Belegos was uncomfortable. For hours and hours he had been riding, and in the worst fashion. He had started his journey from Lorien after having been a guest there for a while, and now slowly, and painfully, made his way step by step to the cold wastes of Forochel.
He had reluctantly abandoned his steed, Celegsul, at Ost Forod and into the care of the stable master there, for Belegos had made this journey before and knew that it could be difficult for a horse to complete, and at this time of year it would be even harder, for the year was fast waning and Yule approached. Heavy snows were falling in the North and the wind was icy-cold. Therefore, he had rented a goat, not unlike the beasts the Dwarves used for their mounts, for they were stocky with shaggy hair and they could endure the harshest winters and the heaviest loads. But they were uncomfortable.
Pulling his thick, wolf-skin cloak tighter, Belegos wondered if his goat was as cold as he was, and whether this journey had been a good idea after all. Even underneath his cloak and his heavy layers of wool and leather, his bones felt the cold. The wind nipped at him from every angle, and just when Belegos thought it had died down and he had a moment’s respite, it returned with a vengeance, howling around him and forcing him to hold himself all the closer.
Whilst the elf had been to Forochel before, never had he visited in a time of Yule. It was told the snow-folk made great celebrations and fantastic feasts in their dwellings and were less distrustful and more welcoming to outsiders than was their usual custom.
Belegos was making for a small camp on the Southern-edge of the ice-bay. Pynti-Peldot it was named, and few folk dwelt there, though Belegos knew he could find food, shelter and a warm fire there. He looked about himself, peering through the flurries and felt that the snowfall was becoming worse. He had to reach the camp by nightfall or he would freeze out in these lands, yet that was only an hour, maybe two away at best. He dug his heels into the goat and spurred it on for a final effort.
As the last murky remnants of sunlight disappeared and night covered the land, Belegos pulled up to one of the snow-folk tents. It was a crude thing, made from wood and animal skins, yet he knew it would doubtless be warm enough inside. He pulled aside the heavy, leather flap that served as a door and took a step inside. It was dim inside the tent, yet for a moment he let his eyes adjust and slowly everything around him became a little clearer.
Seated around a fire in the centre of the hard-packed, dirt floor were perhaps two dozen of the snow-folk and a few dwarves. They all talked together and Belegos could see that wine and beer was flowing as the company laughed loud and long. Brushing the snow from him, he removed his cloak with its hood, hung it on a horn peg, and walked toward to gathering. His pack he kept on his person. As he got nearer, he noted that a few of the folk eyed him suspiciously, yet their attention was short-lived and they resumed their conversations. An elf was a rarity, but not altogether strange. Over in alcove of the tent Belegos spied wine barrels and made towards them. Standing there was one of the snow-folk and a dwarf, deep in conversation, but as Belegos approached them, the man turned to him. “Well met traveller! Seldom do we see such folk in these parts.” He said. His cheeks were flushed from the wine. “Mae govannen,” said Belegos, in the elven tongue. The dwarf screwed his face. “I seek food and rest for the night. I hoped perhaps I may find it at this camp?”
“Aye! That you will!” The man said with a grin, his missing teeth showing. “Come, ‘av a drink and tell us of the world. You have come from the South? Of course you have! There aint nothin’ North of here. ‘cept dragons perhaps.” The man handed Belegos a tankard and the elf took it with a nod and filled it with a strong smelling red wine. “I am Ata-i of the Lossoth, and this ‘ere is Gukrum from near Zigilgund.” He continued. The man was big and broad and bore markings on his skin such as the Lossoth were want to do. The dwarf gave a short bow. “At your service,” he mumbled.
“And at your family’s,” said the elf, remembering his courtesies. “I am Belegos.” He raised the tankard to his lips and the bitter smell of the wine assaulted his nose. It tasted no better. Seemingly, he thought, wine did not suffer well in the cold. “Tell us! Tell us of the world, Belegos the elf!” The man asked again clapping Belegos on the shoulder. He was quite obviously drunk, but he was pleasant, and so Belegos began to inform him of the situation in the South. “There is no good news, only tidings of war. The Kingdom of Arnor is no more. Its people are scattered. The Witch-King now holds Fornost.” The dwarf stirred uncomfortably, but the man, oblivious to the names only grinned stupidly at Belegos, his eyes shifting in and out of focus. “It goes hard for men,” grumbled the dwarf. His voice was deep and Belegos thought it was akin to the sound of a rockslide. “It does,” Belegos replied, “Yet Gondor still remains. The Great Power in the South.” He looked around the tent, intent on finding a more cheery subject to talk about. “It seems you are a readying for the Yule celebration? That is what brings me to your land. I hear that the Lossoth put on great feasts and much merriment is made?”
“Aye, that we are,” said Ata-i, his words begging to slur. “Me brother, Ata-i killed a great walrus only this mornin’! It will be our feast!”
“You bloody fool!” The dwarf exclaimed. “Ata-i is you! Or do you not know your own name?” The man looked bewildered for a moment. “Err, yes. Yes of course I know me own name! I meant me brother… Ata… No wait a moment…” He scratched his head. “Bah! His name escapes me for now. Must be all the goings on for Yule.”
“Or all that wine. You must have ‘ad a barrel to yerself!” Muttered the dwarf under his breath. Belegos chuckled. Over the years it had always amused him how men became drunk even off the weakest vintage. “I travel to Sûri-Kylä on the morrow. I hope they shall have such fine food there?” Belegos told the pair. All of a sudden, the man’s face sobered and the dwarf shuffled his feet. “Sûri-Kylä?” Repeated Ata-i. “You won’t find no cheer there friend-elf. They say the folk there are afflicted. Aye afflicted! They say that they are becoming sick and that strange goings on are ‘appening. We aint seen nobody from that town for a good while now.” Ata-i’s eyes darted from Belegos to Gukrum. “Aye, ‘tis what they say,” started the dwarf. “They say it all started because earlier in the year, a great ship floundered out in the Bay, and everyone on board drowned. That because the folk of Sûri-Kylä tried to ‘elp ‘em, they ‘ave become cursed.” Belegos wondered who ‘they’ were, yet he knew all too well who had been on that ship.
It had been Arvedui, the Last King of Arnor. In desperation after the kingdom fell, he had fled North and had asked the Lossoth of their aid. They granted it, though whether it had been out of kindness or fear of steel, none knew.
Cirdan had sent a ship to rescue him and his men. The Lossoth had warned them not to board it, yet they had done so nonetheless. That night, a great storm wracked the Bay and the ship split asunder. None survived the deadly water.
Belegos pondered on what he had heard for a moment. He took a sip from his tankard trying to ignore the taste. “If what you say is true, then I would see it for myself,” he said. “Perhaps I may lend my aid in some small way.”
“Then good luck to you, Baragon.” Said Ata-i, seemingly slipping back into his drunken state. “Though my advice is don’t go mixing yourself up in business that aint yours. They brought it on ‘emselves.”
“I shall see, and when I return, I shall tell you all about this curse. If that is indeed what it is. But now my friends, I must rest, I am weary and a long enough journey is ahead of me tomorrow. I thank you for the wine.” He put his tankard down on a rickety table next to the barrels. The wine inside had been barely touched. Ata-i and Gumruk both gave him a nod and Belegos set off into a more shadowed part of the large, round tent. From his pack he pulled some blankets and laid them on the floor. It did not take long for elven-sleep to take him, and he dozed off to the sounds of laughter from the tent’s inhabitants.
He remembered thinking that the tale of the curse was naught but wine-fuelled ramblings, yet tomorrow he would go to Sûri-Kylä anyway.
That was, if his goat did not freeze overnight.
