There were a lot of soldiers standing in the courtyard when Eriac’s scouting party returned to Barad Dhorn. They stared at the dreary looking retinue and their macabre, woeful burden. Hellrien noticed an old bearded man dressed in brown robes standing on the dilapidated staircase that dominated the courtyard. He kept his hands behind his back and squinted his eyes nervously as they approached.
”Who’s that?” Hellrien asked Eriac.
”That’s Radagast.”
”And who’s he?”
”An honored guest”, Eriac said in a restrained tone that told Hellrien she shouldn’t ask any more questions.
The man in brown robes stood still until Eriac had relieved his soldiers off duty. He fixed a curious gaze at the bulky, heavily armed woman clad in hauberk and feathered hat by Eriac’s side.
”Come with me to the tower, Eriac”, Radagast said briefly.
”This is Hellrien, master Radagast, from The Bloody Dawn – from Bree.”
Radagast frowned and glanced at Hellrien a couple of times. ”From Bree!” he grunted and stretched out his hand. ”Like a gift from the Valar! What favorable wind has blown you into this remote corner of the world, mistress Hellrien from Bree?”
”The western wind, master Radagast.”
They followed the brown-robed man through a big door into the tower. Downstairs of the tower was rife with small animals – frogs, rabbits and squirrels running around everywhere. Radagast led them up a spiral staircase leading to a study of sorts. There were lots of bookshelves there, but the shelves were mostly empty. There were plenty of books too, but most of them were piled on the table, on the chairs and on the floor – everywhere but in their proper places, it seemed. There were also more squirrels running around, and frogs croaking in the corners. Radagast took a dark bottle from a drawer and filled three crystal glasses with amber liquid.
”To your good health”, he said.
They emptied their glasses. It tasted a little like dwarven brandy or Dalish whiskey, but different all the same. Different, and better.
”Master Radagast”, said Eriac, but Radagast interrupted him.
”I already know what has happened, Eriac. Where did you find them?”
”Not far from Garth Agarwen, from a chasm that leads to the Red Pass.”
”Did you find any tracks?”
”About ten to fifteen Créoth warriors. And one set of tracks that seems to be something else. But the tracks were going to Garth Agarwen, and we had to turn back.”
”All right. I believe an attack to Barad Dhorn to be improbable for the time being, but eat and sleep properly, Eriac; I fear you must lead another scouting party tomorrow morning.”
”All right, master Radagast.”
”Umm… Mistress Hellrien… would you stay for a moment?”
Hellrien sat down again, and Eriac saluted and left.
Radagast pushed a pouch over the table. Hellrien took it and opened it. It was filled with what looked and smelled like very good pipe-weed. Hellrien said thanks and loaded her pipe.
”Mistress Hellrien”, Radagast started, ”I have a fiendish problem here.” He stared at her over the table. ”The land itself has turned against us, and I don’t know exactly why. The wars have corrupted this land, drowning it in the blood of innocents. I can smell death in the moss, as if it was plucked from an ancient grave.”
”Eriac told me that the Créoth practice human sacrifice for their deity they call the Red Maiden.”
”That’s right, that’s what they do. And you are here to help the Eglain, is that so? From the kindness of your heart?”
”I am”, Hellrien said calmly. ”I have a couple of weeks off duty.”
”Wonderful. The Eglain will surely benefit from a help of a brave and generous heart. That is all I wanted to hear.”
Hellrien wasn’t sure if she didn’t detect a hint of sarcasm in the old man’s voice, but she stood up.
”Please”, said Radagast, ”you can sleep in the room in the bottom of the tower whenever you like. There are comfortable couches there. Many people will not get that much comfort in their whole lives. You will find the door always open for you. I hope the company of my animal friends won’t give you congestion.”
”It won’t”, said Hellrien, still unsure if the old man wasn’t having a laugh at her expense. She nodded, took her hat and left.
In the downstairs Hellrien slumped down on a couch to rest her eyes for a minute. Croaking of frogs rang in her ears. She hoped she could change her dirty clothes and have a bath somewhere. But the only place she could do that here was in one of the repulsive blood-red pools around Agamaur, and she wasn’t allured by that prospect. The Eglain didn’t drink the red water in Agamaur, and they didn’t bathe whilst stationed in Barad Dhorn.
Hellrien stood up, walked over to a small piece of broken mirror and examined her own face. Cold blue eyes stared back. She turned around, took her hat and walked out of the door.
The sun was shining through a cloud of dust, red as blood. The wind had calmed but the dust hadn’t settled yet. The sun was already down and would be setting soon. Hellrien glanced at the top of a platform in the courtyard, where a group of Eglain soldiers were sitting around a fire, passing around a wineskin filled with their repugnant but potent sugar wine. Hellrien was suddenly possessed with fierce craving for alcohol. She cursed and walked along quickly. The defenders of Ost Guruth threw curious glances at her direction. Hellrien climbed the stairs and was almost pushed back by a cloud of odious smoke from the campfire. She almost gagged at the smell. Hellrien knew that the Eglain burned their own feces to spare wood – a rare commodity in the Lone-Lands – and also as an easy way to get rid of the filth. A large one-eyed man holding the wineskin grinned at her.
”I’ve rarely seen a woman that thirsty! Sit down and have a sip!”
”Thanks. Don’t mind if I do”, Hellrien grinned back. The man passed her the wineskin. With a quiet sigh she drank greedily. A warm, comfortable feeling spread in her body, demanding more.
”One more swig.”
She tilted the wineskin again.
She heard a scraping sound behind her back and half-turned to stare at the comer from below the slouch of her hat. A tall, slender woman with red, prematurely graying hair walked up the stairs. Her steps seemed very light and she was walking with her heels slightly turned inwards.
She sat down next to Hellrien and took the wineskin from her.
”Hello, Elsa”, said the one-eyed man in a friendly voice. ”Back so soon?”
”It appears so”, said the woman hoarsely.
The woman turned to look at Hellrien. ”I saw you coming in the camp with Eriac earlier today”, she said in a friendly tone. ”I am Elsa, Eriac’s sister.” She stretched out her hand.
”Hellrien of Bree.”
”I have talked to Eriac”, said Elsa. She was toying with a loose thread on the sleeve of her ragged tunic beneath a rusty mail armor. ”Looks like life’s about to get busy here.”
Hellrien just nodded. After a while she asked:
”Have you ever heard of anyone from Bree or other parts of the west venturing in Garth Agarwen?”
Elsa looked at her sharply.
”It happens”, she said calmly. ”It is very rare, but not unheard of that some of the boldest treasure hunters would venture there for the relics of Rhudaur.”
”And these treasure hunters come from the west?”
Elsa took a sip of wine. ”That’s right. But they don’t make friends with the Créoth. If and when they are captured, they are tortured and sacrificed to the Red Maid.”
”Have you examined the tracks?”
”No, not yet. But I may get a chance for it tomorrow. I’m leading another scouting expedition to Agamaur in the morning.”
”If it’s of any help, I could investigate the angle of treasure hunters from Bree-land”, Hellrien said lightly. ”Do you have any suggestions?”
Elsa glanced at Hellrien again. ”I might. West of Weathertop – I’m sure you know the mountain – there is a small inn, called the Forsaken Inn. And a little to the northeast of the inn there’s a small camp. It’s been a notorious safe haven for fugitives from Bree-land for a long time. These people are law-breakers, thieves, brigands, and occasionally treasure hunters, running from the law or whatever they are running from that has forced them to come here. I visited there a few years ago, and you can bet the folk there are rotten to the core. I’ve never seen so many dirty snouts in one place in my life. It may be that they don’t know anything, but it wouldn’t harm to snoop around, if you can get them to open up to you. It’s a small community of westling cutthroats, and they won’t talk to the Eglain, but they are pretty well informed about the doings of their own kind all around the Lone-Lands.”
”Thanks for the tip”, said Hellrien.
Elsa looked down to the courtyard. ”My, my”, she said.
”What is it?”
”See that man over there, by the stairs to the ramparts?” Elsa pointed. ”That’s Fréagyr. That means Arienh and Hartrím can’t be far either. They must have just returned from Garth Agarwen.”
”Interesting”, Hellrien said quietly. ”I’d like to have a chat with them. It was a pleasure to meet you, Elsa.”
Hellrien stood up and walked down the stairs. As she approached the man leaning to the stairway she couldn’t help but stare. He was blonde and clad in typical Eglain garments and sported a typical Eglain haircut and goatee, but one thing was certain – if Fréagyr wasn’t a full-blooded hill-man, he was a half-breed at the very least!
”Yes?” he said in a friendly tone.
”My name is Hellrien. I would like to talk to Arienh.”
”Hellrien?” said a voice from the ramparts. ”I have heard of you! Show her up, Fréagyr.”
Fréagyr gestured for Hellrien to follow him up the stairs. Hellrien admired the view over the marshes of Agamaur and Haragmar for a moment. A woman who had been sitting at the edge of the ramparts stood up. She was a large woman, even compared to Hellrien, who was 5’10’’ and strongly built, but unlike her brother, Arienh was definitely a full-blooded Eglain. Her shoulders were wide and strong, and the hand she stretched out was brown and coarse.
”Pleasure to make your acquaintance, mistress Hellrien”, she smiled warmly. Hellrien looked into her light blue - if a little bloodshot - eyes. They had an open, friendly and intrigued expression, and Hellrien instinctively returned her smile.
”Thank you.”
”This is my brother, Fréagyr.”
Hellrien nodded slightly. He stretched his hand and Hellrien shook it. His smile was open and attractive. There was something free and unyielding about him, and that amazed Hellrien. It was clear he was half Créoth – in an Eglain camp. He should have been timid and painfully aware of his race and his unforgivable sin: that he had Créoth blood coursing through his veins.
Hellrien shook his hand especially firmly before letting it go. Arienh gestured Hellrien to sit by her on the edge of the ramparts.
”Do you want a drink, Hellrien?”
Hellrien hesitated. She had already had quite a bit to drink today. ”Yes please”, she said uncertainly. Arienh offered her a flask, and Hellrien tasted. She was surprised; it was Dalish whiskey.
”His father was a Créoth elder”, Arienh said, nodding at Fréagyr. ”Good for him – a drop of hill-man blood can only improve the inbred Eglain stock. Eglain lasses don’t seem to mind!” Arienh winked at Hellrien.
Hellrien stared at her.
Fréagyr burst out laughing. ”You must forgive my sister, miss Hellrien! She’s notoriously outspoken.”
Arienh sighed. ”It’s the woeful truth that us Eglain are an inbred race. There’s too few of us, has been for too many generations. The blood has grown thin. What kind of moron chooses to live in this wretched desert anyway? It’s amazing how beautiful children you get from a slight mixing of races. Hee hee!”
Hellrien grunted something incomprehensible.
”Sister, you are being rude to mistress Hellrien. Perhaps she doesn’t share your opinions about the equality of races.”
”She’d better be, if she wants to do business with me!” Arienh exclaimed.
Hellrien looked at the woman. She still wasn’t sure if Arienh was being provokative on purpose or if it was just her sense of humor. She decided to believe in the latter option. Something about her enthusiasm was downright contagious. Both her eyes and nose told of a close relationship with alcohol, and her hips and backside were quite robust. Her movements were quick, almost nervous, and everything about her indicated fast lifestyle and a fierce desire to understand the ancient Créoth culture. She was holding a leather strap adorned with Créoth runes.
”My treasure”, Arienh said with a wide smile, revealing her white, flawless teeth. ”No other Eglain have been given such gifts by the Créoth. This is something that I will not sell or trade away!”
Hellrien just nodded. She was confused.
”Well… actually I wanted to know if you knew anything about a westling among the Créoth? Somebody who can join them on a raid to Talath Gaun, to torture and kill?”
Arienh’s expression changed instantly.
”Quite right, mistress Hellrien. Please forgive me my ramblings. There’s no doubt something is up. I have talked to the elders and asked them to tell me what they know. It’s my impression that those who say that nothing is going on are telling me the truth. But somebody is lying. And they lie because they are scared. They don’t dare tell me what they know. I have suspected someone or something has gotten a hold of them, one way or another.”
”What about the cult of the Red Maid?”
Arienh’s expression darkened upon hearing the name. ”You must understand, mistress Hellrien, that the Créoth are not evil. Not evil, but they are misguided and lost. This… cult, as you call it, is the cause for their corruption, the corruption of the whole swamp. There is a terrible woman called Temair, a priestess who has devoted herself to the Red Maid. A lot of the… misunderstandings… between Créoth and Eglain cultures are her fault. She’s a bad, bad character.”
”Have you seen her lately?”
”Do you mean: Is Temair responsible for the raids? I don’t know. Hartrím is still at Garth Agarwen. I’ve asked him to keep his eyes and ears open for anything unusual. I will be wiser after a couple of days.”
”But you haven’t seen or heard of any westlings in the company of the Créoth right now?”
”Absolutely not. The whole idea sounded absurd to me when I first heard it. But you and Eriac have both seen the tracks, and I have no reason to doubt Eriac. And like I said, something unusual is going on.”
Hellrien stood up. ”Oh well, pardon me for all the trouble.”
”Wouldn’t you join us for supper?” Fréagyr asked.
”No thank you”, said Hellrien. ”I’m tired, and I want to be up before sunrise tomorrow. I have a long ride ahead of me.”
Arienh and Fréagyr escorted her down the stairs.
”The woman who was killed, Cwendreda – did you know her? Or her husband?” Hellrien asked calmly.
”Not intimately, no. But I knew who she was. Pretty much all the Eglain know each other here. Like I said, there’s not that many of us left.”
”But you have seen the amulet and the jewel she carried around her neck?”
”Oh yes. But I don’t know where she had gotten it from. Nobody knew, barring perhaps Northrim, her husband. And now he’s dead too.”
”But they didn’t resemble anything you have seen in Garth Agarwen in your time there?” Hellrien persisted.
”Absolutely not. I can say fairly certainly that Cwendreda’s necklace was not a relic from ancient Rhudaur. I have never seen anything of the like anywhere in the Lone-Lands.”
”Have you traveled around the western part of the Lone-Lands, mistress Arienh?”
”A bit.”
”Do you know the Forsaken Inn? Or the camp of westling fugitives nearby?”
Arienh glanced at Hellrien sharply. ”Perhaps. I’ve been to the Inn. I have never seen the camp, but I’ve heard a lot about that place and the worthless men who linger there.”
Hellrien stretched out her hand. ”Thanks for all the help. Good bye, to the both of you.”
”Good bye”, said Fréagyr.
”Don’t be a stranger”, said Arienh. ”When Hartrím gets back…”
”All right. Good night.”
