Geoffrey sat by the fire with three other fellows There was John Webster, his most loyal lieutenant, Ken Joyberry and Harper Hollygold. They had set up camp on the southern edge of the Midgewater Marshes, in the south-east of Bree-land. Here they rested for the night after departing from the Forsaken Inn, where they had routed a group of brigands who were harassing the area. Close to them was the Great East Road, which stretched for hundreds of miles across Eriador. Faggots burned and upon those flames some mutton roasted. The sun was just about done for this day, and the cool night of autumn approached.
John, the eldest one there, spoke as he plated up the mutton and passed them around. ‘Who was your first, lad?’ This was directed at Harper Hollygold, one of the newer editions to the company. He was youthful looking, not worn down by the elements like John or Geoffrey.
‘My first what, sir?’ the lad replied in a polite way. Geoffrey often thought that the boy was perhaps too soft-speaking for the wild, but respected his courtesy all the same.
‘Your first kill, quite obviously.’ John was an honourable man, but he has little patience when speaking.
‘Oh, I see.’ Harper said, before falling silent for quite a while. ‘I think that it was an archer during my first ride with the company, just outside the Old Forest. I snuck up on him and stuck him in the back with a blade.’
John nodded with a slight smile. He often asked these sorts of morbid questions. Then at length he described the first man he had slain, going into great detail. It was disturbing to hear in such a way, as it was over four decades ago when it happened. But John recounted every possible detail. Ken also talked about his first time, but was quite plain with his description. ‘What about yours, captain?’ they asked. Geoffrey had remained quiet during this conversation, not much liking such talk. He blew a small ring from his pipe before speaking.
‘It was a robber, a burglar in Combe.’ He spoke. A long pause followed, and Geoffrey looked as though he was in deep thought. ‘I was… thirteen, or thereabouts. My father was often away with the company, which I had not yet joined. Of course I rode and trained with them frequently, but had never seen battle. Father had a blade made for me in Bree before he departed again, a fine sword. Good balance. It would go around the village swinging it to-and-thro, much to the annoyance of the guard. One night whilst we slept in my mother’s cottage, I heard somebody at the door. I had hoped that it might be my father, back from some adventure. But it was not him. A scrawny little man had picked the lock and had entered. Then, I saw my mother rouse from her sleep. The thief did too, and he jumped upon her and put his hand over her mouth. Anthony was afraid, as was I. I did not fear for my own life, but my mother’s. The things that he might to do her before cutting her throat of being away with our things. We did not have much. I kept my sword under my bed, and my father always told me. Now I crept behind the man who was busy keeping my mother quiet. And through his back I stabbed, exiting through his stomach. A great cry he gave before falling silent, I still remember it now.’
The others were now silent. They ate their mutton and swilled it down with some ale. Geoffrey was just about ready to go to sleep, as were his companions. But something away to the east caught his eye. A figure approaching them on the road, which he could not make out. Whoever it was, they were hooded in a black and red robe. He walked silently. Geoffrey pointed the figure out to the others and they all readied their weapons. The figure came close now, and they could make out his appearance now. It was a man. Cleanly shaven and bald. Tall and slender with bright green eyes, brighter than emeralds. His skin was dark brown in colour, and Geoffrey guessed that he was from the far east. He approached the camp, and simply sat by the fire with the four astounded men. His robe was a strange make. Thin, black fabric adorned with red. He removed his loose hood and looked around at the campers, lowering his head respectfully.
‘Good evening, gentleman.’ He said in a strange foreign accent. Geoffrey had not heard the likes before. ‘Might I ask for a cup of ale?’
The men were almost mesmerised by this man, and John (who had not even looked away from the man) obligingly poured him a small mug of their ale. The man gulped it down, some of it spilling onto his chin.
‘Pardon me. I have been walking for many days, it is thirsty work. Pardon me again for not naming myself first. I am Lummanúro. Who might you be?’
The men each gave their names. Lummanúro spoke for some time about the condition of the roads and the poor quality of the ale at the Forsaken Inn. All of them seemed enchanted by this strange foreigner.
‘Where is that you are heading, that has you walking for days without drink?’ Geoffrey asked.
‘Where, you ask? I am on a pilgrimage. Many lands I have walked, towards all points of a compass. Now I walk northwards, to Angmar.’
Geoffrey now looked troubled at this. ‘To Angmar? What reason do you have for going to that evil and dark place?’
Lummanúro laughed loudly, as though a wisecracked joke had just been told. ‘Evil and dark! Ho-ho! Nay, Geoffrey Redstem, it is a haven. A haven for those who have found solace in their hearts because of Sauron the Great. A land where I will not be persecuted for my beliefs, which have guided me from certain death to enlightenment.’
Geoffrey had heard of Sauron in song and tale only. It was not a name with good connotations, quite the opposite, in fact. Yet John looked in awe, still. Lummanúro went on for what seemed like hours talking of his faith and the benevolence of his Lord.
‘For the Lord of Gifts is wise and generous to those who devote themselves to his name.’ Lummanúro preached. ‘Whilst many of the same mind as me have been slaughtered and oppressed by those who fear the light and the truth, my faith grows ever stronger and in his excellence I share.’
John, now utterly entranced, look as though he was the servant of a great king. That king being Lummanúro. Geoffrey was concerned now, and wished to get himself and his men away from this ‘pilgrim’. Standing up now, and pouring some water over the fire he announced. ‘We have enjoyed your company, pilgrim, but must now be away.’
John looked away from Lummanúro for the first time now, and gave Geoffrey a stare of resentment. The old warrior who Geoffrey had once love and learned from was seemingly lost. Lummanúro now stood, appearing much fairer than Geoffrey. He held out his hand to John.
‘Will you come with me, John Webster, and see the light of the Great Lord?’
John jumped now to his feet. Bowing deeply at Lummanúro, he took his hand. The two now descended from the camp, down into the Midgewater Marshes. Joyberry and Hollygold looked utterly confused, but had seemingly come to their senses. Geoffrey bid that they pack up the camp and pursue John in the marshes. They cleared the campsite away swiftly, and Geoffrey led them into the marsh.
It was nearing midnight, or perhaps it had already passed. Geoffrey was so irritated by the flies that smothered him that he could not think of the time. It was also foggy in the marsh, further dimming Geoffrey’s orientation. He had no track to follow and no idea where Lummanúro had led John.
‘Joyberry, Hollygold, do you see anything?’ he asked.
No answer came. Geoffrey turned around and found that he was now alone. No sign of his companions, and no indication where he was. Flies continued to pester him. In the distance, he could see orange and red flickering through the thick fog. So in that direction is strove, through the swamp that almost consumed him a few times. The light turned out to be further away than he thought.
At last he came to the source of the flames. In the centre of the Midgewater Marshes stood an old ruin. It was well known for being the home of spiders, but he could see none. Atop of this ruin, the flame burned high. So he went about looking for a way up. Finally he reached the top, and came across a large pile of wood that burned aggressively. Fog still surrounded the ruin. There Geoffrey saw Lummanúro, holding a torch in one hand and a bloodied dagger in the other. Then realisation came over Redstem.
Lummanúro did not turn to Geoffrey, but stared deep into the flame. He muttered an ancient and harsh sounding tongue. He was performing a ritual; a sacrificial ritual. Geoffrey saw that upon the burning wood, a black carcass lay.
‘What have you done?’ cried Geoffrey.
Lummanúro ceased his muttering and turned towards him. An expression of cruelty and satisfaction was about him.
‘A sacrifice for the Lord Sauron. A willing sacrifice, which will please Him greatly.’
Geoffrey drew out his sword. ‘You enchanted my friend and had him killed and burned. You shall face no trial; only death.’
‘The Lord Sauron will give me guidance and you, Geoffrey Redstem, will become another sacrifice.’
Gripping his sword tight, Geoffrey lurched at the dark priest, expecting to simply run him through. But Lummanúro countered him with only his bloodied dagger. The two fought before the burning pyre, Lummanúro desperately aiming to plunge his dagger into Geoffrey’s stomach. As they fought, Lummanúro continued muttering in his dark tongue. He struck Geoffrey in the arm with the dagger. It seemed to burn him, as though it was with fire that he was been stabbed. In retaliation, Geoffrey was able to disarm the priest, knocking the curved dagger over the side of the ruin. But Lummanúro simply cackled. He unpinned his robe, revealing his chest. Upon it was a large tattoo: a red Eye that seemed as though it pierced its gaze into Geoffrey.
‘The Lord of Gifts will provide me with such gifts that you cannot possibly conceive!’ he yelled before casting himself upon the pyre, still cackling as he burned. Soon after, the flames perished, roaring violently as it did, and the sun rose in the east. His companions, Ken Joyberry and Harper Hollygold, found him atop of the ruin and brought him down. They had become lost in the fog, and had tried to follow the flame in the distance which misled them for hours. Both were disturbed at Geoffrey’s strange tale, and they mourned for John – Royston’s and Geoffrey’s lieutenant. An honourable man entangled and lost in another man’s obsessive faith. Whilst they were grieved over his loss, Geoffrey took some comfort in knowing that Lummanúro was slain, before he could reach Bree where he might have deceived others and made sacrifices of them too. He had learned a useful lesson that day: whilst a man may be dangerous with the sword he wields in hand, the ideas in his head and the words that come from them are potentially more deadly. The priest Lummanúro, with his fanatic devotion to his cult, was perhaps as dangerous as a band of pillaging Orcs. He, Ken and Harper now made their way to Bree, where Geoffrey's pregnant wife was due to give birth soon.
