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The Rider: Pestilence  by Branwyn

For a moment nothing stirred and no word was spoken; the air itself seemed to still at the sight of the tall wizard who exited the tower. His robes were of a pearly white and had it been day and not night, Boromir was certain that the pureness of them would have blinded him. For a moment, he simply stared at the wizard, feeling caught in his gaze. But then the spell, if it had been one, broke, and Boromir cleared his throat, „I am Boromir, son of Denethor, Lord Steward of Gondor. I ride in the company of Eomund, Eohris’s son, Marshal of the Riddermark. I come on behalf of the Lord Steward, seeking council. “

Smiling, the wizard nodded his head once, “Of course you do.”

Then, he turned his piercing eyes on the rest of the group, pausing briefly at the wounded Wulfgar, and then on Grima, who still stood besides Eomund’s horse. Finally, the wizard’s eyes came to rest on Eomund, who shifted almost imperceptibly on his horse. “Welcome, Eomund, Marshal of Thengel King. Long has it been since Thengel King sought my council.”

“And still we honor it whenever it is given.” Eomund replied, bowing slightly.

The wizard gave Eomund another long look, before he gestured behind him. “Come, then, my Lords. Night has already come and coldness will swiftly follow. Rooms will be prepared for you and your men.” And then the wizard turned and entered the high tower, leaving a tired and slightly uneasy group of riders behind.
* *

A shiver crawled down Boromir’s spine, and when he turned his head to gaze up at the ceiling, he swallowed nervously. Never had he been in a room that was so spacious that one could not even make out the ceiling! Not even in the Citadel where rooms of this enourmous size. The fact that the walls were polished black marble, here and there broken with white stone, did not help his feeling of being deep underground any. Although, he knew he was not, for he had climbed so many stairs to reach this room, that he had not been able to count them all. He must he in a room high above the ground.

Shifting in his wooden chair, Boromir took a deep breath to calm himself, before he shot a quick look over his shoulder.

He was not afraid, after all, he was in Orthanc and Saruman was a friend of Gondor, but still. This place was giving him the creeps. Maybe it was the fact that he mean to hear sound coming from deep down the tower, as if dogs or wolves where howling. The sounds were weak and whenever he concentrated on them, they seemed to vanish. Or it was because he had been in this tower for nearly three hours now, and beside the servant who had brought him to this dining room, he had met no other living soul. Or, he mused darkly, it was because he had the constant feeling of being watched. The fact that this room was to huge that he could not make out all the dark corners, did not help his feeling at all either.

Suddenly, a door to his right opened, and to his relief Eomund entered, followed by the same servant who had brought Boromir here. Eomund thanked the servant, then sat down opposite Boromir, staring around the room. When his eyes locked on Boromir’s across the stone table, he shrugged, “Not bad. Not as beautiful as the golden hall, but charming nonetheless.”

And before Boromir could decide whether this had been a bad joke or not, the door opened once more, and Saruman the White entered. Sitting down at the head of the table, with Boromir to his right and Eomund to his left, he snipped his fingers, and a moment later a number of servants appeared, filling goblets with deep red wine.

"My Lords.” Saruman said. “What a coincidence to have such illustrious guest here tonight. But tell me now, what brings you to my home?” His voice was deep and monotonous, but caught the two men nevertheless. It was almost entrancing to listen to the wizard.

Reaching for the goblet that stood in front of him and driking a sip of wine, Boromir took the lead. “Long has it been since we came to Isengard for council, and my father, the Lord Steward, saw it fit to strengthen the relationship of Gondor and Isengard in these dark times.”

“Is that so?” Saruman said, before he turned his gaze of Eomund. “And what brought you here, Marshal?”

Swallowing thickly, Eomund began to tell everything he knew of the strange desease that had befallen the herds, of the death of the fowls and the helplessness that they all felt. “It is horrible,” he finally said, “there is nothing we can do to stop this, and if it does not soon, Rohan might lose all that is has.”

“Intresting.” Was all Saruman said, before he tilted his head to the side, steepled his fingers, and gazed into the distance of the huge room. It was silent, and Boromir and Eomud exchanged a confused look. Both had never met the wizard and therefore did not know what to expect, but surey not this. To be ignored like that, it was unthinkable. On the other hand, Saruman was a wizard, and wizards lived by their own rules.

When the silence became unbearing, Eomund clreared his throat, which seemed to bring Saruman back to life.

“Marshall, I have not heard of what you speak. But maybe one of my books has the asnwer to your question. I will have to consult them.” Then, he snipped his fingers again, and a moment later servants appeared, laden with bowls of food and more wine. When the table was filled, nearly breaking under the weight of food, Saruman gestured at it. “Please, you must he hungry.”

Not needing to be told twice, Boromir and Eomund filled their plates with as much food as curtesy allowed. They spoke of trivial matters, until their talk turned to the events leading to the meeting of the Steward of Gondor and the Marshal of the Riddermark.

“I think it strange.” Boromir said, leaning back in his chair. “Those orcs had what they wanted. Why did they pursue you and your companion for such a long time?”

“And almost up the steps of Isengard.” Eomund answered, sipping his wine. “They seemed fearless, as if they knew the terrain.”

“Maybe they did.” Boromir said, shrugging. “Master Saruman, have orcs raided these lands lately?”

“No, not that I have heard of.” Saruman said. “But, there are no settlements close by, nothing of value for orcs. It must have been by chance that they found you and your men, Marshal, and pure bloodlust that drove them so close to my home.” And with that, the topic seemed to be closed, and neither Boromir nor Eomund dared to dispute with the White wizard.
* *
Late that night, when all was dark and nothing stirred inside the tower, almost silent footsteps neared a huge wooden door.

It creacked when opened, and the blackness of the room that lay behind it was bathed in the flickering light of a singel candle. The door closed with another creak, before the soft footsteps crossed the room until they stopped in the middle. Almost gently, a piece of black cloth was taken from a round object, and in the next second, the light of the candle was reflected from the polished surface of the palantir.

The gnarled hand of Saruman hoved over it, only an inch away, unwilling to touch. “Soon” Saruman whispered. “One has come who had the right to look into your depth. And he will tell me what secrets you hide.”





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