Extricatin’ a couple o’ magic spyglass-marbles from an enclosed chamber o’ freezin’ deathwater be an interestin’ puzzler for passing an evening. If’en yeh ever finds yerself in want of one.
Mister Arvedui suggested trawlin’, but that’d have to be done blind.
I suggested findin’ a magic accoutrement what could create heat. That codger Mister Gandalf, or Miss Sergie both gots magic fire-sticks, for example. Maybe if they poked the sticks in the hatch an’ stirred, the ambient water could somehow be warmed up to temperatures tolerable for a dive?
Mister Lothrandir suggested building an enormous fire, full of hot rocks, like what be used in the steam-huts, an’ droppin’ the hot rocks in. Thar be how the Lossoth heats bathwater, ‘pparantly.
I gnawed the ideas, idly rubbin’ Tambalassë’s fluffy brown head as the long night set in.
The dogs had by now mostly settled. Arvo an’ Hirvi sat quiet an’ watchful at the entry. Smellin’ injury on her handler, the oldest female Kataja lay on Mister Lothrandir’s feet so he’d stay seated, like a self-appointed Mother Hen. Lasse were betwixt us, snorin’ like a Boffin after Elevenses.
Elea an’ Onni were restless.
Yankin’ an old piece of rope around, they roughhoused – edgin’ closer an’ closer to Mister Arvedui till, before we could stop ‘em, they tumbled straight through ‘is incorporeal form.
Mister Lothrandir swore at ‘is rapscallion canines. Normally I’d’ve helped (thar just be downright rude, when yeh think about it). But I were starin’, bardic imagination at full tilt.
I were unexpectedly struck by some’ut.
“....Would I be wrong in judgin’ that they can’t see him? ...”
Mister Lothrandir an’ Mister King-Ghost looked at the dogs, suddenly unmindful o’ the scuffle.
They’d never seemed bothered by the apparition’s presence as I were patchin’ the Green-Hood up. Nor when both of us were reelin’ from hearin’ the King-Ghost speak, come to that. “Do they not even know e’s here?”
“Perhaps if Your Majesty called to them-?” Mister Lothrandir braced ‘imself; I did likewise as Mister Arvedui got the drift.
“Tolo!” The ghost-voice echoed in our heads. "Dár cín teilien! Tul’na nin!”
They continued their scrap, heedless o’ the King-Ghost’s order to cease their play an’ come to ‘im.
“Tule!” Mister Lorathdir’s brusque Lossoth call were commandin’. “Tule! Nyt!” Onni an’ Ellie crashed into us in an eager spray of ice crystals.
Once we’d given everyone a tidbit for their unknowing participation in scientific discovery, we looked around in curious wonder.
“Why?” I were baffled. “Is yer Kingship only visible ter yer own lot? I mean, the Dúney folk an’ their ilk?”
“Nay, damsel; think on thyself.” (Well now I just felt dumb). “Thou seest and hearest me plainly as my brethren. As did the vassals of the Iron Crown.”
“That’s it ...” Mister Lothrandir were the one starin’, now. “That’s why Angmar made pact with the Gauredain.”
“Yeh mean-?” I wracked me brains. All our long hours on the sledge, musin’ on all the old stories of what exactly Wolf-Men are. But whether they be werewolves, or Eldar that went feral in the Helcaraxë, or some rude imitation o’ the Skin-Changers, the result be the same, I s’ppose: A pack-like people – What runs on all fours. An’ fights by biting. An’ lives for the visceral thrill o’ The Hunt.
“Yeh means they gots such a ‘doggish’ mentality, they en’t aware of all that be entirely human?”
“Think about it: The Angmari agents were driven from here by the fury in your voice, but the Wolf-Men were merely uncomfortable.”
“Very ill-at-ease they were. Perhaps, through what vestiges of humanity they retained, they were aware of a presence … as if a distant echo. Yet they persisted in searching.”
“Why, though?” I says, for the second time. “What be it about Ghosts they don’t register?”
“Ghosts ... I’m given to understand... ” Mister Lothrandir hesitated. He ‘ad an idea but plainly didn’t want to bring it up before his own ancestors’ dead Gaffer.
Arvedui looked as if ‘e could sense the Big Lad’s thoughts. “Speak, cousin,” he said, gravely.
“... linger when bound by something they couldn’t let go of in ... life.” Awkward, but bravely, he ploughed on. “Unsettled grief. Unresolved anger. Deeds undone. Oaths unfulfilled. Dying in deep fear – or regret.”
“In pride, I ignored the warnings of the Lossoth.” Mister Arvedui, to his credit, took the discussion thinly masking reference to himself with composure. “Our flight brought ruin to the vessel. Aeril, who risked the seas seeking me. His men, and mine own. All perished, and in despair and wrath I cursed myself. Here I remain now in penitence, for my curse was brought down upon my head.”
The King-Ghost looked at his descendant kin in a kind of woeful accord. “Here thou witness the price for the Rage of Man. – I can see the pain wrought on thee when I speak … as if whatever complaints thou bearest for thyself, however small, are compounded by exposure to mine own.”
Ellie, now curled around her new favorite plushie-bear (that’d be me), dozed beatifically. “Perhaps a mind of such modest wants as the simple pleasures of living and eating and play and camaraderie prevents-.”
“Rewrite me name in red ink with seven witness an’ call me a Whitfoot,” I says, almost crossly. “Dogs don’t got life regrets so they can’t become ghosts, therefore they can’t perceive ghosts?”
I were gonna need a whole vat of Lossoth tater-spirits to just disentangle the logic from the saccharinity.
“Not a very scholastic way to put it." Mister Lothrandir rubbed his head gingerly. "There may be a germ of truth in it though. Gauredain are vicious, but they’re not ambitious. – However Angmar’s bought them, they wouldn’t covet some glossy stones. If the King can't hurt them, they'd be perfect scavengers.”
I rolled me eyes again, more to stay awake now. Mister Lothrandir an’ meself were nodding hard. Normally I’d thank the proverbial ghost of Bullroarer for keepin’ vigil over two wayward wanderers (one wounded, one purely exhausted) unable to ward off the slumber that ultimately took us – ‘Cept in this case, t’were a very literal Ghost, with some husky quadruped squires.
* * *
We woke to the searing light of daybreak, with deafening sled-dog cacophony in our ears, an’ “ROUSE THYSELVES! To Arms! To Arms!” slamming our heads.
I were sick at heart. Even without a fire, more Wolfie Gauredain saw there were newcomers at the sniffin’ ground.
Over a dozen strong, with hunting-wolf companions, they circled the wreck in the blurry dawn.
We was outmatched. Mister Lothrandir put all ‘is reserves forth as ‘e forced ‘imself to stand, managing to shout 'Get behind me!' through clenched teeth.
We took up our swords.
The orange dawn were primal, an’ raw. T’would be an exhilarating sunrise to meet one’s end under, an’ I ‘oped I were free of sufficient regret to not get stuck bein’ a Ghost. But the gravity o’ the auspicious mornin’ were somewhat blown away by THE most bizarre noise I have ever heard.
Picture a completely amateur trumpet player. Who also happened to be a goose. – T’were a honkin’ sound kinda like that.
Make the ice beneath yer feet shake. Add some baleful war-horns. Stir in the howlin’ of Wolf-Men realizin’ they be wholly outmatched, then garnish with a happy trilling chirp from overhead.
For as Nessie the Woolly Oliphant emerged over the horizon, Mister Ofráth astride, with two more Woolly Oliphants an’ a cadre of Beardie Dorfs to boot, Maddie landed on Thoroval’s broken bowsprit, lookin’ almost inexcusably pleased with ‘erself.
* * *
