A bard be an adaptable creature.
On the Rove as we often be, we makes our bed any number of odd places. – A place that don’t often spring to mind, I admits, be in the hold of half of a wrecked Elf galleon with six fluffy dogs an’ the ghost of a dead King for bunk-mates.
Still, Mister Lothrandir an’ I brought out the vittles, settlin' in for a night in the world’s niftiest, if creepiest, an' easily coldest club-fort.
And hearin’ out the tidin’s of Mister King Arvedui (mostly with minimal headache), we at last got a bean on this cryptic new relationship twixt Iron Crownies an’ Wolfie Gauredain.
Briefly: Angmar appears to be usin’ the Wolf Men as ... Contract Scavengers, for want of a better term.
Red-Garbed Iron Crownies first appeared at the wreck of Thoroval last spring.
Mister Arevdui warded ‘em off. – I almost feels sorry for ‘em. – If the raw impact of a ghostly “voice” in one’s mind be that harsh on someone like me, when the ghost be peaceable? What kind of sheer agony would it work upon a mind when the ghost were roused to wrath?
T’anyrate, they were set to flight. And the seasons passed.
NEXT thing he knew, not long afore our arrival came the first ‘o the Wolf-Men. Pawin’. Sniffin’ Scratchin’ the timbers, an’ gettin’ in all the broken nooks in Thoroval.
Problem be? ... The Wolfies' reaction to the apparition were, at best, a mite on the edgy side. – Whatever they sought, they failed to find, as they’ve been back afresh (tonight were the fourth time). – Always grumpy, an’ high-strung.
... But somehow? They endure his haunting.
Mister Lothrandir an’ I digested this.
“What on earth is left here that the Iron Crown could possibly seek?” The Big Lad looked around us. The ship were in remarkable shape (apart from bein' snapped in twain). But it were also entirely empty. “Anything the Dúnedain could recover must have been taken to Esteldín generations ago.”
“All that which mortal hands could touch, son of my brethren.” Mister Arvedui seemed simultaneously worn-out, an’ markedly unburdened for having conveyed his news to Dúney blood. “Many and varied were the treasures brought in our flight from Fornost. The rarest – save the Ring of Barahir which unto the Lossoth I bestowed – were lodged in the safety of Aeril’s quarters.”
(Aeril be the Elf captain what sailed the ship, by the by).
“An’ thar be ...” I were tryin’ to mentally construct the likeness of an un-wrecked galleon.
The main portion – amidships, where we sat – were listed well to port. It were almost fully uplifted by the pack-ice. Mister Arvedui pointed out the jagged openin’ to the smallest piece o’ the wreck. Wincing mightily, Mister Lothrandir got to his feet. I planted me squat, low-to-ground form alongside him an’ tried not to buckle me knees with ‘is hand on me shoulder, as he tentatively put weight on his injured leg.
We minced out onto the ice.
Up close, what must’ve been the rail an’ stairs leadin’ up to the quarterdeck pierced the surface.
A hatch were visible beneath the rail, what must’ve once led to the Great Cabin, where Mister Arvedui an’ Mister Aeril would’ve housed.
I confess. I took it for granted the rest o’ the stern had been smashed to bits. Dinnae occur to me that the rear end (captain’s quarters, rudder, an’ such) might still be intact below the ice.
Mister Lothrandir stooped to grasp the handle an’ lifted the hatch. We gazed downwards.
The shiftin’ rivers of light in the sky overhead played off the impenetrable blackness of cold, unyielding seawater, lapping at the doorframe beneath the hatch.
Thoroval had been both snapped in twain an’ run aground in the shoals. There must’ve been a steep dropoff: The bow sections, bein’ just that much shallower, were uplifted over the years.
The stern, bein’ over deeper water, went low.
Whatever were in Mister Elf-Captain Aeril’s cabin couldn’t have been more than twenty feet below our toes at most. – It may’s well have been twenty leagues. The water were a death sentence. Mister Lothrandir said as much. He likes him a nice “ice-bear swim” as much as the next of his Lossoth mates (it be a very Manly pursuit hereabouts). But always in shallow water, for short bursts, with blankets an’ fires an’ warm drinks an’ hot steam-houses at shore’s edge.
Divin’ fully deep into Aeril's cabin submerged in arms o’ the Ice Bay – even supposing you had light to see – would kill a body.
Proof o’ that lay in the snow nearby. I did NOT need to see another dead Wolf-Man, but two had already taken the plunge (so to speak). The remains o’ their frozen, waterlogged wolfskin garb lay nearby in the snow ... as did the bloody remains o’ their carrion. – Their pack-mates may not have been able to extract ‘em from the water in time, but they hadn’t left hungry ...
I would NOT throw up again tonight ...
Mister Lothrandir closed the hatch, shutting the cabin in its icy water tomb below. We hobbled back into the shelter of the wreck amidships.
“What was there?” The Dúney-lad grimaced even harder employing the muscles it took to sit. I tipped another slug of Lossoth tater-spirits in his tin mug – Bullroarer’s Brandy how I wished for a fire an’ hot tea. “In the cabin? That Angmar would want, if they’d somehow found out about it?”
Mister Arvedui looked somber. “My gravest fear is the palantíri of Elendil.”
Mister Lothrandir unconsciously lowered his mug without drinkin’.
I dinnae claim to know much about the seven magic spyglass-marble things what turns up in balladry about the Dúney Kings an’ their ilk. What I knows comes entirely from mention in song-books in the Duillond library, or Miss Sergie’s collection. I did hear they be rare as an honest Whitfoot in the presence of a hot chicken pie. Evidently Mister King Arvedui were in possession o’ one.
“Yeh think Iron Crownies gots wind ‘o the existence o’ this magic rock thing after all these years an’ now they came lookin’ for it, then?”
“Rich were the treasures of Arnor, small damsel: Rich in lore. Storied heirlooms, admirable for artistry and heritage. Few truly items of power, save the Palantír of Amon Sûl, and that of Annúminas-." (Brilliant – thar be two of ‘em now) “-but what influence they afforded those who might wield them was mighty.”
“Aye, fair, stands to reason they’d be housed most precious-like in the cap’n’s own quarters.” I hastily tried to placate ‘im. Mister Ghost-King were deep in the Feeling-State again – he were properly awash in morosity and our heads pounded with the emotion.
“But why employ Wolfie Gauredain to go sniffin’ for ‘em?”
“I’m willing to ponder that detail in due course.” Mister Lothrandir’s head must’ve throbbed even worse than mine: he tossed back the inch of clear spirits in his mug in one pull. “We’ve unearthed a more immediate problem just now.”
“Aye.” I looked around at the wreck we’d somehow made our little fort. “How d’we get ‘em out?”
* * *
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