Emissary of the Mark

(Elfhelm’s adventures in the land of Rhûn)

by Soledad

Disclaimer: see Introduction, because in this story it’s rather long.

Author’s notes: Time: about four years before the Ring War. Aðalbrandr is an existing Old Norse name and means “Noble Sword”. I thought it fitting for the one who would one day wield Andúril.

Siltric Silkbeard, chieftain of the Tribe of the White Kine, was the Khimmer warlord leading the Easterling attack on Dale in my other story, “The Web of Darkness”.

Ragnar Jarl’s attire and appearance is based on an amazing pencil drawing by Czech artist Zdenek Burian, from an illustration to the Hallstatt culture.

Beta read by Larner, thanks.

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Chapter 07 – Ragnar the Smith

Unlikely as it first seemed, Elfhelm was actually able to sleep even in his highly uncomfortable position. There was some truth in the old saying of his mother’s people that there were no beds too uncomfortable, if only one was tired enough.

When he woke up, he found Strider awake and humming quietly under his breath, seeming fairly unconcerned. Despite the other man’s assurances given the day before, he did find that a little strange.

“I wonder what time it might be,” he said. “Have you not slept at all?”

“It must be early morning; I can feel in my bones that Anor has risen already,” answered Strider. “I did sleep a little, for I, too, was weary. The hunt that now lies behind me was a long and relentless one.”

“And still not finished, if I have understood you and your friend the Elf rightly,” said Elfhelm.

“Indeed so,” admitted Strider, “and I hope I can continue it, soon. For with each day the creature I am hunting spends unwatched, the danger of it doing some mischief grows.”

“Are you not afraid that you might lose track of him in the meantime?” asked Elfhelm, feeling a little guilty. It was for him, after all, that Strider had put his task aside, at least temporarily.

He could not see the Ranger in the dark, of course, but he could perceive the smile in Strider’s voice.  “I was trained by Elves for many years, my friend. ’Tis not so easy to keep me off a track, once I have found it. Worry not. Soon, we shall be brought before Ragnar the Smith, and once your task has been fulfilled, I can pick up mine again.”

As if proving his words, the screeching noise of the stone trap door of the Black Pit could be heard as it was removed; and there were some people talking overhead. The guards – whether the same ones as last night or not, Elfhelm could not tell – let down iron hooks fastened to long ropes into the Pit. With impressive skill, they manipulated the ropes until the hooks got caught in the restraints of the prisoners and pulled them up into the upper cell.

Elfhelm gritted his teeth as the razor-sharp iron hook nicked his flesh in the process but refused to give his captors the satisfaction of hearing him moan. He only hoped he would not get blood poisoning – he seriously doubted that the hooks had been cleaned before use.

Finally, they were up in the cell. The guards loosened their bonds, and when feeling had returned to their limbs and they could stand on their feet without support again, they were led back up into the Middle Hall.

At the first fork in the underground road they turned to the left, into a straight little side tunnel with polished stone walls as smooth as glass. The floor of the tunnel led slightly upward and it was remarkably smooth, too.

“It appears we are not being taken to the Great Hall, which also serves as the throne room of Ragnar Jarl, but to his private audience chamber,” commented Strider softly.

Elfhelm gave him a surprised look. “What makes you think that?”

“The direction,” replied Strider. “You forget that I’ve been here before. More than that; I lived among these people and therefore know their dwelling reasonably well. This is a private path, leading straight and quickly to the audience chamber. Only emissaries and the councillors of Ragnar Jarl’s court are allowed to use it.”

“What are we doing here, then?” asked Elfhelm. “Are we not supposed to be prisoners and spies?”

“I can think of two reasons,” said Strider thoughtfully. “Either Ragnar Jarl wants to keep our presence secret, at least for the time being; or he is already guessing that his son has made a mistake and tries to control the damage by honouring us properly. We shall see, and soon enough. Here we are, on the threshold of the Lesser Hall.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Passing through an arched doorway they came into a hall of moderate size but of exquisite beauty, considering the barbaric nature of their hosts. It had vague resemblance to a longhouse, as might be seen among the Northmen, although it was, of course, a cave. Tapestries of thick wool, depicting hunting scenes, hung from both long walls, partly to keep the hall warmer, but also to make it look impressive, which goal was fully reached.

Elfhelm wondered briefly whether the chieftain had obtained them from other people – the women of Esgaroth were renowned in the North for their waving skills – or if his wives and concubines had made them here. In either case, they were most excellently crafted.

The floor, which was paved with stones of many hues in a meandering pattern, spoke clearly of the skill of the Khimmer craftsmen; and so did the elaborately carved stone benches  along the longer walls, meant for the visitors of the chieftain. Their hard coldness was softened by animal skins thrown across them.

Opposite the arched entrance, the short wall was covered by a floor-to-ceiling mosaic, depicting a raging black bear in front of a plain gold background. On both sides of the tribe’s animal ancestor – as the Khimmer believed it – a few short rows of runes could be read. They were written in the cirth used in the North, and Elfhelm realized that those were the names of Ragnar’s ancestors.

In front of the wall mosaic a low, two-step dais of red marble was built. A richly carved stone chair with no back stood in the middle of the dais, covered with a bearskin. The animal to which the pelt had once belonged must have been an exceptionally huge one, by the sight of it. On either side of the dais, fragrant oil burned in flat bronze vessels, the three legs of which were twisted into one slender column. And in the chair itself sat Ragnar the Smith, chieftain of the Tribe of the Bear, currently the most powerful of all Khimmer jarls.

He was a squarely built, muscular man of middle age, the Lord of Nimwarkinh, with heavy shoulders, a chest broad like the bellows of his great smithies, and arms like tree-trunks. He wore a tunic of homespun, russet wool, interwoven with blue symbols, the meaning of which Elfhelm could not even begin to guess. Over that was a sleeveless bearskin surcoat, girdled by a heavy bull skin belt, at least two spans wide, with beautifully made gold fittings. His heavy boats were adorned with gemstones of many hues, encased in gold.

His russet hair and beard were wavy and not yet touched with grey; his bronze headpiece hugged his square forehead at an unusual angle and flared out along his temples in three gradually lengthening layers, like the wings of a bird, also adorned with large, many-coloured gemstones. On his massive upper arms, right above his elbows, he wore masterfully crafted bronze bracelets, which accentuated his already impressive muscles. From his decorative belt a large battle axe hung on a short chain, its hilt inlaid with silver. The symbol of his power, a huge, two-edged broadsword, washed with copper, rested upon his knees.

On his left, upon a low, bronze-legged little table with an onyx plate, stood a silver decanter and a large, elaborately wrought jug, for wine and water, respectively. His own, handleless drinking cup of bronze also hung on a short chain from his belt. Other, two-handled, stemmed bronze cups – masterpieces of Khimmer smithcraft – stood ready for the visitors around the decanter.

Right from the throne stood Ingolf, the lord’s son, this time without helmet or armour, clad in the same barbaric pomp. The marked resemblance between father and son was unignorable, even though Ingolf probably still had a long way to go to reach the level of his father’s shrewd wisdom and dignity. And at the foot of the throne, on a flat, gilded leather cushion thrown onto the lower step of the dais, sat Beryl, the shieldmaiden, her back straight and her head raised proudly.

She was not wearing her mail shirt, either, but the everyday garb of Khimmer noblewomen: a knee-length, soft leather tunic, trimmed with fur, over a long gown of russet homespun wool shot with blue, and light, embroidered leather slippers. However, her true rank was shown by her fine, soft, very expensive mantle called the vol. This royal piece of clothing, made of the fur of the extremely rare grey mole, was draped around her broad shoulders in carefully arranged folds and held together upon her throat by a jewelled bronze clasp.

Aside from that, she was also wearing an odd double belt as had been fashionable among the nobles of Dale a hundred or so years earlier – perchance inherited from her mother. The upper, narrow tail of the belt encircled her trim waist tightly, while the lower tail, twice as broad, lay loosely around her hips, fitted with small golden sun-symbols in high relief. The same design could be seen on the broad golden circlet worn upon her brow.

Elfhelm was now quite sure that she belonged to the chieftain’s cynn. However, he could not figure out just yet how closely they were related.

Only two of the witan of Ragnar Jarl’s court were present in this early hour, and – strangely enough – neither of them was a Khimmer jarl. The older one, based on his greying, straw blond hair and bushy beard, was either a Northman or an expatriate from Esgaroth. He wore a fine grey woolen robe, girdled with silver, and a dark green cloak, fastened on one shoulder with an old-fashioned silver pin. His high brow was bound with a silver circlet, adorned with a hazelnut-sized white gem, from which three small silver leaves sprouted.

“Do you know him?” asked Elfhelm in a low voice, speaking in Rohirric, just in case.

Strider shrugged. “Not in person. But I do know that Ragnar the Smith used to have a foreign tutor: a scholarly Northman by the name of Dallben. I reckon this would be him.”

“And the other one?”

Strider glanced at the other witan – a somewhat taller, powerfully built man, raven-haired and grey-eyed, roughly of the same age as the chieftain. He was clad in an ankle-length grey linen tunic, girdled with a sash of black velvet; his belt buckle was of silver, shaped like the crescent moon. Around his neck on a fine silver chain, he also wore the silver shape of the waxing moon, like an amulet; but the moon also served as the case for a round crystal lens. His sleeveless surcoat, floor-length and of black wool, was embroidered with small silver stars on the hem, the high collar and the arm holes. His face was broad and pale, with strong, wide cheekbones; both his collar-length hair and his neatly trimmed beard looked a little coarse.

“He does have the looks of the Men of Dale,” Strider finally decided, “but that amulet… I heard that the druids of Rhovanion of old had a symbol like that. Long, long ago, before their descendants came to live in Dale, after the Kin-strife of Gondor. I always thought that their order had died out hundreds of years ago; their Celestial Temple, with the huge standing stones, had been abandoned for so very long.”

“Perhaps not that abandoned as many would think,” said Elfhelm. “Perhaps they were just hiding. Sacred places have the tendency to draw people, even long after official worship has stopped.”

“Perhaps,” allowed Strider. “I still cannot imagine how one of the last druids would end up in the court of a Khimmer jarl, of all places. Those two peoples have never been friends; and their beliefs are very different, too.”

“Perhaps he had no other choice, if he wanted to survive,” suggested Elfhelm.

“That is one possibility, yes,” agreed Strider.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He fell silent abruptly, for Ragnar the Smith was now slowly rising from his throne upon seeing them, turned, and gave his son a sharp look.

“Are these the spies that you have caught near the Brown Lands, you and your patrol?” he asked in his deep, rough voice.

Out of courtesy towards these strangers, he spoke Westron, although with a heavy accent. Ingolf Ragnarsson nodded, and Strider could see identical, faint smiles flicker across the faces of the two counsellors. Those two had already guessed the truth and imagined the possible consequences, it seemed – and they clearly enjoyed the possibility of Ingolf being taken down a peg or two.

The Lord of Nimwarkinh’s face remained impassive. For a few moments, he studied his prisoners grimly, taking in their dishevelled appearance: the smears of mud and blood upon their faces that, like their hands, bore the marks of rat bites.

“Who are you?” he finally asked, aiming his question at Strider, in whom his experienced eye recognized the leader.

“I am a Ranger of the North,” answered Strider. “I was visiting the Elves of Mirkwood when I ran into this huntsman, carrying a message for you from the Riddermark. As he knows the roads across your lands but a little, I offered to guide him, lest message and messenger would be lost under the shadows of the Ash Mountains.”

“I see,” the Khimmer lord seemed less than content with that answer. “So you say, and it does sound believable. But we are living in dark times – so who can vouch for the truth of your words?”

“You lord father can,” replied Strider, removing a small, flat object from his belt pouch and offering it to the chieftain in his open palm. Elfhelm could see that it was a piece of wax, bearing the mark of a seal. “After all, are we not all made of the bones of the earth?”

The change in the chieftain’s demeanour was nothing short dramatic. With an impatient gesture, he ordered all guards to leave the room; then he offered his hand to Strider in a warrior’s greeting.

“Lord Aðalbrandr,” he said with obvious respect, in the most formal manner, ”thy deeds of strength and bravery in my father’s service have long become legend and been made into song among our people. Ragnar’s heart is gladdened to greet thee in the Western Halls of Nimwarkinh. The greater is the shame upon Ragnar’s House, though, that thou hast arrived under such unfortunate circumstances.”

They clasped forearms, Strider giving no sign of discomfort from the chieftain’s iron grip.

“Such is often the case with us, Rangers, in our lonely travels,” he replied with a smile. “For I admit freely that we do not always look trustworthy; therefore I stake no claim for reparation from you. Your son, however, ought to learn to listen to people ere he would resort to violence.”

“I fear thou art right about my son, good sir,” admitted the chieftain, his pride obviously suffering even from such friendly lecturing. “Now, wouldst thou introduce us thy companion? Thou sayst he was sent with a message to me; I would hear more about that.”

Strider grinned. “He is man enough to speak for himself, thus I shall let him do so. I only know him as Ossiach the huntsman; but I deem he has other names aside from that one.”

“So I have,” Elfhelm confessed. “For Ossiach is but the name I was given as a child by my mother, who hails from these lands. Back home, though, among the Riders of Rohan, I am known as Elfhelm Hengestsson. I am, the Marshal of the garrison of Edoras and the Household Guard of Théoden-cyning; and I have come to you on his behalf.”

If Ragnar Jarl had been surprised by Strider’s revelation, now he seemed to be shocked beyond belief. For several heartbeats’ time, he was unable to speak. Then his temper visibly flared, and he needed another couple of moments to bring it under control before turning back to his son.

“Never since our forefather wrestled strength and power from the Bear has such an outrage happened among us,” he said slowly, icily. “That an emissary – and the emissary of a King at that – should be captured and thrown into the Black Pit, without being given the chance to reveal himself and declare his intentions! Your foolish deed will cost me dearly,* me and our whole tribe. It makes me wonder if you are truly the right son to become chieftain after me, or if the sons of the Bear would be better led by one of your brothers – even though they were born in the wrong bed.”

Ingolf became deathly pale, and that with good reason. If Elfhelm understood correctly what Lady Aelfgifu had told him about Khimmer customs, a legitimate son was usually preferred to illegitimate ones when it came to take over the father’s heritage. Usually – but not necessarily. Whenever a chieftain appointed an heir, leadership skills and bravery in battle played an important role in the decision.

More so as the heir was supposed to defend his position in a number of duels after his father’s death - as long as there were any challengers. Some jarls, who had secured a desired position, had to defend it all their lives. Elfhelm could imagine that being the Lord of Nimwarkinh was such a position. Ragnar the Smith was not the kind of unquestioned sovereign as was his own King. It was not merely the lack of a crown or a proper title. Ragnar’s leadership could still be challenged.

The Khimmer lord turned away from his son in dismay and looked at Beryl.

“Have water and other necessities brought, so that our guests can at least wash their hands and faces, after a night spent in such undignified manner,” he ordered.

The beautiful shieldmaiden rose from her cushion with the boneless grace of a snake, without using her hands, and hurried off. Soon, barefooted female servants in coarse tunics came in, carrying copper washbasins, jugs of hot water, some kind of root that lathered when getting wet, and pieces of rough linen cloth. With downcast eyes, they knelt before the guests, so that they could have a quick wash… as much as it was possible in the chieftain’s own hall.

With a sideways glance, Elfhelm watched Strider’s use of the soap root and followed the older man’s example. The… thing actually had a nice, clean herbal smell, which surprised him. Clearly, the Khimmer people – or at least their nobles – were not half as barbaric as the Riders of the Mark often assumed.

Of course, he should have known that. His mother had often complained about the Men of the Mark not caring enough for cleanliness.

“Thank you, Beryl,” he said, vaguely ashamed for his previous thoughts, but the shieldmaiden smiled and shook her head.

“Nay, my lord. That is a name I take off, together with my armour, whenever I cross the threshold of my father’s hall.”  Seeing Elfhelm’s surprise, she smiled again and nodded, with just a hint of pride, even haughtiness. “You have heard rightly. I am Imogen Ragnarsdaughter; and I am glad that you were able to prove your truthfulness.”

Elfhelm was only moderately surprised. Ingolf’s unusual leniency towards the shieldmaiden had already suggested that she could not be just anybody – but that she would be Ragnar’s own daughter, that he had not expected.

He did not forget, however, that she had intervened with Ingolf on his behalf, and thus he bowed deeply and kissed her hand in Gondorian fashion, which seemed more chivalrous than the customs of his own people.

“My fair and brave lady,” he said, “I shall not forget that I owe you my life. Should you need my sword, call upon me; and if by life or death I can protect you, you shall not remain unprotected. That I swear by the blood of my Clan and the honour of my House.”

Imogen smiled indulgently. “I thank thee, good sir,” she replied. “Rest assured, though, that I need no man’s protection, as I am protected well enough by Heloic, my own sword. But tell me about that Clan and that House of thine. I would like to know whose hide I have saved.”

“Well,” Elfhelm began a bit hesitantly, not certain how much of himself he should reveal. “My father is the Lord of the Eastfold, the Maegtheow – Clan Master; you would probably say chieftain – of Clan Éowain and the head of the House of Fréablod. Ours is an ancient house, related to the royal clan. My father is also the chief stallion master of the Mark, which means he supervises the breeding in the Mark. No major decisions about horses are made without his approval, as he has been selected by the King himself for this task. My mother, the Lady Imoleth, is sister to a Mordvin chieftain who fled with her people across the Brown Lands. I am their third son. I have eight brothers and two sisters. And, as I already told you, I am the Marshal of Edoras, the King’s own city, and the head of his Household Guard.”

He could see that his hosts were impressed, even though little could be read on the rough Khimmer faces. Imogen’s eyes were sparkling with interest, however, and for some reason, that flattered him.

“I assume your King sent you on this errand because you had the best chances to blend in,” said the druid in a smooth, calm voice.

Elfhelm nodded. “That, too; and because I am accustomed to living with foreign people.”  He looked at the druid with interest. “I would know your name, good sir; and what your role is at Ragnar Jarl’s court.”

“And why would you wish to know that?” asked the druid. “I am not one of the jarls of the Tribe who would have a voice in any of their decisions.”

“Yet you are clearly one of the witan, whose voice has a way to your lord’s ear,” answered Elfhelm. “And as you know who I am, while I know not who you are, that gives you an advantage upon me.”

“Doubtlessly,” answered the druid in unsmiling amusement. “And a wise man would not give up such an advantage without a sound reason.”

“Would not building a bridge over the wide gap of centuries-old mistrust not be reason enough?” asked Strider quietly. “Your people once ruled over Rhovanion; or did not King Vidugavia’s realm stretch from Mirkwood to the River Running, the Vales of Anduin and the grassy plains? Was he not a stout ally of the Kings of Gondor? Did not Princess Vidumavi – or the Lady Galadwen as she was known in Gondor – sit upon the throne of Osgiliath, next to King Valacar?”

“You know much about my people’s fate, it seems,” said the druid. “But then you must also know that it has been almost two thousand years since we held any power within Middle-earth.  We have perished from the face of Middle-earth as a people, and very few of us are still there to remember.”

“Yet you are still there, and you seem to have some influence, too,” pointed out Strider. “Is it not time for the people of Rhûn to turn away from its unholy alliance with the land of Mordor and follow the lead of your people of old? To seek out new alliances, if not with Gondor itself, then with Rohan, its closest and most steadfast ally?”

“For even offering such a suggestion, many of the Khimmer jarls would demand your death,” said the druid, “as they are well content with the lead Mordor offers them. Here, however, your words will find open ears, Lord Aðalbrandr; for your name is a known and respected one among the sons of the Bear – and as you are suggesting something that we, too, have been considering for a while.”

“However, we must move carefully, for few of the other chieftains would agree,” added Ragnar. “And my ability to negotiate an alliance, even a secret one, has just been weakened considerably,” he added, giving his son an angry glare. “How can I expect the King of Rohan to ignore what has happened to his emissary, who is also his kinsman? Having him mistreated and nearly slain will hardly endear Théoden-king towards us. And if he makes too harsh demands, there will be no alliance, needful and advantageous though it might be for both sides. I cannot – and shall not – beg for better conditions. That would be a weakness that I cannot afford.”

“My King is wise and generous,” said Elfhelm slowly. “He would never endanger an alliance the Mark would benefit from for personal grievances; nor am I important enough to act thusly for my sake alone. Not if I do not insist on reparation – and why should I? The Lady Imogen,” he glanced briefly at the silently listening shieldmaiden, “saw to it that I would come to no irreparable harm. Therefore I consider the rest of what happened as part of the risks I had to take on this errand.”

“That is not so simple, I fear,” said the venerable Dallben, speaking for the first time. “You may relinquish your due right for wergild, yet Ragnar Jarl cannot afford not to compensate you. Blood was drawn, although more by accident than by design, and the guards of the court have seen it. The chieftain is honour-bound by the laws and customs of the Tribe. If he fails to honour them, his leadership is forfeit.”

“True enough,” the warlord nodded, his face grim. “And that is something I cannot afford. I must not lose the respect of the lesser jarls. Right now, there is no-one whose grip would be strong enough to keep them in line, at least those from the Tribe of the Bear and the lesser tribes that follow our lead. As for the other powerful tribes, the sons of the White Kine, the Wolf or the Elk, they would fall upon us the moment their chieftains see any weakness in my actions.”

“Are you not the overlord of all Khimmer chieftains then?” asked Elfhelm in surprise.

That was bad news. If Ragnar could only speak for himself and for a handful of the less important tribes, then his errand was doomed to fail from the beginning. Could their knowledge about the customs of Rhûn been so wrong? Or had Gríma kept important things from him deliberately, to bring about his fall?

“I am,” replied the warlord, “for my tribe is the strongest, the richest and the most numerous of all. We are also the ones who provide the others with armour and weapons, for I alone control the Deep Furnaces, and there are no other smithies in Rhûn that could be compared with ours. But it does not mean they would follow my lead without questioning. And Siltric Silkbeard from the Tribe of the White Kine has been eyeing my throne with envy for a long time.”

“Does he have the strength to challenge you?” asked Strider.

Ragnar Jarl shook his head. “No; but his firstborn, Sigurrd, is almost Ingolf’s equal in man-to-man combat. And should word get out that my heir has dishonoured the sacred right of an emissary to hospitality and protection, and that no wergild was paid for that trespassing, Sigurrd would not even need to challenge him. The lesser jarls of our own Tribe would declare him unfit to lead them, and that could mean the end of our power altogether.”

“But you said yourself that you have other sons, more than capable of leading your armies,” reminded him Strider.

“I did, and they are, and most of the lesser jarls would accept them, even if they were born from my other women, not from any of my wives,” replied the warlord. “But the chieftains of the other tribes would not, if only to find a reason to rise up against my leadership.”  He sighed. “Let us not discuss this matter any longer. This is a decision I shall have to make this day, but there is no need for you to listen to our debate. In the meantime, proper quarters will be prepared for you – for both of you – and I shall have the bathing chamber heated while you have something to eat. At nightfall, a feast will be held to your honour, if you would grace it with your presence.”

Elfhelm glanced at Strider for guidance, and the Ranger gave him a tiny nod.

“We would be honoured to do so,” he answered simply.

“The honour is mine,” said Ragnar; then he sounded the small bronze bell that hung on his left from an elaborately wrought stand.

The rich sound of the bell was still reverberating through the hall when two young men entered. They were richly clad, wearing the same polished bronze breastplate as Ingolf had on patrol, adorned with the symbols of Ragnar’s House. Great broadswords hung from their broad weapons belts that were decorated with polished bronze fittings.

One of them had the same square, heavy build and russet hair as Ragnar, and there was a marked resemblance in their features, too. The other one was half a head taller, with straw blond hair and icy blue eyes. He seemed more a Northman than a Khimmer warrior, but he, too, bore a resemblance to the warlord. They were probably both Ragnar’s bastard sons, which explained their position at court.

Khimmer chieftains had, as a rule, multiple wives – or rather one legitimate wife at all time, and many women, as their concubines were called – and they liked to build their personal guard of their own sons. That way, they needed not to worry about their safety, as their sons would die for them without a second thought. The obvious respect these two young men paid their sire made it clear that Ragnar’s sons felt the same.

“Ybba, Einarr, see that the guest chambers are prepared for the emissary and his guide,” Ragnar ordered. “Have the bath heated and food brought to their chambers, so that they can refresh themselves and rest before tonight’s feast.”

The taller, blond guard bowed, while the other one simply nodded.

“It will be done, lord,” the blond one said; then he turned to the guests. “Follow me, good sirs; you look like you need a good, hot bath and a cup of mead or two.”

“I cannot say no to that offer,” Elfhelm laughed, following the two young warriors out of the Lesser Hall and towards the promise of a good, long soak.

~TBC~