New Journal, Entry Nine - Choice of Allies

The comforts of our new shelter proved to turn against me just as sorely as the harsh years I would make winter in Imladris. For far too long I grew accustomed to warm meals and a (mostly) dry place to sleep within these ruins we've appropriated as our resting place and gathering point. Come the day we finally set out beyond a league of our dusty home the aches and pains of travel have become weary on my bones and mind. Rest ill suits me as I always understand belatedly. 

After two days of journey eastwards we found a more comfortable rest in the dilapidated old Inn along the roads, we stayed but for a meal of watery ale and more watery soup when we met a dwarf there. Young and earnest by my reckoning, I cannot judge the dwarrow well, he was friendly and keen to ask us questions of our business. Arostir moved to deter him, I did not fault him for the crowd we found ourselves in, but I've only known dwarves to be honourable folk and the dust on his coat suggested he was no stranger to these hills. 

Our intentions would prove to converge, and so did our paths. The dwarf Garram had come through seeking a caravan of his kinsmen from the west whom had come through this path in hopes of trading surplus goods to the Men who inhabit these lands but never returned. Though some of my company proved grudging about the decision I were faithful of the choice.

With a new burden added to Forvenor's horse we set again and followed the roads come dawn, keen on using what light we would have for the day to watch for signs of this missing caravan. The road appeared unusually well-trod but it was the tracks of heavy wheels that led south into the hills that drew our attention. Stalking after we made into the hills and discovered a discarded piece of ironwork branded with dwarrow craft that none but our new companion could discover. Their cart had come through here, but what of the dwarves? 

I knew not what to await as we rounded the twisting path into the canyons but least of all did we expect to come upon a caravan of merchants - a different one altogether! The carts and an enormous tent were erected against the cliff walls, all the amenities of a company of traders plain to see.

But it was plain to see something queer about this place. Half a dozen guardsmen met us with suspicious looks, raggedy mercenaries with ill-matched arms and armour. Meeting us was the foulest of them all, a tall and brutish ruffian by every sense of the word. Tempers flared soon as his mouth opened, Garram was far more keen to press his suspicions than the rest of us and Arostir cared little for the insults levelled against our band. He introduced himself as Remdir and made his purpose clear: he led this band of sellswords to guard his Master Eogan, a merchant of no small means. 
The unpleasantness was interrupted by a far more amiable if even more dubious figure whom called himself Keorl, the steward of this Master Eogan but his eyes troubled me. He apologized for the behaviour of the sergeant and extended his master's invitations to sit with him - provided our arms were left in their care. 

The situation would not turn for the better. Garram's accusations turned more vehement and Arostir's ire grew as our suspicions arose. Hands reached for weapons and soon we were two bands of men facing each other down with cold steel at our fingertips and fire in our eyes. Keorl claimed ignorance of any dwarven caravan but to my surprise Remdir said otherwise, he said Keorl and another band of men he led had come through with iron purchased from a passing caravan. The sergeant's manners were no better with the steward and he bristled under the questions that followed, soon he ordered us dismissed and after that driven off. 

Violence broke out. But to my shock it was none of our swords nor their that drew first, but this ugly mannered sergeant that struck! He hurled Keorl to the ground with a fury and the sellswords on him with the promise of silver for his head. What could we do but aid him then? 

Words were not needed. It was long and bitter fighting as we struck and slew, trading blows and staining the cracked cold ground with blood. Remdir fought more fiercely than any Man I had before witnessed; with unrelenting fury and unfaltering intent, he struck Siward bloody and whimpering to a surrender. Some of the sellswords we slew and others we fought to injury or surrender, we emerged victorious and tended to the wounded; our own and theirs. 

The victory felt bitter in my mouth. It does me little pleasure to fight fellow Men and what death is lesser than that for men struck down with the promise of wealth? Agacyra and Forvenor were deeply shaken from the fight, never before had I led them in battle against our own. Remdir whom had appeared as an enemy minutes ago had now become an ally, upon hearing the truth of his employer. The skies opened and wept chilling rains, perhaps it were as Agacýra said that the heavens wept for the needless blood shed and the rains came to wash it away. I do not know. There were no time for such thoughts. 

Keorl was dragged to the great tent as I made to question his master but as we found he and his retinue, hidden away in their canvas sanctuary. They had fled away through a gap hidden away in the cliffs and in this rain we would have no fortune in tracking them. The Valar were not kind on our victory this day. The dwarven cart was hidden away here, still laden with iron goods but there were no sign of those who had driven it. But we still had our prisoner. I searched what documents had not been spirited away as Garram questioned the 'steward' of his lost kinsfolk. 

They had been ambushed on the road and overwhelmed by great numbers, the cart had been seized, merchants and guards both had risen to defend their goods and honour only to be struck down or captured. Those whom still lived were taken away as thralls to serve at the camp of his true master.

Sharkey. It is as we expected. I hoped to discover more from these documents but it yielded little.

But we had the prisoner, it was all that mattered... then I heard Agacýra's cry and turned, but I was too late. I saw only the cold fury in the dwarf's eye and the horror in Keorl's features before the crossbow cracked and the bolt let fly. 

It ended him instantly. Our sole source of the knowledge we so sorely needed had been lost, our one bounty of this bitter victory taken from us in one hot flash of passion. 

I looked at Garram's face, I found his shock matched my own. 

Had I made poor choice of allies?