CEIRMAUL (The Lifted Orc)

CEIRMAUL

(The Lifted Orc)

   At the port of Kathos, south of Lindol three ships departed and one had just arrived.  It came from Jebul in the east, laden with goods.  Those on shore were unloading its cargo of dwarven beer and spiced ale, and crates of fine dining silver-ware.  Everyone looked up, and turned about at the stranger.  It was a cloaked newcomer from Mithar who surprised everyone with his odd question.

   The Captain, a man named Garbel said, “Come again, what was that?”

   The young man drew back his hood revealing his pale face.  By his very complexion, and speech he was known as a Fair One of an ancient race.  He said, “Again sir, I desire passage unto the Undying Lands of the greater west.”

   Captain Garbel frowned, “I thought I heard those words come out.  This ship nor any other I am aware of; not even for all the dwarven gold would venture there.  To go beyond the rim of the world is madness.”

   “Is there a shipwright who could craft a design?” The elf asked.

   “Son,” The sea mariner inquired, “What is your name?”
   “Ceirmaul of Mordor,” came his cold answer.

   After a long silence of disbelief, the Captain continued, “Ceirmaul – Why are you so bent to meet your end at sea?  There is nothing out there beyond the supplies of the greatest vessel I know.  Well, since I was but boy myself, there were told of seven such ships that never made landfall in trying.  Nor any that that lighthouse of Mithar brought back with such yarn to spin either.”

   The youthful looking stranger began speaking as a gathering of listeners grew about him and the sea captain.  Ceirmaul said, “I was beyond measure.  Even among my own people I was considered less than them and different than most.  I have always yearned to see the sea and its greater west a burning desire of my heart.  My brethren beat those longings out of me as a youngling and those over me scorned me all the more as an adult for such beliefs I never spoke of.  I learned to let such hopes die.

   “Through many years, the Great War, and dungeons chains; time passed me by.  Upon my release I heard news of a miracle worker in the west.  Suddenly that old hope sprang up in me again.  It gave my weary feet the courage to press forward over the plains, over the Misty Mountains, through Norwood and to the very Grey city itself.

   “Only seven days ago, after two hundred and seventeen years was my curse finally lifted.  So it is that I repay my healing in fulfilling my oath to venture to those lands beyond the western rim.”

   The Captain’s first mate injected, “Who was the miracle-worker?”

   Another ship mate, “What curse?”

   A dock hand called out, “You swore an oath?”

   Smilingly Ceirmaul answered them all, “The Prophet Nadan of Mithar it was who gained my eternal servitude in showing forgiveness upon me.  For, who you see before you is not what I have always been as I was changed from and made new again!  The God of Heaven saved me.  By the mere faith of Nadan’s words the old creature was cast aside and His light shines in me.  Marvel not nor laugh but I was indeed once an Orc of Mordor, born and bred for the lust of blood and evil war.”

   Many disbelieved his story, but many were touched by his telling of it.  Some asked a multitude of questions about Mordor, the eastern lands, the Prophet, of elves and –

   Suddenly, without warning the first mate, Bailman by name cried out, “My grandfather was murdered by the likes of you, Orc!”  Then, faster than any could counter he slew the elf, cutting his throat open before all the people there.  Many pulled him back from his continued attacks, but Ceirmaul’s death came soon thereafter.

   Bailman was not alone in his ill feelings, and none did more that admonish with the removal of his blade.  None sought out the Dungeon of Varlendur for his crime, for many more than who did, thought justice had been fittingly served.

   Three weeks later news came to the port city of Kathos that the so called prophet, Nadan was slain at the Oasis of Orid.  Many of the people rejoiced; believing the Mitharian priest had rightly named him a dreamer of lies and ill conjurer.