((For Amlarad and Anglachelm, my most favorite ranger and my beloved elf-lord))
Rhovanion, Kingdom of Dale,
twenty miles before Lake-Town,
Winter T.A. 3015
A group of twenty armed riders and a sledge appeared on the upper edge of the other side of the shore. They displayed no crests, no pennants or banners, only through the expensive equipment it could be seen that it had to be wealthy people who had come with the same intentions to the river as Matuk, Ælbdís and Torfrid with his men.
The squires had stopped their labor and awaited that one of the strangers would say something. Three riders came loose from the others from the group and rode to the raft. A short conversation followed.
»Milord, they want to ferry across before us!«, shouted a squire over. »They say they are in haste.«
»Out of the question!«, called the Order-Knight back. »We were here first, we had the trouble, so we have the right to use the raft as first. And in haste we are too.«
»So let them cross«, said the monk calmly. »We will get on the other side early enough. Or we take turns.«
»I do not know if the rope can stand the constant encumbrance«, answered Torfrid with a lowered voice. »I do not mind them drowning, but I mind us doing so.« He indicated the squires to continue their work. »We take turn first, then you can cross the river as often as you like!«, he called to the other side.
A tremendous man with a chest-guard came down the shore on a black and powerful war horse. From the horse back he argued with Torfrid's servants.
»He says, his master is Rantsila, noble of Lake-Town and the confidant of King Brand and we are to obey him.« The squire sounded a bit insecure.
»Continue, come back with the raft and then I come in person to the other side of the shore so he can tell me himself«, ordered the knight. »Without legitimate standards, as it should be, I do not believe a word he says.«
Matuk was shaken by a shudder. If that on the other side should be really the noble Rantsila and with that the possible traitor, then he had come closer to his target than he had liked.
Also the priestess appeared suddenly alarmed. Luckily was the knight so busy with the others that he did not notice any of their reactions.
The monk felt as if he had been paralyzed. He did not know what to do. He carried no weapon, he had not the brink of an idea how he should close in on the confidant, save pass the twenty guards. He simply starred across the river, the thoughts were skipping over one another.
In his hand did it lay to avert a terrible fate from the Kingdom of Dale or to slay an innocent man. Over there, only a strong throw away, waited the traitor of the Easterlings in the form of a young man, and only he and Ælbdís knew of it. Had he only told the knight about his mission! With the small armed company on his side, the path would have been cleared quickly.
The Elf touched him softly at the shoulder and let something hard and slender fall into the pocket of his mantle. Matuk felt a narrow, delicate knife.
»Take it. A single scratch and thy foe will die«, she whispered. »The weapon is poisoned.«
The monk became pale, the surroundings began to turn before his eyes and he noticed the approaching faltering of his consciousness. Too great was the excitement and the responsibility that lay on him. Heavy he fell into the snow.
»He, brother Redwine! Did you take another mug too much?« Torfrid laughed, then he turned his attention back to the strangers. »I bet that is just a pompous noble who wants to act high and mighty.«
Worried did Ælbdís kneel at Matuk's side, rubbed his face with snow. The coldness drove his confusedness away. »Put thyself together«, she whispered quietly.
»I do not know what I should do«, he stammered.
»Think of the kingdom, of the people. He will pass here, thou wilt give him the blessing of Ilúvatar and to the same time, thou wilt attack with the knife.«
»That would start a fight.« He wiped his eyes clean of the white cold. »And you could be hurt in that, Ælbdís.«
»That does not matter. Think of the future.« The Elf pulled him up on his feet.
»I explain it to you one last time. That up there is one of the lords of Lake-Town, excellence Rantsila and his wife. I am his body-guard. And by his authority, he declares his precedence before your lord. Did you understand that?« The ice-grey eyes of the man rested intimidating on the squires. »He is a representive of the King. To stand in his way means to stand in the way of the ruler of Dale. And what that means, I wager I do not have to explain to you fools.«
»And you have well heard our lord«, gave one of them as answer and grasped the axe tighter. »And ...«
»Your lord may be a knight, but he is subject to the laws of the king«, did the bodyguard cut into his words. »If you give up the raft not willingly, then I will conquer it.« The fingers closed around the hilt of his sword. The war horse blew frosty air and closed in on them.
The man with the black steed, let the squires retreat further and further to the back of the raft. Only a bit wood parted them now from the icy waters that would surely mean to freeze to death. Just in the last moment, they placed the axes on their backs and began to return to the shore were the others and the sledges were waiting.
Torfrid was in rage as he saw that the other group had secured the raft for themselves. »Would I just been there. I would have cut him to pieces!«
Matuk grasped around the hilt of the knife and waited shivering what would happen next. One prayer in his mind followed the other. The driven off squires arrived at the save land.
The first riders made ready to go on the raft and to set over.
Torfrid's eyes became narrowed. »Not so«, he muttered. »Then no one gets unto the other side.«
»What art thee going to do now again ...«, Ælbdís began incensed, but Torfrid had turned his thoughts already into reality.
With a single movement he drew the massive elvish blade, whirled one time around himself and severed the post of the width of a medium tree so easily as if the blade would have been gliding through butter.
The cut off wood and the rope shot through the air and landed with a loud audible splash in the middle of the river, where it was carried away by the stream.
The raft drifted to the side and began, robbed of its guidance, to follow the post. In the last second the riders managed to escape the dancing and jumping ferry. Loud cursing sounded from the other side, fists were shaken and threats spewed.
The knight laughed and was obviously amused; his men followed his example and cheered as if they would have won a war.
He threw down the furs and showed the shimmering armor. »I am Torfrid of Running, knight of the Order of Oromë's Sword, follower of the god of battle, of the hunt, of honor and of decency«, he called over the water. »No one dares to rob me of my right unpunished.«
Out of the sledge on the other shore stepped a young man. »And I am Lord Rantsila, royal servant and representive of the king of Dale. Should we meet one day again, I will sure remember you, lord knight, that shall be said.
The man disappeared back into the sledge and the company left the river.
»Thee and thy damned pride«, hissed Ælbdís at Torfrid.
Torfrid put his sword back in its sheath. »I only did what was right and appropriate. And if it really was the Lord, he should have given himself to be noticed. Anyone can claim to be him. We will look for another way. That surely was not the only ferry to Lake-Town.«
Without taking further notice of the two, he swung himself into his saddle and put the furs back over his shoulders.
Matuk remained stunned. Still he stood on the point, where he arduous had gotten up from the snow and looked after the group of the noble that rode along the river into western direction.
He adjusted the furs, »Is someone actually waiting for you in your Elven-Land?«
Ælbdís' eyes became narrowed, a smile scurried over her pretty face. Then she displayed the tipped teeth. »Brother Matuk! Thou askest quite personal questions, dost thou know that? No, no one is waiting for me at home.« After a short moment she added: »And I do not intend to bring someone with me to my house. Just as visitor maybe.«
The monk understood the hint. »Yes. Forgive me, how foolish of me.«
She turned her face to him. »Do not understand me wrong. I hold thee highly in regard, I like thee, Matuk, but more it will never be. I do not wish to make thee any false hopes. If I made thee anyhow think, I would feel more than friendly fondness, then I am sorry.« She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. »I thank thee for the care while I was sick. Take my friendship, if thou likest.« She laid her burned right hand on her heart and offered her left. »Thou may follow me into my land when we have done everything what needs doing. I will lead thee and show thee everything what thou wishest to see.«
Matuk grasped the hand with both of his own and pressed her hand unto his chest. »I promise you, I will always be there for you.« She tilted slightly her head. »And together we will reach our aim. Where do we go now actually?«
»Art thee joking? Still into direction Lake-Town«, she answered. »I thought we should rest a while before we make for the pursuit of the Lord.«
The monk sank back and thought for a while.
»I like the winter. I can remember it well: the snow on the trees and on the land. Like a cold frosting.«
»Or a white death shroud.«
»What an evil comparison.« The beautiful Elf shook her head. »I find it very enchanting. There are places on this world were snow never falls.«
»Who did not plan ahead for the cold winters of Dale will die. The victims are often lonely wanderers or poor farmers, who do not survive the cold months. That for the comparison with the death shroud«, he explained. »The poor souls are found again in spring, if they are not eaten by wild beasts or monsters before.«
The horses fought their way up a small hill, the sledges became a bit slower until they had reached the top.
In the far distance they could make out Lake-Town. Thread-thin smoke lines that protruded up from the chimneys and midst the wooden streets build over the water, rested a box-shaped building, that was taller than all the others.
»That must be the King's palace«, estimated Matuk.
»And soon we will sit in a tavern and warm our freezing bones«, said the elvish woman and drew her hood deeper into her face to protect herself from the cold wind that blew especially strong on top of the hill.
The company came down the hill-side and closed in on a small forest through which the path was leading. The monk wondered about that the street was still used so frequently, for there were hooves' prints of horse in the freshly fallen snow.
They were already a few steps between the snow-covered trees, as Torfrid let the company halt.
In front of them walked three lordless horses on the way. The associated riders, penetrated by several arrows, lay on the ground. About them the snow was colored red.
The knight grabbed his shield tighter and indicated three of his warriors to see after the men. Carefully and looking to each side they rode to the front and surrounded the dead. In the forest it was completely still, only the wind was rushing through the tree-tops.
»What is the meaning of this?«, whispered Ælbdís to the monk. »Bandits?«
Matuk shrugged with his shoulders. »It could have also been orcs. The winter drives them out of their hide-outs on the search for food.« He found the situation very mysterious. Also the knight appeared terribly tense.
»One of them is alive, milord« The first of the three dismounted and kneeled down next to the wounded one. The stranger tried to speak and grasped shaking after the man.
Something whizzed through the air and screwed itself into the neck of the last riding squire, who after the impact, fell out of the saddle without any further loud. Then followed a rain of crossbow bolts that was costing five more men their lives.
Torfrid shouted an order and galloped to the sledge, while the rest of his men drew their weapons. Suddenly thirty assaulters broke out of the forest and attacked the end of the company, where the lighter armed squires stood.
Matuk drew the knife and crouched with Ælbdís unto the ground of the sledge, to not become a target for a flying bolt of a crossbow.
Around them began a bloody battle.
Ruidin the mercenary lay on the path and acted further on as if he had been hurt. After the attack of his men from the ambush, the three heavily armored men in front of him were no longer attentive to him and wanted to mount their horses to intercept the attackers. Should they be able to do so, then they would, with their superior equipment, ride through the battle like a rock rolled through a field, crushing everything what stood in their way. It was time to act.
»Now!«, he hissed and the other two to his sides jumped up.
Aimed they stung with their knives into the hinge-parts of the armor, the weak point of the metallic protection.
Ruidin thrust his enemy the slim blade below the ear, to the hilt, into the throat, turned the knife a bit and retreated instantly to get out of the reach of the blade, should the man have survived the attack.
But he had aimed well. After a second fell the man into the snow and remained there twitching.
The leader of the mercenaries turned around to see how the fight of the other two was going and had to see that only one succeeded with the deadly task. He stood now against the obviously only wounded knight, who had killed the second man and drove the third one now more and more back with heavy strikes.
The surprised bandit lost his footing, slid away and could not evade the next hit anymore. Deeply drove the steel through the light armor and cut the arm to the half from the body.
Screaming did he fell to the ground, while the knight turned to Ruidin.
The bandit-leader dodged the coming attack and stung two times with his dagger into the less armored spot beneath the armpit. Instantly shot the blood in torrents from the wound.
Ruidin grinned evil and ran to the sledge. He did not have to care of the man, he would have been bleeding to death in a few moments.
The attacked men defended themselves like a raging dragon and albeit the losses to the beginning, they stood now in line and had few wounded ones among them. Unlike his own mercenaries. From the first wave stood only ten more men.
But the reinforcements was thundering already from the front and threw themselves on the guards that stood around the sledge and reflected with their shields everything that came at them. Ruidin saw that on the direct way, he could not get to the noble who he thought to sit in the sledge. So he took a start, threw himself into the snow and skid below the nervous horses to come below driver's seat. Two quick grasps, a pull and he was next to the surprised coachman, whom he killed with a single thrust into the eye.
Still he had gone unnoticed, the guards stood with their backs to him and averted his bandits, that became less and less. Whoever had trained these soldiers, they were too good.
With a short jump he came into the open vehicle and jerked the next figure before him up, the knife he held ready for a death-bringing thrust.
In front of him stood an elderly man, who stung with a small knife after him.
Ruidin evaded simply to the side and rammed the man the arm into the face. Clashing fell his weapon to the ground.
»Let me to the Lord Rantsila!«, he shouted at him, took him by the shoulder and pressed the knife against his throat.
Behind the, by fright stunned, man appeared suddenly a woman with white-blond hair and hit him so quick unto his nose, that he could not act anymore.
Ruidin felt tears shooting into his eyes, he faltered and took a step back. From the corner of his eyes he saw that another bandit had managed to enter the sledge. He stood in the back of the woman.
»Torfrid! Help!«, she screamed. »They are in the sledge!«
The most formidable of the knights whirled around with his horse and took with a roar course to the vehicle, in his hand shimmered the blood-covered massive elvish sword.
Before Ruidin stood the old man again and threatened him with the knife. »Back with you! Here is no Lord Rantsila. We are ...«
»Now!«, he ordered the other bandit and jumped forward, with the knife aiming for the throat of his opponent.
Torfrid heard Ælbdís' desperate voice through the thundering sound of the battle and turned the horse.
Two assaulters had somehow managed to come across the wall of bodies and shields. The Elf had not noticed the man behind her and stood ready to aid the monk who faced his own enemy, waving with a knife before him like a child.
Roaring the knight kicked his heels into the flanks of his horse and set up to a short gallop to come before the attack.
Full of horror he saw how the attacker behind the priestess readied himself as well for a strike.
Suddenly he realized that he could not help them both at the same time.
»Oromë!«, he called desperately and took aim for a tremendous strike.
Tall and overly powerful appeared the knight at the side of the sledge, the sword cut whistling through the air and hit the man before Matuk in its motion.
Again glided the elvish blade through sinews, muscles and bones, as if the man would be made of paper. Even the armor did not held the blade, hardened leather, buckles and strips offered no obstacle and was even as cut in half as the torso of the bearded man.
Then Matuk heard the painful scream of Ælbdís.
Instantly he whirled around and caught the Elf. With the face to the front did she fall against him and threw him to the ground. Through that missed the second strike of the enemy, the monk just past his shoulder.
To another attack, the man did not come anymore, a crossbow bolt in his chest ended his life. With groan he sank back.
»Ælbdís«, gasped Matuk horrified. »Is everything alright?«
The priestess supported herself a little with her arms and smiled faintly. »I do not think so.«
A thin thread of blood came forth from her moth, followed by a greater stream of redness that began to spread over the monk's chest.
»Ilúvatar, the just, no!« In panic he laid the head of the woman into his lap and stroked her soothingly over the hair. »Stay strong, Ælbdís. Someone will help you.« His other hand with which he had touched her on her back was full with blood.
Matuk looked around, but saw only screaming, cursing men who fought for their lives. Even Torfrid had to defend himself now against the attackers.
No one of their companions was able to help them.
Matuk felt complete helplessness overcoming him. Desperation spread within him, tears ran down his cheeks and fell unto the face of the elvish woman in which her suffering was mirrored.
The priestess stroked over his cheek. »I will sleep now, Matuk. Think of the task that awaits thee.«
»I do not give anything on my task«, the monk called angry and looked up into the sky. »Ilúvatar, do something! Do something if the fate of your children lies on your heart!«
Ælbdís closed for a moment her blind eyes and Matuk thought first that she was dead, then she opened them again and stared up into the clouds.
»I wish that thou leavest me here. Remember: A half a foot deep bed in the earth, a layer of twigs on it and a white cloth to ward me against the cold.« She pressed a small token into his hand. »This amulet thou breakest into two halves and place them on the head-end. It will show Manwë where I lie, so he will send for me.« Her eyes seemed to glow for a moment. »Promise it to me, Matuk.«
The man fought against his hysterics and tears.
»I ... I do not want that you go. We need you, to fulfill our task.« He pressed her hand gently. »I need you. I will not let it happen that ...«
The glowing of her eyes became more intense. »Promise it to me, Matuk. I beg thee.«
The monk nodded with hesitation.
She closed her eyes again. Slowly the body of the elvish priestess relaxed.
»Ælbdís?« Carefully the monk was seeking for her pulse at her throat. He felt nothing. Quickly he laid his head on her chest, but also the heart was silent. No pulsation, no breath.
»No«, he whispered, »no.« Matuk pressed the elvish woman unto him. »I warm you until the others have time to see after you. You will see, it is but a tiny scratch.« Slowly he rocked the priestess in his arms forth and back. Like a white death shroud. Matuk remembered his comparison only a few hours ago.
At the edge of the street could be found nine graves on which white snow had laid itself. Eight of them were adorned with stones and a name scratched into the surface of a piece of wood, while the ninth was covered by a white cloth that was almost invisible now that the white had began to cover the land once more.
The ground around the area was dyed red, bodies and broken weapons were displayed as they had fallen. The assaulters had not gotten the honor of being buried like those who had defended themselves.
In the dusk of the approaching night, the small forest was almost silent, except for the all too quiet steps, the slightest crunching of the snow as someone came nearer and nearer to the street on which a few hours ago a terrible battle had been taken place.
Símar, the Younger tilted his head as he looked at the graves.
He was tall, his hair white-blond and the eyes were of a deep silver-grey with a amber colored glow within it. His armor appeared strange and was many-jointed, crafted of metal, wooden and leather parts alike. Two swords protruded up behind his back.
The Elf stepped towards the grave that was only covered by a white cloth and wiped the fresh snow away. Something clinked.
Then he held the two halves of an eye-big amulet in his hand. It was made out of a green, porous metal, easy to be broken. It showed symbols and interlacing musters as he turned them around and kissed his fingers before he put the halves away into a pouch that hung on his broad leather-belt.
»Lakastra«, he whispered quietly and pulled back the cloth over the grave, removed the twigs.
An elvish woman was lying beneath it. Her skin was of a beige color, her face beautiful and the blind eyes closed. Her hair was even as white-blond as his.
Símar turned his head and called something in his own mother-tongue. Steps closed in and another warrior, attired in the same manner appeared, the eyes silver-grey and the hair worn long and white-blond.
Together they grabbed the body of the priestess, held her up. Carefully Símar stroked over her cheek.
»Matuk?«, whispered Ælbdís suddenly.
»Sh, sh«, made Símar and wrapped a mantle around the priestess. »Thy healing sleep had been drawing on thy powers, Ælbdís. Do not speak.«
Her blind eyes opened and only slowly she appeared to realize where she was, remembering what had happened. »Símar?«, she asked with a brittle voice.
»It is me, priestess. Thou hast been hurt and a eagle brought us news of where thou liest. Manwë is with thee.«
The Elf sounded to Ælbdís as if he was very far away, the effects of her healing sleep would take their time to leave her. The two warriors of her kin began to help her walking over into the forest, away from the side of battle. They would bring her to a healer. Although the wound would have meant certain death to a mortal, her immortal being had saved her.
She thanked Manwë in a silent prayer to have found her through the broken amulet. And she prayed for Matuk and Torfrid to continue their journey safely. That Matuk would accomplish what he set out for to do.
Ælbdís' way led her on another path.
~End-Word~
I want to thank all those who have been attentively following the story of The Priestess, The Monk and The Knight. I hope that you are eager to get to know more about the secret mission of Matuk and his fate and to find out more about Ælbdís and her mysterious kin.
This is certainly just the end of a small shard of many adventures still to come, for I do intend to write another series of stories titled as The Priestess, The Girl and The King.
Torfrid and Matuk will have their role also in there, but it shall focus more on Ælbdís' kin and will lift hopefully so some secret and will open new questions. So, please, stay tuned and I hope you enjoyed it!
Your Ælbdís
