((For Creowyn <3, who asked me several
times when I would continue my stories, hehe))
South-Lands of the Kingdom of Dale
Earldom Running, Castle Oromung,
Late Summer T.A. 3015
Matuk did not awake, because a gleam of morning light or a sound had awoken him, but because his head threatened to burst. Such an headache he never had before and the taste in his mouth, was more than just sickening. With a grumble he sat up and held his head.
The smell about him however was not much better than the one coming up from his throat, also the sight of his surroundings was less than he had wished for.
He sat, as he slowly realized, upon a damp bundle of straw midst a small, barren and quite unfriendly cell on which walls hung moss and water ran down. Otherwise was any furnishing sought in vain. In front of him stood a pitcher with water, light was given by a candle that could loose its life any moment.
Desperately he tried to recall what happened to him at the last evening but could only remember that he was angry with the priestess Ælbdís, Hopefully he did not kill her in his drunkenness and sat that for in the dungeon.
Very carefully did he get up and walked towards the iron door.
»Hello«, he called weakly. The sound that was tossed several times between the walls of stone caused his head to spin and small lights to appear before his eyes. »I am awake now. Does somebody hear? Where am I?«
Nothing moved. Then suddenly it became dark, the candle denied him any further service.
The monk went the short steps back until he could feel the straw-bundle, leaned the pounding head against the cool stone and let the water run over his forehead. He had no other possibility left but to wait that someone would come and take care of him.
With every splash of a water drop that hit the hard ground came a small part of his memory back. He had tried to strike the priestess and incited the people to hang her.
Quietly he groaned and began to address Ilúvatar with one of the many prayers so that his god would forgive him his terrible deed, for the last thing he could need now was the wrath of his divine lord.
Finally a key turned within the lock of the door, heavy bars were pushed aside, then the blinding shine of a torch fell into Matuk's jail.
»Did you sleep well, monk?«, asked an amused voice. Heavy boots came closer, metal plates and rings grated together that summoned up a constant clashing. A strong hand took him beneath his arms and pulled him up. »My lord wants to see you.«
Several men in chain mails towed him more or less kindly over endless many stairs always upwards. They crossed an adequately courtyard on which men held their combat exercises. Then it went up again over steep stairs, through two large rooms until they stood in front of a broad door and entered after one of the men had knocked politely.
Without doubt was Matuk within the armory of the castle.
The walls hung full with swords, morning stars, axes and hatchets and other, sometimes quite exotic, tokens that a warrior needed to fell his enemy. Between the weapons were different shields situated, emblazoned with coats of arms and in all too different conditions. Some gleamed like new, some appeared slightly battered, while two or three of them were only held together by thick iron bars.
As most breath-taking however found the monk the collection of flags, banners and standards that hung down from a balustrade. Even though he was well read upon the symbols and the heraldic, there were only four that he knew. Wherever the others were coming from, they were not of Middle-Earth.
Midst the room stood a almost black table with nine chairs.
At the end sat a heavily armored man in a plate-armor, who Matuk estimated to be in his thirties. The right hand rested upon the, by jewels adorned, hilt of an highly rare elvish long-sword, the left held a silver goblet. His dark-brown hair was upon his head only as long as a finger-tip, otherwise completely cut down. The more fell the long, waxed and blond dyed beard into the eye that reached almost upon his chest.
Next to him sat Ælbdís who did not seem to care about the red welt that was visible about her neck. Obviously the two had just been in a conversation for they turned towards the men quite testy.
The knight raised his head. »You are sober, I hope.«
»Sober enough to ask in all humbleness for forgiveness to you and to Ælbdís«, answered Matuk and lowered his gaze. »I was drinking too much, what does not justify my doing.«
»I found our conversation to the beginning actually quite interesting«, cawed the priestess, talking still caused her problems. With a quick motion did the Elf stroke her long white-blond hair back. »But it took then a very uncomfortable turn.«
»If you have forgotten my name, what I almost believe, it sounds Torfrid of Running, knight in the Order of Swords and servant to Oromë. To me belongs the land in forty miles to each direction, I speak right and law as rightful landlord.« He stood up and pointed at the chair next to him. »Sit with us so that we may discuss a proper penalty for you.«
The monk walked slowly to the him appointed seat and thought, how he could make his way out of this situation. By every dalish noble he would have been let go with a mild lesson, but just on the ground of an obstinate knight of an order, that gave little on Ilúvatar, he had to drink and fall out of the line.
»You are accused with inciting the folk to raise hands against this woman without a valid reason.«, The brown eyes rested seeking on the face of the monk. »What do you have to say to that and what would be a gratifying punishment?«
»If it goes after me«, notified Ælbdís, »I would be satisfied with an sincerely excuse. He did not know what he would do. He was too drunken for that in that night.«
Thankfully did Matuk smile. »I am sorry for my doing, Ilúvatar may be my witness, with all fervency and honesty that a monk can have. I hereby promise to never again touch a drop of wine, beer or liquor.« The priestess nodded.
»Very well. Your Manwë must be a very forgiving god if he is satisfied so easily.«Torfrid hit the floor with his sword sheath. »Oromë however is it not and the laws of Dale are not either. Given that you are a monk, most likely even the provost of one of the houses of your god, I will not be too hard with you and because I think too that the wine is to blame to a large part of your misconduct.« The hard face of the knight turned towards Matuk. »I hereby sentence that you will be held in my dungeons for one year instead of for the rest of your life. Do not thank me for my kindness.«
Ælbdís seemed at least as surprised as the monk.
»Lord, not that you think that I would not want to repent for my doing, but I have an important mission to undertake for my order«, Matuk began carefully, while he was warily of every reaction of the knight.
»About that you should have thought earlier«, replied Torfrid and slewd the goblet. »I have bend the current law already enough. Would I decide even more in your favor, Oromë would surely be unhappy with me.«
»But otherwise you could draw the wrath of Ilúvatar upon you, lord«, Matuk tried as a new attempt. He could not sit behind the walls of this castle for a year. He had to travel on as quickly as possible to find the treacherous noble in Lake-Town, before it was too late. »My task is too important.«
»Be careful, monk«, growled the man, »you move on very thin ice at the moment.«
»Do you not understand, lord?«, begged Matuk. »You have to grant me a postponement. Let me bring my task to the end and I return to your dungeons willingly, but please, do not jail me now.«
»Who guarantees me that you will return? Ilúvatar?«, Torfrid grunted. »An oath upon your god I whistle on and an oath on Oromë does not apply to your right. Not in your case.«
Ælbdís had listened explicit to the completely exhausted monk. Her silver eyes shimmered in the light of the slowly descending sun and shone like liquid, bright metal. She felt that behind the ruffling and the often mentioned mission lay more than Matuk was willing to admit. What secret held the monk for himself?
Something similar must have gone through the mind of the knight. »What kind of improcrastinatable task is it that you must do? Maybe I will understand and grant you the postponement.«
Matuk pressed his lips unto each other. »I am not allowed to speak about it, lord, forgive me«
»Then take a good look upon the descending sun.« Torfrid pointed with his goblet to the narrow window, through which the rays of light fell. »You will not be able to enjoy them for long anymore.« The man walked towards the door and called for the guards. »I wish you a pleasant stay in my dungeons. My prisoners, only to your reassurance, are cared for very good.«
The guards took the monk who made a more than depressed image, into their midst and left the armory.
»You however may be my guest as long as you like.« The knight turned to Ælbdís.
»Thou art very generous to someone unknown«, thanked the priestess.
»That is self-evident, after all do I have more than enough.« Torfrid looked thoughtfully towards the banners. »Do you have an idea what the monk wanted to keep to himself? I do not understand his behavior, to be honest.«
The Elf kneaded on her lower lip. »Wouldst thou give willingly knowledge about the business of your order?« The man negated. »Then thou just answered the question thyself.«
»Let us speak of something else.« Torfrid appeared to become slowly bored with the matter. »Rather tell me something about your land that is all too legendary to me.«
»I wager thou art more interested in the military things than culture and knowledge«, smiled the beautiful Elf. »I am afraid I cannot be much of help there. I am priestess, as thou knowst.«
»One hears the most wondrous stories about your warriors and their weapons. Can you not tell something about their war-equipment? If Manwë is also the god of knowledge, you should be able to deliver more than just an excuse«, tried the knight.
»Thou wouldst not want to know the secret of the unquenchable fire, dost thou?«, asked the priestess shrewdly.
»If you would have it coincidentally with you, I would not object to that. I heard, it may even burn stones to ash.«
»That is but a legend«, she laughed, »that we often spread to drive fear into the hearts of our enemies. But the secret is jealously treasured by our warriors. For the uncountable war apparatus and machines they have their own engineers who have little to do with Manwë. My knowledge is of different being. I can tell the farmers how they could draw more earnings from their fields.«
»That is also worth something, but nothing for the military library of the Order of Swords«, said Torfrid disappointed.
Ælbdís stepped next to him. »Are these flags and banners? Thou hast hopefully just one family-crest, no?«
»These are booty, conquered by my ancestors in hundred years of labor.« The man knocked proudly at one of the shields. »For every foe at a tournament. I could add so far nighty-seven myself.«
»How often hast thou been pushed out of the saddle?«
»Only eight times. Two times heavily wounded the other times were only harmless flesh wounds and fractures«, elaborated Torfrid proudly. »The followers of Oromë are tough.«
»And if thou wouldst have died?« Ælbdís appeared interested.
»Then I would have been taken into the company of Oromë's followers and would have honored him with my death.«
»Is it true that thy Order grasps after their swords only in the most rarest occasions? I can hardly believe that by the gathering of weapons.«
»That is only partly true.« He offered her a chair. »Sit, I will explain it to you.« The knight took a seat as well. »We, who worship Oromë, show our god respect through our mastery of our weapons. We fight in tournaments to the honor of Oromë, while the skill of the fighter is important, no matter sword, morning star, club, lance or spear. Usually does such a duel end if one of the opponents surrenders or falls unconscious. If one of them dies, he will go to the followers of the god, the highest honor that a member of the order may receive.«
»But what if ye are brought into an ambush or attacked by bandits?«
»We live to serve Oromë, not to battle with the common riffraff. For that we have our companions. Or ranged weapons. Only in the most dire emergency would I grasp myself to sword and axe. But then I fight to survive for only the death in a duel is honorable.« He bend forward. »Do not get me wrong, if I find a challenge I will accept it, if I find it interesting and worthy enough. But I will not die.«
»The armor is more than unusual.« Ælbdís' fingers wandered over the metal parts. »Most of the guards in Dale wear a simple chest-guard.«
»If we step before our god then we want to do so in glory. In linen dies every beggar«, said Torfrid scornfully and stroked over his beard. »It is a question of honor, simple as that.«
»Nothing more? I see already, ye have so some similarities to our warriors«, replied the priestess.
»What do you think of combat?«
»Let me say it like that, that the relation between priests and the warriors is about as good as thy relation to the order of Ilúvatar«, she answered diplomatic. »We know one another, respect each other, but avoid too great contact.«
»What are your next plans then?« The knight looked at her silver eyes, strayed off and with a suddenly very lewd look over her robe.
»I will remain this night in thy castle, then in the next morning I would like to go north as quick as I can to spread the faith of Manwë.«
»Then you will be for a long time on the road. Alone.« A seductive smile laid itself upon the face of Torfrid. »You are a priestess of knowledge. Would you like to learn something as long as you are still within the walls of my castle?«
Ælbdís was by the amount of such frankness and directness more than surprised.
»What would make thee think that thou couldst still teach me something?«, she replied quick-witted and straightened up her back. »Besides, I am priestess.«
»What has the one to do with the other? I am member of a order of warriors and still prefer a woman on my bed«, answered the knight with a grin.
»I will think about it«, she promised half-hearted, although she would never spend the night with a mortal or someone she did not love. To that did she perceive the man as a bit too convinced of himself.
»Good night.«
»Oh that fully depends on you«, he said to the Elf, while she went out the door and left the armory.
Before she would take herself a bit of a rest, she had to clarify one thing. Her way led her down into the dungeons of the castle.
She found Matuk crouched and absorbed in his prayers. The palms laid together, the eyes closed, he mumbled quietly the verses. Only as the guard pushed back the heavy bar with a loud noise did the monk turn his head and looked towards the entrance.
»Do you come to celebrate your triumph?« He led his head sink. »It seems to me as if I would have fallen into more than just disgrace that Ilúvatar lets me remain in this jail.«
»See it as a test.« The priestess went down on her knees, too. »But maybe I can help thee to come out of this hole if thou wouldst tell what thy mission is.«
The monk looked as if being under a spell into the silver of her eyes. Deeper and deeper went something into his thoughts, tickled softly in his head and stroked his soul with a friendly warmth. It was a feeling that he knew from the time of his childhood, as his mother had stroked him affectionately through his hair or embraced and comforted him. Security and trust made themselves free.
»I must rescue Dale from a grim doom«, he said quietly.
»A very hard task for but a man.« Ælbdís' voice was soft, sensitive. »Trust in me, Matuk. What must thou do?«
»I am supposed to kill a noble, to prevent that he forges a conspiracy against the King.« Finally he could speak with someone about it. »The arbiter and the secret council of Ilúvatar find that the information we received point to that version that he must be killed.«
Ælbdís breathed audible out. »And thou art certain within thy task?«
Matuk hesitated. »I am almost certain.«
»Thou hast just said that in this version he must be killed. Can the information be interpreted also in the opposite way? How does that come?«
»We found out that an Easterling spy was within the house of our god, who most likely killed the messenger because he alone knew of the wording of the message and nobody else was supposed to know what doom would come as storm over Dale«, Matuk explained and began to tell Ælbdís everything what he knew.
Over one hour he spoke.
The Elf listened without interrupting him a single time. With every said sentence, her face became more and more thoughtful.
After the monk was done with his elaboration, she laid her hand soothingly on his shoulder.
»I will help thee, Matuk. I will ask Manwë for aid so that we, with his support, may find a way out of the jail for thee and a way to lift the fog about this mystery. If thy story is true as thou hast told it, my god will not refuse his aid.«
»But why does Ilúvatar not help me?« Matuk lowered desperately his gaze, a tear ran down his cheek. »Why?«
The Elf stood up. »I cannot answer to that question. Pray on, maybe thy god will give thee a sign.« She left the cell.
Matuk observed indifferently how the water from his eyes fell as drops upon the stone floor and disappeared within the gaps.
More and more faded his trust into his divine patron, who did not seem to care about the fate of his children.
