Delbreth read the message twice, the second time looking for words between the lines.
“Black Speech….”, he muttered, knowing it only as an element of children’s fairy tales, something spoken by witches as they spat into bubbling cauldrons. And now, the tracker Cutch Crane melds it with historical lore, inferring it to have a profound corrupting power over the ancient Oaths themselves. Could this be a half-truth, meant to satisfy a promise without yielding enough information to invite belief? He did not sense that kind of cunning in Crane, but one must not discount possibilities out-of-hand. It could also mean that the whole truth was too dangerous to know, which piqued Delbreth’s curiosity, for danger could mean power, and who wouldn’t be interested in that?
He had been Bedwyr’s benefactor when the Southron was seeking to come “out of the cold”, so to speak, and give up the life of a brigand. Delbreth found him a post as Craft Hall guard, for which Bedwyr was grateful. Could the erstwhile villain have some inkling of this “Black Speech”?
Delbreth invited Bedwyr to a private table in the Crossway House, and over a hot meal and ales, quizzed the guard about “Black Speech”. Instead of responding with a derisive grin, Bedwyr’s face paled, and he leaned forward. “You’ve been a friend, Mister Delbreth. I don’t think it’s something you should mess about with.”
“So, you do know something about it? For the sake of Herne’s safety, I would know more.”
Bedwyr searched his face, not certain he completely believed Delbreth’s noble intentions, but he also knew he was ever in the fellow’s debt. “You need to find Dunthor. He’s s’posedly rubbed elbows with some dark wizardly folk. If anyone can tell you more, that bloke can.”
“Dark. You mean evil”, Delbreth pressed.
The guard stared down into his plate and jammed half a baked potato into his mouth. He strained to chew as he nodded with his nervous gaze still down.
“And where do I find this Dunthor?” Delbreth asked sweetly while refilling Bedwyr’s mug from a pitcher of ale.
Bedwyr choked down the potato and desperately followed it with a long draw of ale. “Nimbarth, last I knew. I’d be careful. They say Dunthor is half Orc, and his like still camp there from time to time.”
“Oh, I intend to be careful. That’s why you are coming with me.”
“You’re gonna get us killed, Mister Delbreth.”
Delbreth grinned slyly. “I’ll bring a house gift.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
image from lotro-wiki.com
Nimbarth, now in ruins, was a once great stronghold along the Greyflood that kept watch over Cardolan’s southeastern region, called Sedgemead. During Saruman’s attempt to expand his reach, he determined that the Nimbarth ruins were among those worth occupying, and so sent many of his half-orcs, more a mob than a military company, to accomplish that task. Once the wizard perished, they were left without leadership or support and fell into disarray. Some fought amongst themselves to lead, others fled into the unknown, and a few ended themselves. Among those that stayed, Dunthor neither led nor followed, but used his mannish guile to survive any way he could. Being less orcish in appearance, he could slip into the settlements of men, often to steal, sometimes to deal, but never to draw undue attention to himself. Nimbarth was one of many places still plagued by dark minions and where Dunthor could play his advantages and eke out an existence.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“Bedwyr, the pup”, Dunthor muttered to the other half-orc as they peered down into the distance at the two riders approaching Nimbarth from the north.
“Who’s the other one?”, Boartusk asked with a hungry grumble.
Dunthor shrugged and squinted. “Dunno, but the pup's horse is heavy laden, and his friend is in chain armor. Looks like a parley. Go tell the boss to hold back while I meet ‘em.” A growled assent trailed behind Boartusk as he scrambled up the slope to the ruins.
Dunthor rode slowly down to intercept the visitors, keeping in plain sight with hand raised. Just outside of bow range he shouted, “Close enough! State your business!”
Bedwyr was startled and had to steady his mount. “Mister Dunthor! Is that you? We’ve come to talk! Me and Mister Delbreth!”
Dunthor had skulked around Herne enough to know that name, and the reputation attached: shrewd fellow, good with a bow, and not above dealing with pups like Bedwyr. The armored fellow reined up next to Bedwyr and raised his hand. “We bring trade!”.
“Trade for what?”, Dunthor shouted, staying his ground.
“Information!”
Dunthor paused. “Trade WITH what?”
“Meat, cheese, pepper … and SALT!” Delbreth patted the heavy packs on Bedwyr’s sweating horse.
The half-orc grinned, thinking, “Sly, too, this Delbreth. His own horse is lightly burdened. If this were to go badly, he’d outpace the pup and get away.” He pointed at a flowering bush halfway between them. “Let’s ride there!”
Salt! Half-orcs were also half-men, so salt and pepper were also treasures. Dunthor rode toward the bush, keeping hands away from his weapons and watching the hands of the two riders. When they’d all reached the bush, Dunthor said brusquely, “Ask yer question.”
Delbreth nodded respectfully. “What do you know about Black Speech?”
Dunthor stiffened then sneered. “Next to nothing, pretty-man, but everything YOU need to know. Tis the talk of wizards and black riders. It has a terrible power and a terrible price to use. More than a mortal can afford.”
Bedwyr stared at Dunthor for a long moment, then slowly swung his slack-jawed gaze to Delbreth. A chilly breeze wandering in from the Greyflood underscored the silence.
Dunthor’s face hardened and he squinted, leaning towards the other two. “Black Speech… Black Arts… it’s all the same.” He jerked his thumb back at the ruins, where a growing number of feral eyes watched them. “Where do you think MY lot came from? And the wizard? Stabbed to death in the back by his own lackey! Now drop those packs… and be off with you!”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Delbreth and Bedwyr sat silently at a table in the Crossway House, staring blankly into their third mugs of ale. Bedwyr was too lost in his own chilling thoughts to notice Delbreth leaning back and drawing a pendant from beneath his tunic. He lovingly fondled the family heirloom, staring at the polished disk of red stone with an unusually straight vein of something bottomlessly black, mounted in silver and hanging from a silver chain.
“Perhaps not….”, he chuckled.
Bedwyr looked up at him briefly with a confused face, then stared back into his ale.
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