The expedition rolled back into Esteldin that morning, after a four-day journey through mountains (and I mean that literally, tunnels and all) and the worst lands this hobbit ever saw, let alone imagined. All those memories of Angmar are going to give me the collywobbles for a long time coming.
We came up over a mountain pass and began dropping down into Esteldin proper, Catrena and Cutch in the lead, a column of twos behind them. As we entered the vale we were doubly pleased at the sight of the busy refuge of Men, and the sight of Seregrían and Gilberian waiting for us as we arrived. It was plain that Her Ladyship dressed for welcoming her husband, and he knew it, too; for upon seeing the crimson vision before him, Cutch instantly broke ranks and galloped up to where she stood, leapt from the saddle and scooped her into his arms.
“Welcome home, husband and father,” she said to Cutch.
“I’m glad to see you here,” Cutch said, “but when did you came back from Othrikar?”
“After the expedition departed, Gilberian stayed to speak with the Dwarves, and I rode on to Meluinen to confer with the Elves. I returned yesterday and found Gilberian already here – she had begun the task of delving into the library the Dúnedain maintain here.”
“You worry me sometimes, my love…”
“Oh, I worry you?”
“Quite frankly, yes – but I’m just a Mortal fool…”
“What does that say of the Elf who loves one?”
“A'ight chickies, don't make me knock your 'eads together,” Applecider quipped, “I’m off t’find some ale, whilst ye play yer ‘I’m More Worried Than You’ games, who’s with me?”
“I for one,” Kortheod said, 'I can’t wait for a pint of beer or something.” Kortheod and Yumonyx followed Cider and, finding myself in agreement with Kortheod, I followed hard as well, Royzenberry along with me – of course, we hobbits had the sense to do so…
“Aye, these Green-Hoods' lager don't hold a candle to a Shire brew, Mister Kor,” she said as she began tapping a convenient keg, “but it be respectable stuff at least.”
“At this point, anything liquid,” Kortheod laughed, “to wash the taste of Angmar out of my mouth…”
I joined them in their toasts with, “Well! That was an adventure for the books, and no mistake - especially for the books, if you take my meaning.”
While we were wetting our throats, and with Royzenberry looking around for enough food for all, Seregrían was speaking with the rest of the expedition. Dwisen was proudly showing her the scrolls he carried, Herself scanning them briefly and voicing her approval. Aethalis and Iyenue did much the same, Gilberian looking on with interest, Catrena doubly so; she was hoping that Her Ladyship would offer an appraisal of what came back with us. At that point, the rest of us moved to where the crowd stood, Cider hefting several mugs and handing them out.
“Gotta keep these skinny-Elf-types quaffed proper,” she said, “or they’ll forget to eat or drink.”
“Well, and how do the four of you fare after such a journey?” Seregrían asked.
“Hiya, Miss Sergie -- how were the readin'?” Applecider said brightly.
“Thanks to Gilberian’s labor, I have a lot to go through, Cider - and I trust you found much more of note?” she said.
“Aye, I found a goodly samplin' fer ye an' fer me,” the hobbit replied.
“True that,” Kortheod added, “and for each page we brought back, we left three more behind – you will be more than busy, milady.”
After a proper toast to the returning expedition, Cutch’s face turned serious as he said, “Beloved, I think that Lance has something that you will find of great value.” I replied to him with a face that said, thank you so much for putting me on the spot, you one-eyed, lovesick…
“Oh indeed? And what might this be, Lancogard?” Seregrían asked.
Well, there was nothing for it. I dug into my pack, saying, “Well, erm… you see… it’s involved, because – well, look!” And I showed one of the two grey-backed volumes, the one with the drawing…
Bless me, I never saw a party or a conversation stop from full gallop like this! I held up the book to be seen proper, and all eyes were on Herself as she opened it to the drawing of the winged woman. Seregrían’s eyes went wide, and I saw that little hint of silver begin to shine. She suddenly snatched the book out of my hands and began pacing, looking not only at the drawing but flipping pages back and forth, muttering first in everyday speech, then the Elven-tongue, then something I couldn’t recognize – then whispered, “No… it… it can’t be…”
“My love?” Cutch asked full of concern, “what does this mean?” After a silence, Seregrían turned to face the company, her voice strained.
“Lancogard, this is a find - both valuable and terrible. This is a chronicle - a chronicle about the merrevail, written before the fall of Fornost by a Dúnedain hand! This is a list of names - names of specific merrevail, known by the Dúnedain to be the leaders, the lieutenants if you will - and how the Dúnedain of old were trying to hunt them down.”
“Good on ye, lads,” Applecider said.
“According to this chronicle, they named them but could not vanquish them,” Seregrían went on, “but left this record for future hunters.”
“And after all these years, “Kortheod observed, “we now have better means of destroying them…”
“Here is a name: Iarvael,” Seregrían said, “a morroval lieutenant of a leader more powerful, and most foul: I recall that name! The Elves of Meluinen showed me a scroll brought out of Angmar just recently. This Iarvael still lives!”
“We can remedy that, y’know…” Applecider said darkly. Kortheod nodded, holding a whetstone as if preparing to leave on the spot.
Royzenberry had gotten a peek at the drawing. “These creatures, these duck-footed bat-ladies?” she said. “We didn’t see any on the trip, but when to we go hunting them? I’ll give ‘em what for!”
“I’ll hold one down for you, Berry-lass,” Kortheod said grimly.
“According to the chronicle, this Iarvael lurks in the north of Angmar, near the heights of Carn Dûm,” Seregrían read on. “There apparently is an entire nest there - the same as the Fanged Pit in Moria, where I met - Her...” And she shuddered suddenly, Cutch wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
But Seregrían was still reading, Cutch holding onto her. “And here we find the name of this leader: Azgoth, the High Queen!?”
“Well, Angmar gots a King, don’it?” Applecider said, “He be one o' them Wig-its in black bathrobes we ‘eard tell of…”
“This flies against all the lore I have thus far!” Seregrían said. “'The merrevail are tribal, they hover around one powerful matriarch, a hive-queen; Bogrian of Moria was one of those. But this Azgoth? This journal claims She is the overlord of the merrevail of the North.”
“Of these merrevail, maybe,” Kortheod observed, “but Cider is right, the Witch-king rules in Angmar, or did.”
“Ah but Kortheod, the merrevail are far older than the Nazgûl,” Seregrían replied, “they would look upon the Ringwraiths as children, no matter how powerful they are.”
“Brass o' them,” Applecider quipped, “considerin' th’ Nazgûl could whop their skinny bat bums!”
“Not before we do it for them!” Royzenberry cried.
But bless me, I saw Seregrían fall silent, frozen like a deer in the lights as she flipped another page, Cutch rubbing her shoulders in a vain effort to comfort her. When she spoke next, her voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a grave.
“Lancogard. Thank you for bringing this to light. Of all the hoard you have brought out of Angmar this day, this single book is worth all of it put together. It is a great and masterful labor you have done, my dear friends,” she said to all of us together, “and I cannot reward you rightly.
“My friends, I deem our work here in Esteldin is completed. Catrena, you can keep as much of the hoard as you wish; but this I claim above all else,” she thumped the book with her hand.
“Yours maybe,” Appleciderblossom said, “but mine en't. I gots ter get a handle on all these scrolls I filched an' see what the Duney-boys can use.”
“You need no more from Imlad Balchorth?” Cutch asked her.
“Not unless it leads me to Iarvael herself,” Seregrían said. “I would have questions…”
Kortheod muttered aloud, clearly he was already planning an assault. “Well, we could make a stable base there, at the giants’ village - such a raid will be a long campaign… or maybe some local tribe will be closer, even hospitable?”
I didn’t like the way this was sounding – another trip into Angmar!?
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