The victory was a small one yet the celebration was intense, there was nothing like the hate between those close and the Trev Duvardain were at war with their own clan. Smoke rose in thin tendrils from Donnovail, an ancient city in the heart of Fai-a-Khro that they had forced the Gallorg out of. Zorzimril licked the grease from her thumb, enjoying a slice from a haunch of boar. The meat was tough and stringy but it was something other than infernal peas. All the side dishes were made up of the legume, which had been cultivated with success in the land outside the city. Pea soup, pease porridge, even an unleavened bread fried up from flour made from ground peas. She had never liked it much but it was food and thus eaten albeit without enthusiasm.
"Captain," one of her men approached her, swaying slightly from too much ale, "The chief calls for you."
She got up, leaving her food behind with the confidence that no one that valued their fingers would touch it and found her father, the second in command to the chief. He was a lean wiry man with a black beard shot through with silver, tall for a hillman he resembled his name sake, the Black Sword. Dolguzagar sat at the side of the heavy set man with a large golden helm that had a crest running side to side over his ears and a breast plate of gold with human bones decorating it. She bowed, taking a knee in respect, "Domongart, my chief."
With a lazy wave of his hand, "Get up, niece. My brother has made a request of me and I wish to grant it after your victory this day."
Wiping ale from his long grey beard, the man watched her with eyes still deadly and keen despite his outward appearance. "I've had a messenger from the Iron Crown, it seems the Creoth have sworn their allegiance to Carn Dum. They are our kin, though long has it been since we dwelled in the same lands. Your father has asked you treat with their chief, a man called Gorkalon. Zorzimril, I know you are a fine warrior and leader of men but this is not a battle, this is diplomacy."
Domongart grinned, his long yellow teeth flashing in the firelight, "You must ensure he does not think that the Creoth will be first among the Iron Crown armies, that belongs to our people. No Orc or foreign tribe will claim what is ours."
Her father rubbed his chin thoughtfully and spoke up, "Speak for us, Zorzi, for once we are victorious, there will be spoils to share. Land is what we desire most. See that it is done."
She looked at both the older men and said, "I will do as you command, how many warriors will I take? I won't show up alone, he will know our strength."
It was both an honor and challenge to be the emissary for the potential allies, one which Zorzimril was eager to take. While it did not have the same adrenaline pounding glory of battle, to secure strong ties with the Creoth would have reward all of it's own. She knew her uncle had no surviving children and her father had his ear, perhaps Domongart might consider a female for his successor if she proved her worth.
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It was raining once more as she climbed onto the back of her black horse, pulling her dark hood down, her cloak of oiled wool thrown over her armor. It had rained three days since they had arrived in the Ettenmoors, the grass so green it hurt her eyes when she first saw it. The column behind her consisted of around forty warriors, including blood dancers, archers, scouts, spearmen and axemen. There were three warg handlers with their charges to guard the flanks and at the rear were a few pack horses. The steeds were rare and costly in a land as barren as Angmar, tough stunted hardy ponies that subsisted on meager fare of dry grass and whatever fodder that could be coaxed from the ground. In a land like this they could grow sleek and fat, as could people.
"What is there to eat?" she asked Abrazir.
"Dried peas, Captain," he replied reaching up to hand her a pouch.
Making a small sound of disgust, she took the bag and forced herself to eat a handful of the hard little salted legumes. "Today we take some game, pass the word to the scouts."
By midday the clouds parted and the sun shone down, another strange sight after living her entire life under the near constant gloomy skies. Their progress was going well, they slipped through the moors without seeing anyone. Zorzimril sent her scouts ahead to keep an eye out not only for deer but for those slinking, skulking Rangers. She curled her lips at the thought of their spying eyes on her party, making note of their movements so they might ambush them on their way. While she detested her people's old enemy, the Dunedain, she had a healthy respect for their ability to fight. Luckily, their numbers had dwindled and there was a chance the Trev Duvardain might pass through unnoticed.
