Khahaynd

It was the gloaming time, the time of half-light when day settled into night. A reddish hue colored the western horizon as the birds quieted, tucking beaks into wings to sleep while restive frogs began their nocturnal chorus of lusty croaking.

The Appearance of Danel who, in reality was the shapeshifting Khahaynd of Umbar, sat down in a small hollow that was partially shielded from the easterly wind. She patted the mossy ground beside her with a small but strong hand “Estarfin, come, keep me warm; Culufinnon can make the fire for us when he returns,” she said, carelessly botching the name of the insignificant Captain of Celondim as she tried to soften her commanding tone.

There was a familiar sensation, as if he was standing in a storm with forked lightning overhead. Not painful, just strange. He sniffed the air and smelt wet dog. It was him who stunk. Before him stood Khahaynd, only she looked exactly like the She-Elf, her features and outfit identical in every detail. The sorceress smiled seductively and batted her eyelashes. 

Herne was an old town in a very Mannish style: a few wooden outbuildings next to run-down houses with stacked stone walls and adjoining fields, all surrounded by an abundance of oaks and larches. We approached it at a steady pace. It was late morning, Anor was bright, but the air was chill. It was a good excuse to be wrapped in our cloaks, though our bearing and stature and the noble blood of our horses possibly caused some to regard us twice.

Khahaynd thought about Zairaphel and her frequent mentioning of handsome men; clearly that was her weakness on full display, and she wondered briefly if her brother Naraal was handsome enough to hold the Sorceress's favor, so that she could gain something by it. “You have a traitor to Prince Imrahil?” she said to her, raising her glass of wine in silent congratulation. “That is most unusual and useful.”

It had been a long ride more than a difficult one. The path from Bree to Angmar was not well-worn, neither were there welcoming places to stay, not even for one such as her. Khahaynd had known that when she set out she would be on her own until she reached Lady Zairaphel’s house. But difficult? Nay, there were Men around Trestlebridge, but not the sort she would waste any time on. They were not interesting nor threatening enough for her.

He said his name was Balkumagan. “It is easy to see we are from a similar place, lady. I am Balkumagan, First Mate of the Shakalgimil, though alas, rather further from her and the Sea than I like.” He bowed elegantly, as one who knew well his manners.

She had been watching the children of the Caru-Luth playing near the tents. Scruffy, grubby little urchins for the most part, but they were full of laughter and jest. They enjoyed their meager lives, they enjoyed competing against each other in mostly friendly fights. Some had short shaggy ponies, and they raced them round the settlement, calling for adults to ‘beware, for the young warriors were training’. And the adults looked on, smiling as they recalled their own childhoods.

The journey to Ethring was almost a holiday for Khahaynd. Not needing to use her skills to disguise herself, Zir or Tarih, she felt overflowing with energy and expectations. Only one rider passed her, and he riding a swift bay horse, and dressed like a messenger bearing the Steward’s livery. He did not stop at the sight of a beautiful woman garbed in brown silk gown and head covering, riding a noble black mare with silver mane and tail.