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.
I admit that I while writing the scene in the Mead Hall, I was unduly inspired by the godawful CGI Beowulf movie featuring Ray Winstone. Or a creepy animation that was supposed to look like him.
Beta read by Larner, thanks.
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Chapter 09 – A Merry Night Under Stone Hills
The Mead Hall of Nimwarkinh was an amazing place, Elfhelm found. It was the greatest among the Western Halls that served as the Warlord’s dwelling place and fortress – save for the enormous cavern in which the furnaces were situated – Einarr had told them when coming to lead them there. Originally it had been made by the Dwarves and probably served the same purpose. One could not know for certain, he explained, as the few Dwarves still lurking in the deepest shafts did not share their ancient tales with Men.
“In all the lands of Rhûn, there is no other mead hall to equal ours in size or grandeur,” Einarr had added proudly, “and tonight, it will be awash with song and laughter; with the clatter of plates and knives, and the rise and fall of a hundred voices speaking all at once.”
Entering the Mead Hall, Elfhelm had to admit that the warlord’s son had been right, on both accounts.
The cavernous hall was long and relatively narrow for its length, with a high, arched ceiling, held – as was common in Dwarf-made halls – by tall stone pillars carved in the likeness of flowering trees. The boughs of the trees formed the arches, and the blossoms were made of clusters of small gemstones – or perhaps not so small ones. Perhaps they just seemed small, for they were so far above one’s head.
The long tables and benches along either side of the hall were made of stone, too, their legs carved like the clawed foot of some mythical beasts, for wood was more precious and less enduring in such underground dwellings, while stone was there in abundance. The plates and drinking vessels – tankards, cups or drinking horns – were wrought of bronze, copper or zinc, enamelled or set with jewels.
Above the wide fire pits in the middle – filled with glowing coal – wild boars, deer, wild hares and pigs roasted on spits. Clearly, game was more abundant on the northern side of the Mountains than in the Courtyard of Nimwarkinh, and the Khimmer warriors were apparently skilled hunters, too. The flames of the fire pits leapt and danced, throwing flickering shadows across the walls and laughing faces and the wall-hangings beyond the pillars, depicting scenes of warfare and hunt or the graven images of gods and monsters.
Large barrels, in which a dozen men could have been drowned, stood between the tables, filled with mead, and serving wenches poured the fine drink with large copper ladles into the drinking vessels, which then were carried to the guests by their personal slaves.
Between the pillars sat the musicians of the court – all young boys or old men, for while scops were highly respected for their skills and seated at the lord’s table, no self-respecting Khimmer man would choose to become a lowly drummer or piper. Ragnar’s personal scop, a straw-headed, slightly portly man of middle age, sat at the end of the table, with a voluptuous redhead on his lap, apparently enjoying himself.
Ragnar the Smith sat at the far end of the Hall, presiding over the high table that stood on a flat dais. His stone chair, albeit less elaborately carved than his throne, was high-backed and inlaid with onyx, cushioned with bearskins. He was sitting there relaxed and impassive like a resting bear – almost a little bored. Elfhelm was certain nonetheless that nothing happening within the Hall would escape his attention.
On his right sat Ingolf, his son, looking morose and more than a little discontent – not to mention fairly drunk already. On his left, the two seats of honour were empty, clearly reserved for Elfhelm and Strider, and next to the empty seats sat Imogen, decked out splendidly in heavy red velvet, gold and jewels, in the fashion of Dale.
On Ingolf’s right sat Master Dallben and the druid, whose name Elfhelm still had not learned, as it was their privilege as the witan of the court, and beyond them an old man of considerable girth, whose long beard and thick braids had gone white with age like snow. His battle years were well beyond him now, but he was obviously one of the lesser jarls of the Tribe, and one who still commanded respect.
“I wonder who that old warrior may be,” said Elfhelm in a low voice to Strider, who shrugged.
“Had I met him the last time I was here, he must have been a young man still. But based on his place at the chieftain’s table, my guess is that he would be Weohstan Jarl, Ragnar’s chief vassal; and also the father of Ingolf’s late mother, the Lady Herta.”
Elfhelm gave him a suspicious look. “For a man who has not been here for decades, you are surprisingly knowledgeable about this place and its dwellers.”
Stride laughed quietly. “Why you were enjoying your bath and resting, I used the time to talk to people. Some of the oldest ones still remember me and were more open-hearted than they would ever be to you. For I used to live with them and fight Orcs and Trolls with them, and they know they can trust me.”
Elfhelm nodded his understanding. It made sense. Strider was something akin a sword-brother for these people, even if not one from their own blood. He, on the other hand, was a stranger and would likely remain one.
“I am grateful that you chose to come with me,” he admitted. “I could not fulfil my task without your help.”
“Peace between Rhûn and Rohan is something that will serve the good of all free peoples,” said the Ranger simply. “Even if only the Tribe of the Bear holds to a peace agreement, that would mean thousands of warriors not fighting alongside of Mordor’s armies. Come now; ’twould be offensive to make Ragnar Jarl wait.”
Familiar with the customs at the Khimmer court, he strode forward confidently to the high table, bowed from the shoulders and spoke in the Khimmer language, acting as Elfhelm’s herald.
“Ragnar Jarl, may I present the emissary of the Mark, Elfhelm Hengestsson, who has come to you on an errand of his King? He carries the greetings of Théoden-king and is desirous to present the guest-gift sent by Théoden himself, to your pleasure.”
“Let him do so,” answered Ragnar in a clipped tone.
Elfhelm, who had been given back all his gear by the warlord’s orders, now stepped forth and placed a richly carved wooden box on the table before Ragnar – with the lid open, so that the Lord of Nimwarkinh could see the gift of Théoden-king.
It was a drinking horn; a breath-taking piece of artistry, fashioned by Dwarves in the Second Age, and which came into the possession of the Kings of the Mark with the hoard of Scatha the Worm. Wrought of the finest gold, its entire surface was etched with strange runes that not even the White Wizard had been able to decipher, back in the times when he had still been friendly towards Théoden’s forefathers. All he could say had been that it had to be ancient Dwarven script, used before Mahal’s Children adopted the Angerthas of Daeron.
Two clawed feet were mounted on one side of the vessel, so that it could be set down without rolling or spilling. Its handle was wrought in the shape of a winged dragon, also of the purest gold, with a single, perfect ruby set in its breast: the only place where the worms were vulnerable. The dragon’s horns, fangs, the ragged trace of its long, sinuous razor spine, were worked out in minute detail – so perfectly, in fact, that it almost seemed alive.
“Allow me, my lord, to deliver you the greetings and best wishes of Théoden-cyning,” announced Elfhelm, also in the Khimmer tongue, shocking the court with that single act. “May the mead never run dry in your barrels.”
“Give thy king my thanks upon thy return,” answered Ragnar formally, “and allow me to honour thee with a small gift of my own; to express my respect for thy person and thy errand among us. Eiríkr, bring the chest!”
A young warrior in the distinctive armour of the warlord’s personal guard – tall, blond and blue-eyed, looking so much like Einarr that they had to be brothers, perchance even twins – carried in a large wooden chest most other men would fail to lift alone. It was open and filled almost to overflowing with gold and silver, with coins minted in far-away, foreign countries, with jewel-encrusted brooches and other treasures.
The warlord selected a single gold torque from the chest, studded with white and green gems in the colours of the Mark, and held it above his head for everyone to see.
“See this, sons of the Bear, and witness,” he said in a voice that carried all over the cavernous hall, “for this is how Ragnar the Smith honours the emissary of the Mark!”
The people in the hall cheered, and Elfhelm wondered what particular meaning this short ceremony might have, for it had been too formal not to have one. Ere he could have asked, though, he felt Strider elbow him in the ribs sharply.
“Kneel on the step,” whispered the Ranger.
Still a bit bewildered, Elfhelm did as he was told, and the warlord leaned forward in his seat to place the golden torque about his neck. It fit perfectly, and the feasting crowd cheered again loudly, thumping the tables with their fists.
Given the drunken state of the majority, even most women, Elfhelm suspected that only a few of them knew why they were cheering – and that things were happening exactly how Ragnar wanted them to happen. Give the belligerent warriors a feast, with enough mead to drown in it, with enough willing young wenches who were desperately looking for a benefactor and with entertainment they would not forget for seasons to come, and they would be more inclined to accept the idea of allying themselves with the Mark, whose emissary had been honoured that way.
It was a shrewd move. Ragnar clearly knew his people well – and how he had to handle them.
The warlord now lifted the magnificent drinking horn, Théoden-king’s gift, from its wooden box, and held it before him for a moment, so that all could see and admire it. Then he glanced at his daughter.
“Bring me mead,” he ordered. “I have a boast to speak, as the people of our honoured guest would call it.”
Elfhelm blinked in surprise. He would never expect the Khimmer warlord to know the customs of the Mark so well. Apparently, he had underestimated Ragnar the Smith. That had been a mistake he advised himself never to make again.
Imogen rose from her seat with that boneless grace of hers, took the golden horn in both hands, like an offering, and carried it to the nearest barrel to have it filled with mead. Then she brought it to her father and offered it to him, saying:
“Drink deeply, my lord, and know joy tonight.”
Ragnar accepted the drinking horn from her, but he did not empty it just yet. Instead, he held it before him with both hands and addressed the crowd again.
“You know me, sons of the Bear,” he said in a powerful voice that carried to the farthest corners of the Hall. “You know who I am and what I have done. Some of you are old enough to have seen me wrestle my power from the Bear. Some of you are young enough to have learned to wield the sword or the battle-axe under my tutelage. Some of you are my kin, by blood or by marriage. But in one thing you are all the same: you all have followed me to battle at one time or another. So tell me, sons of the Bear: have I not always led you well?”
An enthusiastic cheer rose from the crowd, answering that question. Old and young began thumping their fists on the table again, chanting Ragnar’s name.
“A year ago,” continued the warlord, “I, Ragnar the Smith, son of Hademar, the greatest warrior of our people, promised to find strong allies for our clan, so that we can fight our own wars, if needs must be, instead of fighting for the Lord of the Black Lands who cares not whether we live or die.” He gestured in Elfhelm’s direction with one hand. “Behold the emissary of the Mark, who has come to us to negotiate an alliance. Now, do tell me, sons of the Bear – have I not kept my promise? Have I not found the stoutest warriors to fight side by side with us?”
The crowd cheered again, too drunk to realise that the negotiations had not even begun yet. But Elfhelm understood that the needful thing for Ragnar was to win the support of his jarls and warriors for the idea of an alliance; that from now on the Mark could no longer be the goal for raiding troops. How well that would work remained to be seen, but they had, at least, to agree.
“And therefore,” went on Ragnar, “I empty my horn to honour our new allies, the horse-lords of the Mark, and their emissary, Elfhelm Hengestsson.”
He lifted the magnificent drinking vessel to his lips and drank deeply, emptying it at one draught, to the encouraging calls and whistles of his men. Then he had it filled again and sent it to Elfhelm by way of Imogen, as a sure sign of his goodwill and respect.
“You, too, must empty the horn at one draught,” warned Strider in a low voice. “Otherwise you would insult our host.”
A Gondorian noble, used to the sharp yellow wine of Lebennin, or occasionally to the heavy Dorwinion red, would likely have been challenged by such task. But Elfhelm was a Rider of the Mark, used to the potent ale brewed by his own people, which he had drunk before he would have been considered a man grown. Thus he accepted the golden horn from Imogen, suppressing the involuntary shiver of excitement when their fingers touched briefly, and held it up with both hands as he had seen from the warlord.
“Westu Ragnar hál!” he cried in his own language, draining the horn at one draught, as expected. He found the mead of the Easterlings a bit sweet for his taste but otherwise excellent. It certainly had a kick like a mule, but nothing a Man of the Mark could not take.
The crowd cheered him on and Ragnar clapped his hands in obvious delight. Whether that feeling was true or only feigned for the sake of his people, Elfhelm could not tell.
“Such a joyous event must be celebrated properly,” the warlord then announced, looking at his son Eiríkr. “Let us hand out some treasure, shall we?”
Eiríkr lifted the heavy lid of the treasure chest, so that his father could dip both hands into all that gold and silver and jewels and coins, and toss a few handfuls into the eagerly waiting crowd. Some of it got snatched directly from the air by greedy hands before it could hit any surface. Other pieces rained down noisily upon the stone tables, rolling around or down to the floor, with everyone scrambling greedily to get some of them.
But Elfhelm could see that the warlord would hand out his treasure rather sparsely and wondered if this was the last such chest in Nimwarkinh. If it was, then Ragnar’s throne could be in peril. Only a generous chieftain could count on his men’s loyalty.
“Be merry and enjoy your meal, mead and music,” encouraged them Ragnar. “Show your women what a true Khimmer warrior is like. Ulfarr, you lazy lout, leave that wench of yours alone for a moment and give us a proper song!”
The portly scop simply tossed the red-haired wench from his lap, scrambled to his feet and grabbed his lute to lead the drunken warriors and their women in a chant everyone seemed familiar with. Soon enough, most of the Hall had joined him. The warriors banged their fists and cups against the tabletops, and some of the wenches leapt onto the tables and stomped their feet while the Mead Hall rang out with song. As far as Elfhelm could tell, for it was sung in a dialect he was not fluent in, it was all about the brave deeds of Ragnar, from the day he killed his first bear to the present.
When the song came to an end, the musicians sitting between the side pillars took over, playing some fast and loud dancing tune on their cymbals, copper drums and shrieking pipes. More mead was brought to jarls and common warriors alike, and more and more people were dancing on or between the tables.
The two witan left after a while, clearly not fond of the bawdy scene, but old Weohstan Jarl seemed to enjoy himself enough for two, with a large drinking horn on one hand and the ample breast of a very young, very willing wench in the other one. There could be little doubt where that would lead; and indeed, some of the more inebriated jarls had already gone down to business with their women behind the pillars putting the animal hides stored there to good use and not caring who might watch them in their amusement.
Elfhelm was getting uncomfortable, but he knew he could not simply leave; not without insulting his host and ruining what little he had achieved so far. Granted, sometimes even the symbels of the Mark would become fairly bawdy, but the scene unfolding before his eyes was almost too much, even for his hardened sensitivities.
If anything, this feast clearly showed that the Easterlings were barbarians indeed – even the Tribe of the Bear that had appeared different at first sight.
He watched with morbid curiosity as several richly-clad warriors dragged a young woman to the end of the hall and nailed her thick braid to a wooden beam. Then they began to throw their short battle-axes at her.
“Why are they doing that?” he asked in dismay.
“That is one of my brother Ybba’s women,” explained Imogen from Strider’s other side. “She has been accused of cheating on him, but no-one could bring proof either for it or against it. So the Bear will have to decide. If the aim of one of my brothers is not true, and she dies, then she was unfaithful. If someone succeeds in cutting through her braid, she is innocent and can return to Ybba’s chambers.”
One by one, the well-clad young men whom Imogen had identified as her half-brothers, gave it a try, but – being way too drunk from all the mead they had already consumed – missed wildly. Elfhelm was disgusted by the cruel play and moved by the almost animal fear in the woman’s eyes. At one point he almost rose to interfere, but the heavy hand of Eiríkr, who was standing behind his chair, shoved him back onto his seat.
“Do not meddle in our affairs, stranger,” he warned. “There are things that concern only the sons of the Bear.”
“But that poor woman!” Elfhelm balled his fist in hapless anger. “Even if she was unfaithful, ’tis a cruel thing to make fun of her fear.”
“Perhaps,” said Eiríkr coldly. “But at least she will be more careful not to raise any doubts about herself in the future… if she survives, that is,” then he called across the table to Ingolf, laughing. “Hey, Ingolf, care to show us how true your aim is?”
Their other brothers laughed and gave Ragnar’s heir encouraging calls. Ingolf tossed back another cup of mead; then he rose, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and strolled to the middle of the Hall. The crowd became eerily quiet at once; everyone leaned forward in their chairs with expectation. Ingolf removed the battle axe from his broad, gold-fitted belt, grabbed it at the end of the hilt, where the decorative bronze rings were applied, and threw it with a quick, deadly accurate move, without actually taking aim.
The razor-sharp weapon flew through the thick air, humming like a swarm of angry bees, and slammed into the wooden beam with a screeching noise, barely two fingers’ breadth above the victim’s head. It cut through the red-blond braid that was thicker than a man's arm cleanly, and the woman, who had hung on her hair with her full weight, crumpled to the stone floor like a heap of lifeless rags. Her entire body was trembling with fear – but also with relief that she had been proven innocent and allowed to live a little longer.
Cheers and whistles rose in the Hall as Ybba elbowed his way through the crowd to pick up his woman unceremoniously and threw her over his heavy shoulder. He slapped her on the firm backside and carried her behind the pillars to celebrate.
“You owe me for that, brother!” Ingolf called after him, returning to his place.
“Does he?” asked Elfhelm quietly, and Eiríkr laughed.
“In a manner, yea, he does. Ybba likes Maren a lot; he would hate to lose her.”
“And you think she is truly innocent?” Elfhelm did not believe such practices, and neither did Eiríkr, apparently.
“Does it matter?” he asked back. “What counts is that people believe in her innocence. Although it is possible that she was, in truth, faithful,” he added with a wide grin. “Ybba, unless he has to lead a raid somewhere far from home, takes good care of his women. They rarely have enough strength left for adventures once he is done with them,” and he nodded in the direction where Ybba was already taking good care of the freshly rehabilitated Maren – to put it delicately.
Satisfied with his achievement, Ingolf Ragnarsson looked around in the Mead Hall for his slave who should have long since come to refill his empty cup. To his annoyance there was no sign of the lazy, useless lout anywhere. All he could see were the shiny, drunken faces of the singing, laughing warriors and their equally drunken women.
And the cold, hard face of his sister – probably the only one aside from their father who was not drunk tonight. His sister, who would have to bed a stranger to save him. To correct a grievous mistake that he had made and that could still cause his downfall… and the downfall of their entire family.
Saved by the loins of a woman. Could there be humiliation worse than that for a Khimmer warrior? For one supposed to become the chieftain of the Tribe of the Bear and the warlord of the entire Rhûn one day? As if having a shieldmaiden as a sister, one whose deeds at least equalled his own, weren’t bad enough, now he would also owe a life-debt to Imogen?
His slightly improved mood turned dark again, and he looked around to find a safe outlet for his building rage. He finally spotted his slave, a lean, beardless man twice his age but half his weight, trying to find a way through the crowd, clutching a large drinking horn in both hands. The slow progress of the man only fuelled his anger.
“Ban, you lazy idiot!” he shouted, his rough voice cutting through the general noise of the Hall like a sword. “Where is my mead?”
“Here, my lord, I have it right here,” replied the slave, a lot less frightened than he ought to be. Either he was a very brave man, or he had learned the hard way that showing weakness would only make things worse, Elfhelm guessed.
He traced his path among the boisterous warriors and their drunken wenches carefully; this could not have been the first time he had to do it. He reached that dais and was about to fill Ingolf’s cup, when someone accidentally shoved him from behind. The mead sloshed over the rim of the cup and splashed over the sleeve of Ingolf’s festive tunic.
Elfhelm winced involuntarily, assuming that it would end badly for the poor man.
“You are spilling it all over me!” roared Ingolf in drunken outrage.
He snatched old Weohstan Jarl’s walking stick – a sturdy, knotted length of birch wood the old man needed whenever the pain in his stiff limbs made walking difficult for him – and struck Ban hard across the brow. The man reeled from the blow but found his balance quickly enough, which, considering Ingolf’s brutal strength, was no small feat.
Perhaps this was not the first time for that, either.
However, he could not keep the horn straight enough at the same time, and thus the rest of the mead was spilled, splattering on the step of the dais.
“You clumsy bastard!” roared Ingolf, hitting him again. “How dare you to waste my father’s mead?”
The slave gave no answer, nor did he try to apologize or beg for mercy – which would have been a pointless thing to do anyway. He just stood there with gritted teeth while Ingolf continued to beat him with the stick. He did not try to protect himself, he did not turn his face away, just glared at his enraged master with the stubborn courage of those who had nothing left to lose.
At first, the warriors watching the scene chuckled at his predicament and gave Ingolf encouraging calls. But soon they became slightly uncomfortable with his silent strength and turned away.
“That is enough,” said Ragnar Jarl in a low, even voice that brooked no argument and reached his son and heir even in his drunken rage. “You have made your displeasure known and you have meted out punishment. Sit down. Ban, you can go.”
“Useless worm!” sneered Ingolf at the slave who bowed to the warlord and backed off slowly, not caring for the thin rivulet of blood trickling down his face. “I should feed you to the wild pigs and be done with it!”
Old Weohstan Jarl laughed uproariously hearing that.
“You would just poison those poor pigs,” he howled, reclaiming his stick and leaning on it heavily as he clambered to his feet, never letting go of the young wench for a moment. “Well, this old man needs his rest. Will you be so kind as to help me find my way to the bedchamber, my pretty? Sometimes I think I have almost forgotten the path.”
The wench giggled and supported him readily as they made their way towards the main doors. Ragnar Jarl stared after them for a moment, his impassive face revealing nothing. Then he turned to his daughter.
“Things are getting out of hand, Imogen,” he said in the same low voice that could nonetheless be heard well through the noise of the Hall. “The rest is not for the eyes of honoured guests. Would you mind seeing Lord Elfhelm and Lord Aðalbrandr to their chambers?”
Imogen’s face revealed that her father’s request was, in truth, a politely phrased order. She rose from her seat with obvious reluctance, as if assigned to some hard and unpleasant task, which surprised Elfhelm, as she had not appeared to enjoy herself – or the feast – very much so far. But he knew better than to ask questions.
“Follow me, my lords,” she then said and strode briskly forward, without looking back to see if they were following her.
The crowd gave way as she made her way with long, purposeful strides, her head held high proudly, her shoulders squared like those of a warrior ready to go to battle. But there was a sway in her gait that only a woman could display. A woman who knew she was being watched by hungry eyes.
~TBC~