((( For Atmosphere )))
This was the moment, I thought. This is what all my ceaseless labours have led to.
Silently, out of the view of my peers or my companions, I had been tracking down something integral, something necessary, and something that would enable me to enact my vengeance.
The murder of the Red Bear by this newfangled war-chief, or however he fashions himself, Snargúl - had affected me in ways that I chose not to telegraph to those I love. Blindly furious evening rages and sputtering, snot-filled sobbings were concealed beneath a warm woolen blanket of false smiles or indifferent optimism. I despise lying, I despise it entirely. But if it is to protect those whom you hold dear - perhaps some considerations should be made. Not that it weighed any less upon my spirit.
Even positive falsehoods eat away at your spirit, I remarked at the time. Inside yourself, you know deeply that what you speak is false and even without truth being yanked out into the naked light of day, you feel malicious inside yourself for having spoken what you know to be untruthful, as if chunks of your heart are ripped off from the flesh and burned away forever. Even if I were to never return or nobody reads this account, please know that my spirit was feasted upon to allow me to uncover the truth, whilst locked in my quarters at the Neekerbreeker.
But, it needed to be acquired again, restored to its place before any battle lines were drawn. It was the only thing that would allow me to bring the skull of Snargúl to the High Meadow in triumph. The only thing that would ensure the safety of the Vales, not only for the clans of Beorn, but for the scores of fauna that lived peacefully before their homes and habitats were put to the sword.
The Beorning Books of War.
As any reader may or may not be aware, the lines of Beorn are a martial people and smaller stock is placed in the value of lore and studiousness, which oft’ devalued me in the eyes of my family. As a result, only a basic library was kept in Beorninghús. Many are still there: The Book of Horticulture for example is still seen as an essential tome, lending to its practical applications in the art of healing.
But lost, long ago, were the books that I sought. The Beorning Books of War. Detailed strategy and tactics from the quills of the finest, hardiest skinchangers to have ever defended our plains east of the Misty Mountains.
The books are a necessity, I thought. I could not rely on my clan, not father or Hármund, and any of the other clan-warriors would not follow me on my journey. Honey-mouth was a name many of them still maligned me with and never had they taken my prowess with any seriousness or sincerity.
Nor could I call upon those whom I regarded as my new family. Those of the Company who walk the East Road would follow me, I do not doubt it. But by what honour could I ask them to involve themselves in such a sticky and foolhardy conundrum? None, is the answer.
To drag them into a family affair such as this, and one that would be fraught with dangers and perils, no, I would never saddle them with such a task. Though for long hours at my campsites on the road, I sat and thought of my brother Rothlung's hardy embrace or how welcome he would be beside the fires with me. And in turn, I long thought of the freckled-face of Tivlyn. She would not forgive me, I convinced myself. She would have wanted me to tell her, but I could not. I wouldn’t allow any danger to befall her.
One eve’ I found an old battered account, scrawled on a parchment that looked to have once been inside a tome, but ripped out. It had been scrunched up and opened again many times, and it wore the creases of such trials. It was written by a hero named Jenesair, one of the sons of Beorn and a figure I had heard many songs about whilst around the feasting table as a cub.
One of his lines jumped out at me at once.
“We must guard the first book. The Goblins fear wisdom more than any fire, or steel.” it wrote.
Underneath this was another passage, in which the writing was uneven - I believe it looked to be hurriedly scrawled.
“They did not come as raiders, under torchlight and with banners. But as thieves in the night. Ashen-faced, sticky-handed and silent. By some means, they knew where it was kept. While we slept, they tunneled beneath the mead hall and made off with the chest. By the time an alarm was raised, they were but a spectre on the horizon, making off with their bounty.”
Then, a tear, ripping a long absent finger into the dark, aged parchment, before it continued.
“We made after them to the North. Not East towards the passes, or West towards the wilds, no. But up and straight upon the old road to Angmar. Their tracks were smothered by snow twice it seemed, yet they hurried ever forward.”
Then below, in a darkened, furious script.
“We cornered the vermin beneath a broken tower in the Witch-realm. Their leader bore a crown of twisted iron and proclaimed the book in his arrogance, ‘War-Seed’. When we broke his line of guards, he fled up to the stronghold they call Carn Dûm. Only three battle-brothers stand ready for the pursuit, though pursue we must. I will not suffer-..”
Then finally, below it in a different and steadier hand.
“Postscript: Jenesair, son of Beorn, fell in the twisting roads beneath the enemy stronghold of Carn Dûm. The Goblins hold the book still, we could not reclaim it. Let any who read this know - we fear they do not keep the book as plunder alone, but as counsel.”
Understanding came flooding to me as I groped at my candle and hovered it around to better examine the penmanship in some areas, only to ensure what I had read was in fact, true. And true it seemed to be. A volume of the Books of War had been stolen many years prior and carted off to the Witch-realm of Angmar.
I had been to these scorched plains before and made no bones about never wanting to return, though it seemed the cycle had other intentions for me. And as far as I could see, I had no time to delay.
I waited until the dead of the following night and gathered food and water for my journey whilst the kitchen to the Knackered Neekerbreeker Inn was awash with darkness, and whilst the proprietors Tivlyn and Warryn Locksley slept soundly. Then, before I had any time to change my determined mind, I set off out the front door of my safe haven and began out upon the road, by myself.
I write now as I border the Witch-realm. The dark smog persists through the height of the sun and the jagged, volcanic rocks ensure nobody will rest with much comfort in this hole. My food and water grows meagre, as does my pipe-weed.
There is nothing else to do but to reclaim the Book of War by any means necessary. Should I not return, please, do not think ill of me for my secrecy.
I only longed to protect those I loved.
-B
