Episode 6: The Spirit of an Old Enemy

General Summary

During the night the fellowship discover that Amalfrida, increasingly concerned at the threats to her small community near The Old Ford, has headed back East. However, before the end of the night, a tall Northern Ranger cautiously alerts the watchful fellowship that he intends to enter their camp. Byrgol confirms that the man is a trustworthy Dúnedain by the name of Arahad, and has been patrolling the Gladden Fields and regions surrounding it for many years. During the next day as the fellowship continue their intelligence gathering of The Dwimmerhorn, Arahad agrees to join their quest. Two days later, after a few anxious and noisy moments scaling the goat path at the back of the large hill, the party find themselves outside the curtain wall, behind an old crumbling keep. Sigmarr silently hops over the wall to do a quick recce while Monin starts putting his heavy armour back on. Sigmarr creeps to the door of the keep (silent), heads to an obvious barracks where he listens (noisy sounds of snoring and chairs scraping), before circling back to a hall of some sort (also silent, but a strange glow is visible under the door). The hall is cut from black stone with wicked cunning and presents a grim basilica of sorts. The black walls are devoid of decorations or statues, but their surface is polished like a mirror, and reflects back twisted images. Many narrow windows open high along the walls, letting out a greenish luminescence. Arahad boosts Sigmarr up to peer through a high window and Sigmarr spies and overhears a scary and worrying scene: Inside the basilica, many pillars of black stone support its tall roof. Sigmarr sees that the unseemly light originates from the far end, where a heavily sculpted casket with an open side lies against the wall of a small shrine. Coffin-sized and apparently made of gilded wood reinforced with iron bands, the casket displays an oversized length of chain, each black metal link the size of a human head. The luminescence seems to radiate from the chain itself. Bathed in the green glow stand two figures – one is a human, the other is a tall, imposing orc dressed in black mail. They are deep in conversation, but even the hoarse voice of the Orc is kept at a whisper. Between them, lying on the floor, is an ancient withered corpse, with pale skin drawn tight over bones. It is dressed in a black robe, its unmoving head featureless but for a gleam in its eye-sockets. A harsh and chilling voice emerges from the corpse’s lips as the spirit speaks through them.

The Orc urges that they need to move sooner rather than later. “The mountain-maggots want plunder and war. They say they didn’t come south to sit and wait in their holes. They want to kill!”

The human argues that they are not ready. “We need more time. The Chain is useless to us, unless we master its secrets. We must bide our time, until we can strike with the greatest weapon in all of Middle-earth.”

The corpse stirs and whispers, every word a shiver along the companions’ spines. “Send word to the mountain tribes. They will wait, or they will die with the rest of the North. Double your patrols. If we are discovered, all may be lost.”

A sixth sense Sigmarr didn't know he possessed saves him from detection as he ducks out of sight as the spirit-eyes turn to the upper window, and he and Arahad retreat behind the keep walls. Seconds later, as they are whispering their plans to escape the Dwimmerhorn, a shadowy figure that Hathus recognises as the spirit Irimë spent a long night battling last year slithers around the corner of the keep towards them. The spirit hisses a word in the Black Speech of Mordor, then vanishes. A moment later, the Orc-horns blow. The rest of the day is a frantic blur of fear and adrenaline as the fellowship bound down the hill and attempt to disappear into the marshes. Their preparations, comprising many traps and fake trails, and a timely release of the power within the Storm Bag, hold them in good stead as they weave their way resolutely around the hill and back towards the waiting skiff. With only one orc patrol encountered, and quickly and brutally put to the sword, the fellowship eventually get back to the skiff, dusk beginning to fall.