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.

Thengwer means, according the most knowledgeable Fiondil, Thane’s wergild – compensation at the highest level. Imogen’s name is supposed to mean Oak-tree in the (nonexistent) language of Rhûn, hence the pet name her father uses.

Grotharr Jarl featured in my crossover story “The Web of Darkness”. He was one of the Easterling chieftains sent against Dale.

Beta read by Larner, thanks.

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Chapter 08 – The Sacrifice

When the emissary of the Mark and his guide had left the audience chamber, the Lord of Nimwarkinh gave his son and heir a long, icy look.

“’Tis already too late for accusations, my son, though in truth, I should have you flogged before the eyes of all our warriors,” he said, and Ingolf blanched, for flogging was considered the most shameful punishment among the Khimmer people, usually reserved for slaves. “Can you imagine the harm you have caused? The King of the Horselords is our last, best hope to free ourselves from Mordor’s yoke, and even with his support, it would be a long and hard struggle.”

“If we do not make our move now, soon enough it will be too late,” added the venerable Dallben. “’Tis already hard enough to feed the Mordvin slaves, and without them, what would you brave warriors do? Who will tend to the land, take care of the beasts, build the fences around the villages, cure leather, spin and weave the wool, carve wood and stone? The only craftsmen your people have are the metalsmiths; and while one can wear metal, one cannot eat it.”

Ingolf, still not willing to accept all the blame, shrugged. “There are other places to trade with.”

“Would you care to name them?” asked the druid coldly. “The northern tribes have already cut us off from the trade routes heading to Dale and Esgaroth and Birka, the important merchants towns around the Long Lake. Through southern Mirkwood we cannot go – not with the Necromancer’s Tower on one side and the Witch of the Golden Wood on the other. In the east, there is naught but the desolation of the Khandian Desert where we would not survive. In the south, there are the black lands of Mordor. Our only way still open leads to the southwest: to Rohan and Gondor, and from Gondor we cannot hope much. The Steward is a hard man who would never believe in our sincerity. Théoden-king, on the other hand, might.”

“Not after his emissary, who had taken great risks to get to us, ended up in the Black Pit, he will not,” said Ragnar sourly. “The King of the Horselords is old, but he is no fool. Tell me, Master Dallben: the family of this young man, just how important are they?”

“More important than you may believe,” said Dallben. “They are perhaps the most respected ones after the royal clan. For they, too, descended from Eorl the Young, through Éofor, the third son of Brego Eorlsson. They no longer count as royalty, but their word has nearly the same weight. Our hopes for this alliance stand or fall depending on what he tells his King upon his return.”

“Elfhelm Hengestsson must be properly compensated,” said the druid with emphasis. “And it must be thegnwer, the highest price there is. Not just for his life being threatened; also for the shameful fact that he was thrown into the Black Pit, without being heard out first, like some lowly slave. Small wonder that the Khimmer jarls have such a bad reputation among other people.”

A heavy, unpleasant silence fell upon the Lesser Hall. The remnants of the once so mighty people of Rhovanion might have made their peace with the Khimmer jarls – what other choice would they have? – but they never made any secret of the fact that the Khimmer people were uncouth barbarians in their eyes and the chieftains naught but brutes. Still, most chieftains did their best to cajole druids into their court, for even with the greatness of their realm long gone and mostly forgotten, the druids themselves had an uncanny knack of learning things and could deal with foreigners well.

Ragnar was shrewd enough to take their counsels under consideration, even if he decided otherwise in the end – after all, they were knowledgeable and had great influence not among the Mordvin slaves only but also among the lesser jarls. His son and heir, however, had not yet reached the age of wisdom that would tame his haughty and irascible ways.

Had Imogen been born a boy-child, the matter of inheritance would probably lead to embittered fights in Nimwarkinh. According to Khimmer law, leadership went to the most capable legitimate son, not necessarily to the firstborn. As Imogen’s mother, Lady Branwen, came from the same clan as the head druid, they would have supported her child against Ingolf, and perchance might have won. Imogen, who loved her brother despite his faults, often had to mediate between him and the influential druids, who had little patience with his antics.

“But the emissary said himself that his King would not endanger a possible alliance between his people and ours because of personal grievances,” she now said quietly, in an attempt to pacify her father’s chancellors. “And he was willing to forget what had happened to him, for the sake of his errand among us.”

“I know he was,” replied her father gravely, “but that is an offer we cannot accept. You know that my throne does not stand at the same height as that of Théoden-king; I am not the King of Rhûn yet, and ‘tis doubtful that I ever will be. An insult towards his emissary is an insult towards the King of the Horsemen himself. Unless we can right this particular wrong, we shall never be equals. And if I lowered myself as far as swearing a vassal’s oath to Théoden-king, do you believe the other jarls would allow me to remain the chief warlord of our people?”

The answer to that was so obvious that all Imogen could do was to shake her head, dejected. Ragnar Jarl nodded grimly.

“Your deeds would put any man to shame, daughter, therefore I shall speak to you as I would to a son. Not only would the pride of the other jarls not allow Ragnar to become the vassal of a foreign King – Ragnar himself could not bear it, either.”

“Nor could his daughter, the captain of the shieldmaidens, bear it,” said Imogen proudly. “Never have the children of the Bear served foreign lords and never will. Not while there is a single hand strong enough to wield the sword.”

Which, of course, was not entirely true. While the Tribe of the Bear usually did not take part in Mordor’s campaigns, had not done so since Hademar Jarl, in fact, other tribes did. They were a people of raiders and plunderers, after all, whether by choice or by necessity. And even Ragnar had to pretend allegiance to the Dark Lord, or else he would have been replaced as the chief warlord of Rhûn in no time at all.

Siltric Silkbeard, to name just one of his rivals, was devoted enough to Mordor’s long-term agenda to subjugate the Wilderland – and all the lands west of the great mountains afterwards – and foolish enough to believe that he and his tribe would be spared, once all else had fallen and been conquered.  Ragnar, however, knew better; which had been the reason to start the tentative approach towards the Horselords.

“Our strength may not be enough to hold back the dark storm coming from the south,” he said heavily. “We could try to ride its waves, as some other tribes do, but that would only mean sending our warriors to fight someone else’s battles and be slain for nothing. In the end, we would not fare any better than those whom we have slaughtered on Mordor’s behalf.”

“If we have to die anyway, at least we should die freely, with our knees unbent and our heads held high proudly, as we have lived,” said Imogen. “And when that day comes, the daughters of the Bear will show their brethren that their hearts are just as brave and proud as those of the men who had treated them like cattle all their lives.”

Ingolf snorted, but Master Dallben nodded slowly.

“’Tis said that in the elder days, when your forefathers were still a young people, Khimmer women, too, were treated with respect and valued as they deserve,” he said.

Ragnar nodded. “So I have heard, too. But the Shadow crept over our lands early on, and our men became rough-hearted in the never-ending warfare, and we have forgotten almost everything we once knew. Had the witan not lived among us,” he glanced at Dallben and the grave-faced druid, “we would be no better than the wild Men of Far-Harad. But not all is lost, not yet. Should we make this alliance work, we would, at least, have a chance to break free from Mordor. And then, perhaps, our lives may become easier; even those of our women.”

Imogen shook her head bitterly, disbelief clearly written in her beautiful face. Her father sighed.

“Do you think you are the only who mourns the fate of our women?” he asked. “Do you think my heart was easy when I had to send your sisters, even though they were born to me by my other women, not by my wives, to the burial wagons of their husbands? Do you think I like sending you into the bedchambers of unsteady allies for Nimwarkinh’s sake? You think ’tis easy for me? You are all that is left from my beloved Branwen, and I would do anything in my power to protect you. But I am the lord of a falling  people, not merely your father. And as I cannot listen to my heart when the survival of our people is at stake, I must use your beauty and the desire it awakens in men’s hearts to our advantage. This is a life-and-death struggle, my little oak, and as your father, I cannot spare you when there is so much at stake.”

The sad look in his eyes made the meaning of his words very clear, and Imogen became stark white with anger.

“No!” she whispered harshly. “You cannot force me to do that, not now! This is my resting cycle, the first one in two seasons. I owe you no service, least of all this one! This is my time! I have earned it with bitter fights. You cannot make me to go to him. We have privileges that not even you can cut short!”

“It must be, Imogen!” the voice of the warlord was full of compassion, but he brooked no disobedience. “Truly, I cannot force a shieldmaiden to service during her resting cycle; and I would never do it, if there were any other way. But there is none, not yet. The fate of our entire House is at stake. The emissary was mistreated by our House – therefore the compensation, too, must come from our House. And as both his life and his honour were threatened, he is entitled to thegnwer indeed.”

“It was not I who mistreated him,” reminded him Imogen coldly. “On the contrary: I was the one who saved him from coming to serious harm. Why should I be the one to pay the price?”

“Because ’tis you whom he desires,” answered her father calmly. “I could see the want in his eyes as he was watching you. He would not accept the wergild paid in gold or silver or jewels; and where could I find enough of those to compensate someone of his rank and his high birth? Even if I emptied every treasure chest in Nimwarkinh, it would never be enough.”

That, sadly, was very true. The wealth of the Deep Furnaces was in copper and iron – useful and necessary metals that made the Tribe of the Bear rich and respected among their own, but not truly suited to pay off a foreign dignitary. Even the gemstones they had dared to remove from the abandoned old Dwarf-mine would not do. They were beautiful to look at, but of lesser value, which was probably the reason why they had been left behind.

“A life could only be bought by another life; or a wergild of equal value,” Ragnar Jarl continued. “As my treasure would not be enough, I have only two ways to right the wrong done to the emissary and save the last chance to make this alliance we so badly need work. Either I send you in his chambers, or the head of your brother on a plate. But as much as he would deserve to be beheaded for his folly, I cannot afford that,” he added dryly, without looking at the fuming Ingolf. “He is my only heir; none of my other sons could hold the Tribe together.”

Imogen knew all too well how true that was. His bastard half-brothers were fierce warriors, and many of them would have supporters among the lesser jarls and the simple warriors, should they stake claim of leadership. They were well loved among the people, and they had family ties to many clans within the Tribe.

And therein lay the problem: too many of them had supporters, yet neither had the advantage of legitimacy. With Ingolf removed, the Tribe would be torn to pieces by kin-strife, as all the others would have equal rights to step into his place. More than that: being equally ambitious and strong-willed, none of them would step back for another’s sake.

Therefore Imogen knew that in the end she would have no choice but do as her father had ordered. This was not the first time that she would be sent in the bedchamber of an important emissary or a jarl of uncertain allegiances. Her beauty and skill always ensured that Ragnar Jarl would get what he wanted. In truth, she had accepted that long ago. As a shieldmaiden, at least she could escape the helplessness of married life – or that of a concubine. Like all things, the privileges of a shieldmaiden had their price-

When she had applied for a place in their order, she had done so with her eyes wide open. She had known what the price would be. But she had decided that the freedom and respect no other Khimmer woman could even dream of was well worth that price. She had been taught by the norna how to serve in the bedchamber as well as on the battlefield, and most of the time, she could live with that fate.

The sole purpose of every Khimmer woman was to serve every whim of her men. The shieldmaidens, protected by their privileges, could count themselves fortunate, compared with the others.

Imogen knew all this, and as a rule, she valued her privileged status both as the legitimate daughter of Rhûn’s chief warlord and as a shieldmaiden. No woman had ever stood higher than her among the children of the Bear, and she was content with what she had and had no need nor interest in men, be they of her own kind or from elsewhere – ’til now. For the emissary of the Mark was different from all the others to whose bedchambers her father had sent her. He was proud and brave and generous and noble – someone she could have liked for himself.

She had never chosen a lover to this day; her life had been composed of battle and of preparing herself for battle. She had to be the best of the best to keep her position, and she had succeeded. But she knew that her secret, the one she had carried with her for seasons, would be revealed one day, and thus she had been playing with the idea of taking a lover during this very sleeping cycle; to know some pleasure as long as there was still time.

The thought of having to lie with a man whom she might have chosen freely, just to hammer out the dent her brother had caused in the family’s honour filled her heart with great bitterness.

Ragnar the Smith could easily follow the struggle of contradictory feelings upon the beautiful face of his daughter. He could see that Imogen had already fought the battle against her own pride, and he knew she would obey as always. But he also knew how hard it was for her, for she had inherited her stubborn pride and her courage from him. And the heart of the warlord was heavy; for he knew that – unless a miracle happened – Imogen would seek out deadly peril in her pride and her desire to win renown, and that he would lose her before time.

“’Tis well, my child,” he said gently. “I know you would not let me down. It cannot be helped; the strength of our men is not enough to forge a better future for our people. We need the sacrifice of the women, too, as much as I wished things were different. Go now and rest; you will need your strength this evening. And if you can think of a reward I could give you, name it – you shall have it.”

“I do not need to think about it,” said Imogen, “neither have you to ask. You know what I have wanted from the day on I received my sword: to fight on the side of Zadya, in the first line of battle. I have asked you time and again to let me join her, but you never agreed.”

“Nay, and I never will,” replied her father decisively. “Grotharr Jarl is mad with battle lust. Had I not needed to keep the Tribe of the Wolf on our side, I would never have allowed Zadya to live among them, either. ’Tis bad enough that one daughter of mine courts death every day. I shall not allow you to meet an untimely end, too.”

“At least that end would be a glorious one, preserved in song and legend, as long as one scop remains in these caves to touch the strings of a lute,” answered Imogen bitterly; then she bowed from the shoulder, like a man, and left the Lesser Hall without a further word.

Ragnar Jarl looked after her in concern. The apparent death wish of his daughter had him more worried with each passing season.

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In the meantime, Elfhelm and Strider were led to the bath – which was a surprisingly elaborate one for a tribe of uncouth barbarians.

The small stone chamber serving as sweat lodge was at least as fine as the ones Elfhelm was used to at home. The spacious marble basin was filled with the water from an underground hot spring, the water flowing from the maws of three dragon heads on either side, wrought of bronze and now glittering green, due to the wetness, and left the basin through some hidden vent, so that the basin itself always remained clean. Low, broad massage benches, carved of stone and polished smoother than marble, framed the basin from all sides.

“This is the most beautiful bath-house I have ever seen,” admitted Elfhelm, speaking in Rohirric, to avoid insulting their hosts. “Who would have expected to find something like this among the Easterlings?”

“’Tis Dwarf-work, definitely,” answered Strider in the same language. “Dwarves are almost as fastidious as Elves, and that is saying a lot. It speaks for these people, though, to put such an excellent place to good use. Not all Easterlings would know to appreciate it, and I assume that only the chieftain, his family and his honoured guests are allowed to use it. I certainly didn’t seen it from the inside during all the time I lived among them.”

Elfhelm nodded, but they could not continue, as now a few lovely young women came in to take care of them. One of them was a redhead; another one blond; a third one raven-haired, and another three the usual auburn-maned, voluptuous Khimmer beauties, while the last one, the oldest of all, was clearly a Mordvin slave: round-faced, doe-eyed, with coarse, dark brown hair. And yet she seemed to be the one in charge of the others.

“They are Ingolf’s women,” Einarr, who had stayed with them in the bath, told Elfhelm; then, with a smug grin, he added. “He must have insulted you badly, if he goes such lengths to placate you. As a rule, he does not allow his women to be even seen by other men, though Birgid here,” he glanced at the redhead, “used to be mine. I was the one who cut her girdle after I had wrestled the power from the Bear. Alas, she caught Ingolf’s eye, and that was it. The heir of the Sword can have whatever – or whomever – he wants.”

The bitterness in his voice surprised both guests. They had thought that Ragnar’s sons would stand as a united front behind Ingolf.

“We stand as a shieldwall before our father, as long as he is the one to wield the Sword,” replied Einarr, when Strider voiced that opinion. “But I for my part do not wish to serve Ingolf, once he comes into his own – and I may not be the only one. Others have their grievances, too.”

He stood and stretched, displaying impressive muscles as he did so, to the unabashed delight of Ingolf’s women. The redhead in particular seemed to appreciate the sight.

“I shall leave you to enjoy your bath now,” he said. “Ybba has ordered your belongings to be brought to your chambers and breakfast to be served. The wenches will take you there when you are done here, and I shall come and escort you to the Mead Hall before the feast begins.”

~TBC~