose it?” Lastadron said, and immediately found himself subject to the full force of Laerdan’s ancient gaze.
“Yes, she lost it, that day upon Fornost hill, but it was not destroyed, and I believe she must seek it still, for her only power without it is the loyalty of her minions, great though that is.”
“What happened to it?” This time it was Brúnfair who voiced the question.
“It was broken, they say, and hidden, but where none know, not even Amarthiel. She has in her possession a palantír now, though, and with it she will learn of its location with time. I am afraid there is little we can do regarding that.”
A silence fell on the chamber then, of consideration and brooding. At last Golodir rose, and drew aside the rough-hewn door that led to the rest of Gath Forthnír. A dim, torchlit hallway lay beyond, and the faint echo of voices could be heard somewhere down it.
“You have endured a great trial,” he said gravely to Lastadron, and as if drawn by his words a wave of exhaustion passed over him. “Rest, and take food. We will plan our next move.”
Areneth, now off duty from the surface, led him to one of the cavernous barracks that housed the Rangers, and he passed out nearly immediately upon lying down. He did not sleep well, though, and his dreams were troubled.
